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.