Free Drive Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

close behind us. I dig for my notebook. Of course I memorized the license number. I’m sure Franklin did, too. “Regular Massachusetts passenger plate. With a sticker saying he’s due for a new one next July. Is that what you got, too, Franko?”
    “Yes, exactly.” Franklin hits the button for lobby. “And there was a decal for Hallinan Motors. That car dealer. Guess your Mr. Chernin got cold feet.”
    “Or maybe he simply figured we’d remember the plate and make a public-records request for it. He knows the number’s all we really need. Now he can deny he gave it to us. Plus, no one can make what’s already happened un -happen. That’s a secret no one can keep. Toll violations are clearly public record. And we’re the public. It’s all good.”
    I tuck my notebook and pen away as the elevator door opens and deposits us in the food court. J.T. is at a corner table. Happily, he’s alone.
    My cell phone suddenly trills the voice mail–message signal. I flip open the phone, tap in my code. Message from Josh that must have come in while we were upstairs. This office building is a notorious dead zone.
    “Franko, go tell J.T. the scoop, okay? And if you get lunch, will you order me a salad? No onions and no croutons. It’s already three. I’m starving. And maybe call the registry and ask for records of that Mustang violation. I’ve gotta call Josh, but we might as well get the show on the road. And we’ve got to follow up on the recalled cars.”
    Pushing through the revolving door out of the food court, I stand in the cold vestibule of the building, looking past the doors onto the darkening afternoon. Tremont Street bustles with swaddled pedestrians. A double-long city bus wheezes up to the curb. Snow-booted workers stretch over a gray pool of curbside slush to clamberinside. A man in a Yankees cap hops on just as the bus lumbers away.
    New York. The words are a taunting mental billboard. Ten years ago, five, I’d have moved to the big time in a heartbeat. Now, I admit, I’m avoiding the decision.
    “Sweetheart?” I say as Josh finally answers the phone. The signal is crackly, but I’ll persevere. I feel my eyes narrow, blocking out everything but my fiancé’s voice. Winter-wrapped downtown Boston fades as I listen through the static, intent. I’m surprised beyond surprise.
    “She’s—what?”

Chapter Six
     
     
    T he plastic crime-scene tape loops around the three old maple trees in front of Dorothy Wirt’s home, garish black and yellow fluttering in the afternoon chill. Two Brookline police cars, front wheels on the curb and rear wheels on the street, cordon off the sidewalk. Their sirens are silent, but spinning blue lights reflect, harsh and unnatural, on the snow. Four black-jacketed officers stand sentinel, blowing into their hands, their breath puffing white. An ambulance, rear doors toward the garage and a uniformed EMT beside it, blocks the driveway. The garage door is closed. The front door is closed. No one is hurrying. But me.
    I trot toward the murmuring knot of onlookers, my mind racing for explanations, scanning for a familiar navy wool overcoat. Josh turns, sees me, just as I get close enough. A blue light flashes across his face.
    “So it’s true. Is it true? I got here fast as I could,” I whisper, tucking both arms through the crook of his elbow. I look around. “Penny?”
    “She’s home with Annie. The kids don’t know yet.”
    “Who’s here?”
    “The Head’s inside, so’s Dorothy’s younger sister, Millie. She’s just back from a business trip. What a horrible—they live together. Lived.”
    His face is red from the cold. His eyes are also red. He stops, shakes his head.
    “Anyway, Alethia found her. Espinosa, the dean of girls? Remember? In the garage. In her car. When Dorothy didn’t arrive for work at Bexter this morning, we all thought maybe she’d had too much to drink at the Head’s last night.”
    I wrap myself more tightly against him, fitting