Free Prime Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

Josh.
    “So…” I pause to get my thoughts in order. “I’m wondering if that’s what Brad did, too. And if he did, whether that’s when he discovered something.”
    “Discovered what?”
    “Well, that’s the question.” I get up and start to pace around the bookshelf-lined office. I focus on the thick carpeting, thinking.
    When I look up, Josh is staring at me. Good staring. Over-the-journalism-line staring. He fidgets, caught, then pretends the moment never happened.
    “All right, let’s see,” he continues. He’s ticking off points on his fingers. “Brad had a cache of files. He asks me to dig up some obscure quotes. He writes to you, apparently with something to reveal. Then, there’s a car accident. Police think it’s suicide. And his wife tells you her husband was worried about something.” He shrugs. “That’s as far as I get.”
    From somewhere, I hear the theme music from To Kill a Mockingbird. And then, from somewhere, I get an idea.
    “Josh,” I say, “do you know a Mack Briggs?”
    Josh raises his eyebrows. “Mack Briggs? Like a Mack truck?”
    “Far as I know,” I answer. “At least that’s what Melanie said. She told me Brad sent this ‘Briggs’ the same e-mail he sent us.”
    But Josh shakes his head. “Never heard of him.”
    Every door in the journalism universe simultaneously slams shut. Maybe Brad’s secret just died with Brad. But I have to ask one more question.
    “Back to why I’m here,” I say. “Did Brad ever mention any, say, inappropriate or illegal financial dealings at Aztratech?”
    Josh looks surprised, and then surprises me by laughing.
    “Well, there’s a bombshell.” Josh pretends to do a double take. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
    I’m clearly putting my full hand on the table now, though I can’t quite remember when I decided to go all the way. Within a few minutes, he hears all about Franklin’s research, the lawsuit against Aztratech and our theory that Brad might be a whistle-blower.
    His face evolves from skeptical to impressed. “Sounds…plausible,” he finally says. “But did you ask Melanie? I mean, if Brad was ready to rat out his employer to the feds, as you so colloquially put it, wouldn’t he have told his wife?”
    “You’d think so,” I reply. “But she says no.”
    Both of us pause, and in that quiet moment, I swear I hear bells. In fact, I know I recognize Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Then I realize Josh hears it, too.
    “‘Ode to Joy.’” He waves a hand toward his window, smiling. “On the school’s carillon. Means classes are over for the day. Time for all good students to head for the dorms. Or the football field, or wherever.”
    “And time for me to go, too, I guess.” I rummage in my purse for a business card. I also send a swift prayer to SaintMaysie, patron of happy romantic endings. “Here’s my number if you think of anything,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
    He takes the card. And Saint Maysie answers my plea.
    “Um, Charlie,” Josh begins, coming around from behind his desk. “You know I’m the adviser to the drama department?”
    I’m gratified to see he’s now the one looking uneasy.
    “Anyway,” he continues, “this Thursday, we’re having our student performance of ‘The Gold-Bug.’ Edgar Allan Poe, remember?” He hands me a black-and-white playbill, its cover amateurish but adorable artwork. “It ain’t Shakespeare, but you still might get a kick out of it. I hope this isn’t out of line, but the kids have really worked hard and…” He looks at me quizzically. “Can you make dates with people you interview?”
     
     
    Franklin jumps from his chair, following me to the coatrack as I hang up my jacket. I’m still floating in a romance-novel haze, but the usually perceptive Franklin seems focused on his own agenda.
    “What in hell were you doing?” he grills me. “What the hell took you so long?” His accent transforms hell into hay-ull, which makes it somewhat