“Charlie?”
I sit up. “Yeah?”
“I had to go around the corner. Listen, sweetheart, there’s more. The Head told me there was apparently another phone call. Like the one Dorothy told us about.”
I start to tell him about Wen and Fiona, who must have taken my advice and reported their call. Then I decide—no. Let him tell me about it. Then I can tell him I already know. “Really? Who answered it?”
“Alethia.”
I made it to Bexter in record time. And I’ll be fine as long as no one makes me take off the ankle-length parka and substantial muffler that are hiding my sweatshirt and sweatpants. A stretchy wool cap camouflages my yanked-back hair. When Josh told me Alethia got a “Do you know where your children are?” phone call, I almost lost it. I insisted he tell the police, no matter what the Bexter hierarchy said.
Turned out, they’d already done that. And now the police are demanding everyone stay at Bexter for questioning, even though it’s the middle of the night. It’s frustrating that I can’t tell the police about the Dulleses’call, but no way I’m staying home. Annie agreed to stay overnight with Penny. At least I can sit with Josh until it’s his turn. If police are investigating, maybe this will all be solved.
We’d walked arm in arm down the echoing paneled hallway, deciding to wait for the police in Josh’s office. I can tell Josh is running on adrenaline. He tosses his parka on the couch, yanks open his tie, and for the millionth time, runs a hand though his still snow-damp hair. His jeans are soggy from the slush. He told me the dean of boys, Kent Bishop, is in the conference room already. Then they’re calling the new development consultant, Harrison something. Hope they won’t mind I’m here. But it’s too late if they do.
“Did they already interview the Head? What did the cops say about the phone calls?” Josh and I are nuking cups of tea in the ancient microwave he keeps on one of the bookshelves. I never come here without remembering this is where we first met. I’d appeared, without an appointment, searching for answers in what turned out to be a ruthless and deadly insider-trading scheme. I’d expected “Professor Gelston” to be a Mr. Chips geezer, wheezy and old-fashioned. Instead, I went weak-kneed, faced with my teen heartthrob Atticus Finch come to life.
“They’re pissed. I don’t mind telling you.” Josh hands me a ceramic mug, tea-bag tag hanging over the side.
He looks at me, perplexed. “Are you cold?”
“A little,” I fib. I can’t take off this parka. “Anyway, why’d the Head decide to spill it? And when?”
“Tonight. Before the EMTs got here. The Head was frantic. Panicked over the school’s reputation. As well as his own reputation, naturally. Harrison Ebling was there, as well. He was all bent out of shape about his fundraising plans. Thinks the publicity will ‘kill the take.’ What an idiot.”
“He must get a cut.” I dunk my tea bag, calculating.
Josh shrugs. “The bursar is worried parents will yank their kids. And then, goodbye tuition money. You see the pattern.”
“And so?”
“But finally I told them, forget about the money, it’ll be worse if we cover it up. What if it came out we’d all known about this? That we didn’t say anything? What if the students are in danger? Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”
I take a tentative sip of not-quite-hot-enough tea, proud of myself for successfully resisting the urge to say I told you so. Anyway, there’s something more important I need to tell him.
“Speaking of which,” I begin. “I got a call this morning.”
A sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, it’s pushed open by a uniformed Brookline police officer. He consults a spiral notebook. “Professor Gelston? I’m Officer Jeff Petrucelly. Will you come with me?”
Josh puts down his mug.
I can’t stand it. I hafta know. I take a chance, relying on my unlikely outfit for cover. “Officer? Could you tell me—”
Josh frowns. “I’m sorry, Officer. My fiancée.”
“Yes,” I continue, hurrying to pick up my sentence. “Professor Gelston’s fiancée. I just came to keep him company. But I just wondered, is there any news on Miss Espinosa’s condition? Did she say anything? About what happened to her? And were there any other footprints on the steps?”
“We’re still working this case, ma’am.” Officer Petrucelly flips his notebook closed and tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Then he looks at me, assessing. “Miss Espinosa is in critical condition. However, Miss
McNally,
any further information will have to come from our public-affairs officer.”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. And my tooth hurts.” I wince, not in pain, of course, but at my awkward attempts to reinforce my escalating deception. Problem is, if I tell Franklin what I was doing last night, I’ll unquestionably have to tell him everything about what’s happening at Bexter. I do trust Franklin to keep secrets. But these I promised not to tell.
“Sorry to hear that.” Franklin raises an eyebrow, not sounding that sorry. He turns back to his computer, leaning toward the screen, telegraphing his focus. I see my lists of VIN numbers on half the split screen and the NHTSA Web site on the other.
“Did I tell you Annie Vilardi got a new car?” I turn my desk chair toward him, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, plowing through the tension. Hoping to lure Franklin back to normal. Maybe it’s only guilty me who’s uncomfortable. Maybe Franklin is just working. “Well, it’s new to her, at least. I guess her parents bought it from—”
“What’s the VIN? I assume you got it.”
“Yes indeedy. You bet I did. Girl reporter, always on the job. Do I get a big gold star?” I cross my legs, movie star, pretending to pat my hair into place. This is throwing
Franklin an irresistible softball. When he teases me back, all will be well.
“Tell me the number. I’ll search the databases. You haven’t done that, I assume.”
Thud.
Franklin doesn’t even look up. Guilt washes over me again. I should have searched it myself. I forgot.
“I wrote it down here,” I say, putting my notebook on Franklin’s desk and pointing to the string of letters and numbers. He taps them into the computer, no comment.
Fine. I can be professional, too. I’m not required to share everything with my producer. I’m allowed to have a personal life. A private life. And if Franklin’s going to be so huffy and unpleasant, maybe I don’t feel so guilty about not warning him of Kevin’s New York offer. Maybe I’ll just go down to Kevin’s office now. Tell him yes, I’ll go to New York. Then Franklin can be dismissive to the new reporter.
“You got the number wrong.” Franklin swivels. He looks at me, his voice almost accusing. He points to the screen.
That’s weird. And unlikely.
“No, I didn’t,” I finally reply.
At least, I hope I didn’t. That’s just what I don’t need this morning. There’s no “wrong” in TV. I scoot my chair toward Franklin’s desk, squinting for a closer look at the monitor and get an uncomfortable thought. Because I was in a hurry, on the way to the Head’s party, I didn’t actually see the VIN. “I mean, I suppose Annie could have read it to me wrong.”
“Yes, well, whatever. This can’t be the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.”
“Okay, fine, it’s not the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.” If I’m wrong, which I suppose I could be, I might as well take the hit. Who cares, anyway? I can always go back and get the number again. But I’m curious. “How do you know it isn’t?”
Franklin begins to sort through the brown cardboard box of tape cassettes parked next to our television monitor. “Do you have the logs from the Rental Car King? Let me show you something on the video.”
“Can’t you just tell me, without making a big drama of the whole thing?”
Franklin ignores me. “The logs?”
I hand him the stapled sheets of paper, lists of numbers and descriptions typed by our current college-student intern. Ashley’s watched our undercover video, keeping track of what pictures correspond to the time codes electronically burned into the tape. Unlike counter numbers, which can be reset to zero-zero-zero with the push of a button, a tape’s time codes are always the same. That makes things easy to find.
Franklin slides the cassette into the viewer, then consults the log. “Zero one, fifteen, zero eight,” he mutters, twisting the fast-forward dial to find one hour, fifteen minutes and eight seconds.
The pictures speed by until Franklin whaps the yellow Pause button. The counter shows 01:15:00. He twists the machine’s fat black dial to click the seconds forward. At 01:15:06, the camera lens flares with a hit of sunshine, then auto-irises down. The hood of a white car wobbles into view. The camera lurches as Franklin walks closer to the vehicle. At 01:15:07, the lurching stops and the video settles into focus. At :08, it shows a white Ombra.
Franklin looks at me, gesturing dramatically at the picture. “Here’s the proof you’re wrong. This car, in the RCK rental lot, has the same VIN number you gave me. So you must have written down Annie’s VIN incorrectly.”
He pushes the red eject button. The tape pops from the machine. Franklin leaves it, half in, half out, as if it’s sticking out its tongue at me.
“Unless Annie’s new old car can be two places at once.
Which it obviously can’t be.” He crosses his arms across his starched yellow oxford shirt. Waiting for my answer.
With one quick motion, I lean over and push the tape back into place. The motor whirs as the tape threads into position. I push Play, then Pause. Stare at the screen. A white Ombra. With the same VIN as Annie’s. Impossible. Impossible for a car to be two places at one time.
But actually, I know it is possible. And I know exactly how.
“Franko, listen. I mean, look.” I twist my chair around, and scoot back to my own computer. I punch up Google, and type in three words.
As soon as we find Annie’s car, we’ll know.
“There it is, on the end. By the yellow lines. See it?” Annie’s parked her Ombra in Bexter’s tree-lined student lot. Seniors go back a week earlier than the other kids. Which, today, is lucky for me and Franklin.
“I see it,” Franklin replies. He steers his Passat past a row of cars, each labeled with the elaborate gothic
B
of the Bexter parking stickers.
Garrison Hall is in the distance, which makes me wonder about Alethia. No word from Josh yet this morning about her. Last night’s police interview had been short, the cops divulging nothing. Afterward, we’d dumped the sweater and scarf mélange from my bed and collapsed together, exhausted, without even getting under the covers. We’re both going on about four hours’ sleep. But my Google search has given me quite an energy boost. I can be tired later.
Franklin pulls up beside Annie’s Ombra. He leaves the engine running, and we hop out into the cold afternoon, our words puffing white in the January chill.
“There’s no dealer sticker that I can see. And no dealer name tag around the license plate,” Franklin says, going
around to the rear of the car. “Do you know where Annie’s parents purchased this?”
I tug lightly on the driver’s-side door. Locked. That means I can’t check the VIN on the metal plate attached inside. “Nope, no reason to ask. But let’s just see what Annie’s parents really got here. I’ll read you the dashboard VIN, okay? I can read that through the windshield. Ready?
“One. Y, B, one…” I begin. Seventeen digits. A one-of-a-kind combination. Supposedly unique. Like a car’s DNA.
But if my theory is right, and I bet a million dollars it is, at least two white Ombras have the same VIN. Because one of them is a fake. A copy. A clone. And it might be this one.
“Yup, the number’s the same,” Franklin confirms. “Weird.”
I lean against the hood of Franklin’s idling Passat, grateful for the engine’s heat coming through my winter coat. Branches rustle around us, a late-afternoon wind kicks up. Towering gray clouds invade the once-sunny sky. More snow coming.
“Not weird. Auto identity theft.” The three words I searched on Google.
“Auto identity theft?”
“Yup. One of the fastest-growing crimes in the country. Let’s say someone swipes a car, say, a white Ombra. All the crooks have to do is find another white Ombra. They copy its VIN number, make new VIN plates and replace the ones on the stolen car.”
I make a gesture like a magician with a wand. “Prestochango. The stolen car disappears. And if cops are looking for a stolen vehicle with a certain VIN, well, that VIN doesn’t exist anymore. The bad guys can easily sell the clone because the stolen VIN comes back as clear. Pure profit.”
Franklin leans into Annie’s windshield, peering at the VIN, then shakes his head. “You’re right. It’d be so easy.
VINs are just numbers on metal plates. A snap to reproduce, a snap to put into place. Man.”
He opens the Passat door, slides into the driver’s seat and buzzes down the window. “Now what?”
I take a last look at Annie’s mystery car. Then I pull out my cell phone and click a camera shot of the VIN. And then a wide shot of the car. Good enough for now.
“Now what? Well, curiouser and curiouser,” I mutter to myself, considering. I knock the snow off my boots, one against the other, before I’m guilty of trailing deadly slush into Franklin’s always-pristine interior. Yanking on my seat belt, I turn to face him.
“Here’s ‘now what.’ Seems like someone has a cloned Ombra. It could be Annie. If her parents were sold a stolen car.”
“And if that’s true, she’s got a problem. You’ll tell her parents, right?”
“Of course. But there’s another possibility. Besides the unrepaired recalls and the missing air bags, it could be the Rental Car King—whether he knows it or not—is also renting stolen cars. I think it’s time to give him a call.”
I pull out my cell again.
“Either way, it’s blockbuster.” Franklin reaches a flattened palm in my direction.
I return his high five with a flourish and a smile. We’re back.
“Either way,” I say. And I punch in the phone number.
T
rying to channel Mike Wallace, I step onto the journalism tightrope. Here’s where I’m balancing our quest for a good story with my guilt-ridden reluctance to throw a Bexter bigwig under the bus. The result? I’m afraid the Rental Car King may end up with tread marks.
Holding up my mirrored compact between me and Randall Kindell, I pretend to check my lipstick so I don’t have to chitchat with him. Small talk, especially right before a potentially contentious interview, is impossible. You can’t be nice, because you’re about to nail someone. You can’t be aggressive, because the interviewee might walk out before you get the good stuff. The old “checking my makeup” stall always works. Men never interrupt it.
Franklin is adjusting the tiny lavalier microphone on Kindell’s pin-striped jacket, tucking the thin black cord behind his lapel. J.T. clicks a cassette tape into his camera and twists his molded earpiece tighter into place. He’s ready.
We’ve rigged up a portable tape player on a round walnut side table next to me. Someone familiar with television interviews would get the instant message there was trouble ahead. If someone’s going to show you video and have a photographer tape your reactions, you probably will not be happy with what’s on the screen. Kindell, however, seems unfazed.
Kindell had surprised us by instantly and amicably agreeing to our request this afternoon for an on-camera interview at the Rental Car King office. I used my best “it’s a consumer-education story and it will help the public” pitch. Within an hour, J.T., Franklin and I had packed up our portable tape player, our pile of video logs, our biggest light kit and all our story ammunition, piled into the car and arrived at RCK. Ready for battle.
Kelsey Kindell, in a lacquered updo and op art fingernails, greeted us from behind her counter. At least, she greeted J.T. Franklin and I were apparently invisible.
She led us down a narrow fluorescent-lighted hallway and unlocked a gray metal door. A brass nameplate on it announced President. She gestured us inside with her clanking ring of keys.
“I didn’t know you were from TV before.” She checked out J.T. more brazenly than Emily Post would approve of, settling a hand on one cocked hip. “Do you guys ever need, like, interns?”
“In here?” I had interrupted the impromptu job interview, gesturing J.T. and Franklin inside to save them from having to answer. Then I stopped myself from judging a book by its cover.
“Sure,” I told her. “But only for college credit.”
She shrugged. End of job interview. “My uncle says he’ll be with you in five.”
The Rental Car King’s throne room pays homage to his own good-guy credentials. Curliqued “Man of the Year” plaques from several local chambers of commerce, gilt trophies flanked with generic winged goddesses, chunks of crystal perched on ebony holders. A sleek model of a flashy convertible emblazoned RCK—20 Years of YES. Silver-plated frames display the stubby, broad-shouldered Kindell in smiling foursomes; golf outfits, tennis outfits, dinner jackets. Kindell, the curls of
his almost comb-over hidden by a baseball cap, surrounded by grinning kids with bats and balls.
I’m about to throw him a curve.
He thinks—because that’s what I told him—this is an interview about the importance of repairing recalled cars. He thinks—because that’s what I told him—that we’re interviewing him because of his stature in the car-rental field. But after I pitch him those puffballs, we’re going to hit him with our video. Show him Annie’s car and then the one in his own lot with the same VIN. If he’s truly surprised, he should try to help us with our investigation. That would be good.
If he’s angry and defensive, that means he might be involved. That would be good.
He might even throw us out. That would be even better. We’ll have the whole thing on video.
Ambush interviews like this are not my favorite. But they’re effective. Revealing. And always great television.
I close my compact, tuck it under my thigh in case I need it later and turn to J.T.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Rolling,” J.T. replies.
“You’re one hundred percent certain these numbers are correct? Beyond a shadow of a doubt?” Kindell leans back in his chair, staring at the still-frame of video on the monitor. It’s a close-up of Annie’s VIN. We transferred my very successful cell phone snapshots to tape so we could display RCK’s white Ombra and Annie’s white Ombra side by side. It’s irrefutable.
“We checked the numbers again this morning,” I reply. J.T. is still rolling, of course, and we got the perfect images of Kindell’s face as I showed our evidence ten minutes into the interview. First he was baffled. Then calculating. Of course, I’m not revealing Annie’s name. “We
confirmed the private car. And the one in your parking lot. It’s still there, in fact. You can check for yourself.”
I glance at Franklin, who’s sitting off to the side, out of Kindell’s view. He makes a surreptitious motion, slam dunk.
“So, Mr. Kindell? What’s your reaction to that?” I ask. “And to the unrepaired recalls we found in your cars? And to the missing air bags?”
I wait while Kindell mulls my tricky-to-answer questions, deepening the already-etched lines across his forehead and along his boxer’s nose. I’m patient.
Kindell holds up a hand. “Let’s turn off the camera.”
But two can play this game.
“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Kindell. I’d like to get your reaction on camera.” If he doesn’t want to talk, what he doesn’t want to say is exactly what I want to hear. I’ve got the power of videotape and I’m not giving it up. “These are critical questions. And we need your answers.”
Kindell smiles. He nods, acquiescing. “I understand. The question again?”
That’s the boldest move I’ve seen in a while. He’s taking me on?
Franklin raises his eyebrows. I feel J.T. shift position.
“Rolling on a two shot,” he murmurs from behind me, letting me know I’m also in his picture. Okay, rental-car king. You’re up.
“What’s your reaction to the missing air bags and unrepaired recalls?” I ask again.
The silence is so profound, I can almost hear Kindell thinking. He crosses one leg over the other. One black wingtip taps, gently.
Suddenly, he sits up straight, planting his feet on the floor. He points to me.
“Miss McNally, you’re right. I’ve got a problem. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Be assured, I’m going to take care of it.”
I’d been expecting Mr. Defensive. Big bluster, sputtering derision and instant dismissal. What I’m getting is “good guy”?
“That’s great, Mr. Kindell. How will you—”
“First,” he interrupts me, holding up one index finger. “First, I’m instantly requiring my employees to check all our cars to make sure there are no unrepaired recalls. We do our best to follow up when we get notifications from the manufacturers, but sometimes things fall through the cracks. Be assured, by this time day after tomorrow, not one car on my lot will have an open recall. You have my word on that.”
I hear the zoom of J.T.’s camera motor. He’s going in for a close-up. J.T.’s skeptical of instant capitulation. I am, too. It’s an old trick designed to get reporters to go away and forget to follow up. Not gonna happen here. I’m not going to “be assured” of anything just yet.
“In addition, I’m going to contact my colleagues in the business. Inform them of the recall situation and urge them to do the necessary repairs of their inventories. If it’s happening here, it’s happening elsewhere.”
He pauses, clearing his throat.
“Finally, I run a clean business. There’s no VIN cloning or air bag swiping around here. I’d know it.”
A knock at the door. It half opens. Kelsey’s head appears around the edge.
“Oh, sorry,” she says. “Uncle Randall? You wanted me to remind you when it was five o’clock.”
“Thank you, Kelsey. We’re fine.” Kindell waves her away, then shrugs at me. “Just a precaution. However. As I said, no VIN cloning. No air bag stealing. If my cars have been harmed? I’m a victim, too. I’ll do whatever it takes to find the culprits.”
He stops, jaw set, his eyes locked on mine. As if daring me to question his sincerity.
“That answer your questions?” he says.
He’s certainly persuasive. And seems sincere. And I’m surprised to realize that I’m, tentatively at least, won over. If he’s guilty, why would he be this helpful? Our investigation won’t stop here, that’s for sure. Time to test the limits of his helpfulness. And I know how to do it.
“Terrific,” I say. I’ll buy his version of the truth. For now, at least. “And we’ll certainly include that in our story. But there is one additional way you can help. Can you give us all the past year’s rental agreements for the white Ombra? And also for the car J.T. and I rented?”
“Not a problem,” he says. “We done with the interview?”
“What is it you want me to see?” I ask. As J.T. packs up his gear and Franklin heads off with a foot-dragging Kelsey to copy rental agreements, Randall Kindell said he “wanted to show me something” in the company garage. After I agreed, I followed him out the back door and into a separate building in the rear. He buzzed open double-wide doors, flicked on a series of long fluorescent lights and gestured me into the concrete-walled space. Two cars are up on lifts, two others parked side by side in a bay, but the place is deserted. Chilly. Unlike the impeccably organized Power House, the RCK mechanic shop is layered with oil and gas and dirt and grease. Tall stacks of tires form towering rubber columns in every corner. Toolboxes, lids left open, reveal expanding drawers full of bolts and screws and fuses.
Kindell hasn’t said a word. J.T. and Franklin will be waiting, so if Kindell is setting me up for a deadly attack, he’s not going to get away with it. Although justice for the bad guy won’t matter if I’m conked to death with a lug wrench or something.
“Mr. Kindell? Again, what is it you want to show me? Franklin and J.T. are going to be looking for me.”
“There’s nothing to see. I just needed a private word
with you.” Kindell, wearing just his suit, no overcoat, is barely as tall as I am, but now I decide he’s almost handsome in a craggy, aging-athlete sort of way. He leans against one of the parked cars, looking across at me. “I helped you. Now you help me.”
I lean against the other car, drawing my coat closer around me. The ceiling lights buzz and crackle, gradually whirring into a blue-white glow, one tube at a time. One flickers, knifing Kindell’s face into moving shadows.
“Help you? Help you—what?”
“I got a phone call. At home. Yesterday. From someone who mentioned my daughter, Nancy. He—or she—” Kindell stops, then looks down at the oil-spotted concrete floor. “Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”
He looks up. He’s made a decision. He stands up straight. “Never mind.”
No way.
“Does Nancy go to Bexter Academy?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And did the caller indicate there’s some sort of scandal at Bexter? Drugs?”
Kindell’s expression morphs from shock, to relief, to anger. He hesitates, then plunges in. “Yes. Exactly. Listen. I went to Bexter, got a scholarship, years and years ago. Bexter is the best there is. That’s why my wife and I sent Nancy there. Least I could do is give back, so I try to donate what I can. But aren’t they watching the kids? Now some stranger tells me there are drugs at Bexter? Nancy’s fourteen!”
“Have you told the police?” I’m all too certain what his answer will be. But maybe someone has some sense.
“No.”
Of course. I wish I could ask if Nancy Kindell knows Lexie and Talbott Dulles. And the timing of this means the blackmailer couldn’t possibly be Dorothy Wirt.
“The caller said if I didn’t—” He stops.
“Pay? Send a money order to a post-office box?”
“How do you know that?” Kindell is frowning, looking at me through squinted eyes. “The voice said I had a week.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Kindell. And I know you’ll understand why I can’t tell you all I know. I’ve been asked to keep it confidential. And perhaps this will reassure you, too. About my ability to keep secrets. But extortion, blackmail, drugs at Bexter? It’s a matter for the police, it really is. And I can’t say any more about this, but I’m telling you…”
I pause, making sure he understands I’m trying to say something without actually saying it. “I’m telling you, if you did call the police? They’d understand why. And honestly, I’m so sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.”
Kindell blinks, considering. His gold wedding band glints as he runs a hand across the sleek hood of the car. Then does it again.
“I hear you,” he finally says. “But the police are going to have to figure out this thing without my help. I’m keeping Nancy—and my wife—out of it.”
“Drugs? At Bexter?” Josh rolls over, propping up his head on one hand. “Of course. It’s a school. No place is immune. But some huge scandal?”
Josh shrugs. The blanket slides away, revealing bare chest and the drawstring of his plaid flannel pants. We’re in bed earlier than usual. And it’s not just the result of last night’s late-night Bexter catastrophe. Penny’s sleeping over at Annie’s and we’re alone. Botox is curled up, a calico puff at the end of the bed. She’s pretending we’re not here.
I turn over, facing Josh. It’s all I can do not to reach out one hand and postpone the conversation. Maybe give a little tug at that drawstring. Resolute, I yank the pale blue blanket up to my chin. He yanks it down. I yank it back up.
“Don’t try to distract me,” I instruct. Although it’s too late. I’m already wavering. “First, Wen and Fiona Dulles. And now Randall Kindell. You still promise not to tell, right? I said I’d keep their calls secret. And now I’m feeling guilty even telling you. But demanding money? That’s new, isn’t it? Did Dorothy say anything about a blackmail demand?”
Josh rolls his eyes, then reaches to yank down the blanket again. I pull it up. Determined to stay on track. “The police are investigating. Let’s let them investigate.”
“Or Alethia?” I’m ignoring him. I just had a thought. “Did her caller say anything about money? It could be the police don’t even know about the extortion. Hey. Speaking of Alethia. Is there news? Has Alethia been able to tell the police anything about her fall?”