Read Online Drive Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan - Free Book Online Page B

Nope. Nope.”
    Each car is on-screen a fraction of a second, just long enough for the three of us to assess whether it’s a Mustang or not. Dozens have gone by. So far, no Mustangs. But to me, each no means a yes is even closer. And I keep wondering. Why aren’t the police using this technology toenforce the law? How many bad guys are out there, caught on camera but not caught by the cops?
    “I understand you’re not going to throw me under the bus here,” Chernin says. His eyes never leave the screen as his right hand clicks the mouse on the Next button. One after another, the photos continue to appear, and his voice goes quiet. “You know as well as I do—this meeting never happened. So how are you going to explain how you found this car? Without implicating me?”
    “ If we find the car,” Franklin says. He’s also staring at the screen.
    “When we find the car,” I say. “And when we do, I’m sure we can figure out a way to protect you.”
    Chernin turns away from the screen, stashing his wire-rimmed glasses on the top of his head. He runs triathlons and has that gaunt malnourished look some runners cultivate. Cheekbones. Shortest possible hair. He tightens his tie, shoots the cuffs of his shirt. His face is hardening.
    “Charlie,” he begins.
    We may be in trouble.
    “There’s one.” Franklin had picked up the mouse and continued clicking through the photos himself. He points to the screen. “Look. Clearly a Mustang.”
    Chernin whirls back and we all lean in closer, focused on the fuzzy but recognizable image. Franklin’s right. And the time stamp says 4:26. Perfect.
    “We done now?” Chernin asks.
    “You can print a copy for us, right?” I say. My fists clench and I feel my got-a-good-story shivers beginning. I always know. I also know it’s a risk to get too excited too soon. I turn to Chernin, aware we’re on thin ice. My fists become crossed fingers.
    “And can we keep looking, please, just briefly? There could have been more than one Mustang.”
    Chernin tilts his head, considering. He’s increasinglyunhappy with this. And it is probably a job-threatening breach of something. He looks at the chunky black watch strapped to his emaciated wrist. “Ten minutes. At the most.”
    “Thank you so much,” I say. We know the accident was over by then anyway. “We’ll never ask for anything again.”
    “You got that right,” Chernin mutters. He goes back to the mouse, clicking faster and faster as the image parade continues. Whatever is going to happen better happen fast.
    By the time the time stamp says 4:36 p.m. we’ve seen no more Mustangs. Chernin clicks the screen to black. “Time,” he says.
    Franklin and I exchange glances. No question the whole thing is iffy. If little Gabe is right. If this car is blue. And even if so, if this is the right Mustang.
    Still. It’s more than we had when we came in. And we may have found the driver who caused the accident. And caused so much expense and fear in the Ross household.
    “Again, you’re the best. This could really help us,” I say. “Can you hit Print? And we’ll be out of your life.”
    Mission accomplished. I hope. I put on my black overcoat, wrap and tie the belt, and scramble through my cordovan tote bag for my gloves. We hear the photo of the Mustang whir out of the printer. Chernin pulls it from the tray. I hold out my hand, smiling. J.T. is probably waiting for us in the food court. He’ll be psyched that his tactic worked.
    “Thanks, David,” Franklin says, zipping on his khaki parka. He takes his carefully folded black gloves out of a side pocket. “Obviously this is just for research. We won’t use this photo in our story.”
    Chernin is holding the printed picture in both hands. Then, with one swift motion, he crumples it, shaking his head. He crams the wad of paper into his pants pocket.
    “No,” he says. “I can’t let you have it.”
     
     
    “Seven, four, two, F, Y, six,” I say as the elevator doors