driving, you’d have lost power. Car wouldn’t have started again.”
Through his goggles, I can read Frick’s troubled expression.
“You don’t want the battery lead to come off.” He gives me the flashlight in the chest again. “Like I said. Lucky you.”
“I’m set to roll, McNally.” J.T.’s voice interrupts the cataloging of our near disaster. “Whenever you say, I’ll—”
“Can you put the lift up again, Frick? First we’ll need you showing the problem to Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts J.T., yanking back the alpha-dog position. He’s put his goggles on top of his head and now looks like a prepped-out biker. “She’ll need goggles. And then we’ll need to show you repairing it.”
J.T. is ignoring the tripod and ignoring Franklin. “I’ll shoot off the shoulder. So it matches the other stuff we have. You know. The accident.”
The accident. Gabe and Sophie. Declan Ross. Car smashed into the guardrail. A rented car. As I watch J.T. roll off a few shots of Frick puttering with the engine, I realize what’s haunting me.
“Frick, can you check one more thing?” I put down my paper cup of tea and point to the black car. A dark hunchis percolating. “We didn’t tell you about this initially, but can you check to see if this car has air bags?”
“See if it has air bags?” Frick looks puzzled. He hands me a pair of goofy-looking clear plastic goggles. “Of course it does.”
“It’s a 2006,” Franklin puts in. “It’s the law. They all have air bags.”
“They’re supposed to,” I say.
“No air bags in our car,” I say, shaking my head. “Can you believe it? And what if there were no air bags in the Ross car? And that’s why they didn’t inflate?” Frick’s confirmation of my hunch haunts me as we leave the garage. I click open the passenger door of our news car, waving Franklin into the driver’s seat. “You drive, okay? I’ve had enough for one day.”
J.T. is returning the now-repaired hatchback to RCK. We got all the video we need. The defective torsion bar—now wrapped in tissue paper in my briefcase—we kept for evidence. Franklin and I are heading back to the station to drop off our tapes. We have a potentially blockbuster story. And a potentially blockbuster dilemma.
“What made you think of the air bags?” Franklin says, steering us out of our parking space and toward Huntington Street. “I’ll never understand how your brain works, Charlotte. It’s a beautiful thing. Strange, but beautiful.”
“Yeah, well. Declan’s didn’t go off, remember? And that’s been bugging me. It didn’t make sense. They should have. And I read someplace, air bags are the hot new item to steal. Bad guys rip them out, replace the covers, then resell the air bags on the black market. Who’d know? Until there’s an accident, of course.”
I shudder. Most people are so trusting. And others are so cynically money hungry. That’s a dangerous combination. I pause, considering.
“If other RCK cars have no air bags, does Randall Kindell know about it? Is he supplying stolen air bags for the black market? If so, we should get the story on TV right now. Soon as we can. Maybe even before the ratings start. The next crash could be fatal, you know. Lives are at stake.”
“Charlotte, the February book is only three weeks away.” He’s shaking his head. “I think we can wait. And then put together two stories. We’ll do unrepaired recalls first, then hit them with the big air-bag scoop. Even better, here’s what I’m thinking. What if Kindell’s doing it across the country? In all the RCK franchises?”
Franklin pantomimes basketball. “Slam dunk. A national story.”
We stop at a red light. I reach over and touch Franklin’s arm. I need him to look at me for a moment.
“But, Franko? What if Kindell doesn’t know? What if someone is renting cars and then ripping out air bags? Then it’s not just about RCK, but could be happening at every rental-car
Through his goggles, I can read Frick’s troubled expression.
“You don’t want the battery lead to come off.” He gives me the flashlight in the chest again. “Like I said. Lucky you.”
“I’m set to roll, McNally.” J.T.’s voice interrupts the cataloging of our near disaster. “Whenever you say, I’ll—”
“Can you put the lift up again, Frick? First we’ll need you showing the problem to Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts J.T., yanking back the alpha-dog position. He’s put his goggles on top of his head and now looks like a prepped-out biker. “She’ll need goggles. And then we’ll need to show you repairing it.”
J.T. is ignoring the tripod and ignoring Franklin. “I’ll shoot off the shoulder. So it matches the other stuff we have. You know. The accident.”
The accident. Gabe and Sophie. Declan Ross. Car smashed into the guardrail. A rented car. As I watch J.T. roll off a few shots of Frick puttering with the engine, I realize what’s haunting me.
“Frick, can you check one more thing?” I put down my paper cup of tea and point to the black car. A dark hunchis percolating. “We didn’t tell you about this initially, but can you check to see if this car has air bags?”
“See if it has air bags?” Frick looks puzzled. He hands me a pair of goofy-looking clear plastic goggles. “Of course it does.”
“It’s a 2006,” Franklin puts in. “It’s the law. They all have air bags.”
“They’re supposed to,” I say.
“No air bags in our car,” I say, shaking my head. “Can you believe it? And what if there were no air bags in the Ross car? And that’s why they didn’t inflate?” Frick’s confirmation of my hunch haunts me as we leave the garage. I click open the passenger door of our news car, waving Franklin into the driver’s seat. “You drive, okay? I’ve had enough for one day.”
J.T. is returning the now-repaired hatchback to RCK. We got all the video we need. The defective torsion bar—now wrapped in tissue paper in my briefcase—we kept for evidence. Franklin and I are heading back to the station to drop off our tapes. We have a potentially blockbuster story. And a potentially blockbuster dilemma.
“What made you think of the air bags?” Franklin says, steering us out of our parking space and toward Huntington Street. “I’ll never understand how your brain works, Charlotte. It’s a beautiful thing. Strange, but beautiful.”
“Yeah, well. Declan’s didn’t go off, remember? And that’s been bugging me. It didn’t make sense. They should have. And I read someplace, air bags are the hot new item to steal. Bad guys rip them out, replace the covers, then resell the air bags on the black market. Who’d know? Until there’s an accident, of course.”
I shudder. Most people are so trusting. And others are so cynically money hungry. That’s a dangerous combination. I pause, considering.
“If other RCK cars have no air bags, does Randall Kindell know about it? Is he supplying stolen air bags for the black market? If so, we should get the story on TV right now. Soon as we can. Maybe even before the ratings start. The next crash could be fatal, you know. Lives are at stake.”
“Charlotte, the February book is only three weeks away.” He’s shaking his head. “I think we can wait. And then put together two stories. We’ll do unrepaired recalls first, then hit them with the big air-bag scoop. Even better, here’s what I’m thinking. What if Kindell’s doing it across the country? In all the RCK franchises?”
Franklin pantomimes basketball. “Slam dunk. A national story.”
We stop at a red light. I reach over and touch Franklin’s arm. I need him to look at me for a moment.
“But, Franko? What if Kindell doesn’t know? What if someone is renting cars and then ripping out air bags? Then it’s not just about RCK, but could be happening at every rental-car
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