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Investigative reporter Charlotte McNally is an expert at keeping things confidential, but suddenly everyone has a secret—and it turns out it is possible to know too much.
Her latest scoop—an exposé of a dangerous car scam, complete with stakeouts, high-speed chases and hidden-camera footage—is ratings gold. But soon that leads her to a brand-new and diabolical scheme. Charlie's personal and professional lives are on a collision course, too. Her fiancé is privy to information about threats at an elite private school that have turned deadly.
Charlie has never counted on happy endings. But now, just as she's finally starting to believe in second chances, she realizes revenge, extortion and murder may leave her alone again—or even dead….
- Sales Rank: #361767 in Books
- Brand: Mira
- Published on: 2010-01-19
- Released on: 2010-01-19
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.62" h x .77" w x 4.21" l, .34 pounds
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 352 pages
- Great product!
Review
*Starred* Ryan in same league as Lisa Scottoline...catapults the reader into fast lane and doesn't relent til the story careens to a stop. New readers will speed to get earlier books, and diehard fans hope for another installment.
--Library Journal
Now an ANTHONY NOMINEE!
Best Paperback Original of 2010
Now an AGATHA NOMINEE!
Best Mystery Novel of 2010
Now a DAPHNE NOMINEE!
Best Mainstream Novel of 2010
"Hank P Ryan knows the television business entirely; she understands plotting; and she writes beautifully. No wonder I loved DRIVE TIME. Anyone would."
----Robert Parker, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Spenser for Hire mysteries
"Superb series...Ryan's ability to portray these universal dilemmas is her true genius, and one that makes this series an enduring joy to read."
----Mystery Scene Magazine
"I love this series!" --Suzanne Brockmann
About the Author
Agatha, Anthony and Macavity award-winning investigative reporter Hank Phillippi Ryan is on the air at Boston's NBC affiliate. Her work has resulted in new laws, people sent to prison, homes removed from foreclosure, and millions of dollars in restitution. Along with her 26 EMMYs, Hank's won dozens of other journalism honors. She's been a radio reporter, a legislative aide in the United States Senate and an editorial assistant at Rolling Stone Magazine working with Hunter S. Thompson.
Her first mystery, the best-selling PRIME TIME, won the Agatha for Best First Novel. It was also was a double RITA nominee for Best First Book and Best Romantic Suspense Novel, and a Reviewers' Choice Award Winner. FACE TIME and AIR TIME are IMBA bestsellers, and AIR TIME was nominated for the AGATHA and ANTHONY Award. (Of AIR TIME, Sue Grafton says: "This is first-class entertainment.") DRIVE TIME, February 2010 from MIRA Books, just earned a starred review from Library Journal saying it "puts Ryan in a league with Lisa Scottoline."
Hank's short story "On The House" won the AGATHA, ANTHONY and MACAVITY for Best Short Story of 2009..
Hank is on the board of New England Sisters in Crime and the national board of Mystery Writers of America.
Her website is HankPhillippiRyan.com
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I can't wait to tell our secret. And I'll get to do it if we're not all killed first.
We're ten minutes away from Channel 3 when suddenly the Boston skyline disappears. Murky slush splatters across our windshield, kicked up from the tires of the rattletrap big rig that just swerved in front of us on the snow-slick highway. Eighteen wheels of obstacle, stubbornly obeying the Massachusetts Turnpike speed limit.
I brace myself once again. During this afternoon's teeth-clenching, bone-rattling, knuckle-whitening drive, I've learned how J.T. feels about speed limits.
"Fifty-five is for cowards!" he mutters. My new photographer powers our unmarked car into the passing lane, sloshing what's left of my coffee and almost throwing me across the backseat. Franklin, seemingly oblivious to our icy peril, is in the front seat clicking on his newest phone gizmo. As usual these days, my producer's deep into texting.
"Thanks, I'm fine back here," I call out, blotting the milky spill from my just dry-cleaned black coat. I don't even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. J.T. Shaw may be a hotshot when it comes to news video, but he apparently learned his driving skills chasing headlines in the network's Middle East Bureau. Now, even though he's back stateside shooting my investigative stories, he still thinks he's driving in Beirut. Where they don't have ice. Or speed limits.
Eight minutes away from Channel 3. Eight minutes away from the rest of my life. I hope I make it.
I look at the still-unfamiliar emerald-cut diamond on my third finger, left hand. Even in the fading winter light, it glistens, catching the January sunset, fire in the center. I'm strapped into the backseat of a deathtrap news car, but memories still spark the beginnings of a smile. Josh handing me the heart-stoppingly iconic robin's-egg-blue box. The creak of the tiny hinges as I opened it. The twinkle, the love, the passion in his hazel eyes as Josh slipped the glittering surprise onto my finger. Charlotte McNally, soon-to-be married lady. The family of investigative reporter Charlotte Ann McNally, age forty-seven, of Boston, announces her engagement to BexterAcademy professor Joshua Ives Gelston, fifty-two, ofBrookline…
"Charlotte! Get the license number!"
Snapped out of my bliss by the squeal of brakes, I look up to see Franklin twisted over the front seat, pointing out the back window. And then I hear a skid. Metal on metal. A horn blaring. Then another one. Then silence.
"It looks like a—blue? Black? What kind of car?" Franklin's squinting through his newest pair of eyeglasses, these rimless, almost invisible. He's jabbing a finger toward the highway behind us. We're going at least seventy now, speeding away from whatever he's looking at. "Over there, across the Pike. Right lane."
I follow his finger, unsnapping my seat belt and yanking my coat so I can face backward on the seat, knees tucked under me. My turn to squint. "The guy in the—? I think it's blue. Some sort of sports car? Going too fast— he's crazy. All I can see is taillights. What happened?"
Then I see what's on the side of the road. The puzzle pieces snap together. And the big picture means J.T.'s Indiana Jones driving ability may come in handy. Problem is, we're going in the wrong direction.
"J.T.! Check it out in your rearview." Using one finger, I poke him in the shoulder. "Behind us. Other side of the Pike. Looks like a hit-and-run. A car ran into the guardrail. Any way to get us there? Like, right now?"
I grab the leather strap above my seat, preparing for the inevitable g-force. Traffic accident? Definitely. News story? Maybe. But I'm a reporter and it's my responsibility to find out.
Keeping my eyes on the accident scene, I use my free hand to grope through my bottomless black leather tote bag for my phone. I know it's in there somewhere, but I can't take my eyes off the crash to look for it. Why are we still speeding away?
"J.T.? Listen, we've got to turn around somehow. Come on, just do it! Franko, you call 911, okay? My phone is—"
"Hang on!"
With a blare of the horn, J.T. swerves us across two lanes, skidding briefly in the slush and splattering ice pellets across our windows. I'm thrown across the seat again, grabbing to get my seat belt back on before I'm the next casualty. So much for getting to the station on time. And this was my idea.
J.T. checks his rearview, his expression hidden behind his oversize sunglasses, then jounces us across an emergency lane in a who-cares-it's-illegal U-turn. With a two-handed twist of the steering wheel, he bangs the gas to speed us in the opposite direction.
"We're approaching mile marker 121," Franklin is saying into his phone. He's braced for the ride, one hand clamped on the dashboard, and his voice is terse. "Mass Pike. Westbound. Car in the ditch."
We're almost there. Off the road, skewed and tilted at an angle that telegraphs disaster, there's a set of taillights that's not moving. The trunk of the blocky sedan is open. I can't see the front of the car. And I can't see anyone getting out.
"Tell them the guy who caused it left the scene," I instruct. My fingers touch my own phone. "Tell them— blue or black. Sports car. Headed west. Fast. And no movement at the crash site. And no fire. Yet. I'll call the assignment desk. Let them know we're on the scene." And we'll be late getting back, I don't say.
Josh should be used to it by this time. And he— generally—understands a reporter can't control breaking news. Thing is, being late today has some extra baggage. In two hours we're supposed to be breaking our own news: telling Penny she's getting a new stepmother. Me.
The nine-year-old was at Walt Disney World with her mother and stepfather when Josh and I got engaged. This week, still on school vacation, Penny's back with Josh. Now it seems like our news, Reality World, will have to stay secret a bit longer. My mother knows, of course. And Franklin. He and I have no secrets. Working as a team, sharing an office, there's no way.
Franklin and I usually handle the blockbuster stories, long-term investigations, Emmy caliber. Two months ago, we pulled off a showstopper, revealing international counterfeiting and FBI corruption. But after twenty-plus years in the biz, I know local news demands local news. And a hit-and-run tragedy could lead the show. I punch 33 on my cell phone's speed dial.
Clamping the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I rip off my black suede heels and yank on the flat snow boots I always carry this time of year in a red nylon Channel 3 pouch. Yes, I'm a pack mule. But I can't be worrying about slush on suede. Or cold feet.
Notebook. Pencil. And finally, the assignment desk picks up.
"Channel 3 News…"
"Hold some time on the six," I interrupt. "It's Charlie McNally. Got a pen? Tell the producer. Spot news on the Mass Pike. Hit-and-run. Car in a ditch. Casualties unknown. Franklin Parrish is with me. J.T.'s shooting. More to come. Got it?" I flip the phone closed in the middle of "Okay" and open the car door.
We're there.
A blast of January hits me, and I scramble to keep my balance in the frozen slush of the rutted roadside. A quick check of my trademark red lipstick in the car's side mirror also reminds me my hair's brownish roots are invading their painstakingly blonded camouflage. Flipping open my spiral notebook and edging across the breakdown lane, I look over my shoulder to make sure J.T. has his camera out and rolling.
"Right behind you, Charlie," J.T. says. He slams the trunk closed with one hand, and aims the camera at a pile of still-white snow, hitting the white-balance button to make sure our video is set to the right color. His leather gloves have the fingers cut off, allowing him to make the tiniest adjustments in video and sound.
"You got your external audio potted up?" Franklin asks.
I can't believe the boys are bickering again. J.T, battered leather jacket and broken-in jeans, foreign-correspondent cool and with a network résumé, is my age, but he's still the new guy at Channel 3. Franklin, pressed and preppy in Burberry camel hair, is ten years J.T.'s junior, but still holds station seniority. Picking my way toward the car, I turn to watch, half amused, half annoyed, as they continue their battle for turf. Can't we all just get along? Men.
J.T, aviator sunglasses now perched in his sandy hair, throws Franko an are-you-kidding look, but gives the camera's built-in microphone a tap just the same. He checks to make sure the needle on the audio meter is moving. "Rolling with sound, Charlie," he announces.
Franklin waves him off. "Just doing my job, pal."
"Me too, brotha," J.T. says.
Franklin hates when a white person calls him "brother." And J.T. knows it.
"Guys?" I interrupt the escalation of World War III. "The car? Someone's inside?"
We all head in the direction of the still-silent accident scene. All I can hear are our footsteps and the hissing splatter of cars streaking by on the crowded highway. Then I see the whole picture. The mangled car, its front end tangled in a now-twisted metal guardrail, is perched precariously over a shallow embankment. The hood of the dark red sedan is tented, crumpled, a discarded tin can. Tires in shreds. Something hot is hissing onto the snow beneath the chassis. I know the longer nothing moves, the more likely the news inside is bad. "Come on," I say softly. "Get out of the car."
And then, a quiet sound. Like a—cry. A baby. Crying.
"Guys?" I stop. Listening. But all is silent again. "Did you hear that?"
And then, the car's front door creaks open. Driver's side. Slowly. The car shifts, briefly, then settles back. No one gets out.
I flash a look at J.T.
J.T. holds up a reassuring hand, his eye pressed to the viewfinder. "Rolling," he mouths.
Franklin points to me, then J.T, then to the car. He raises one eyebrow. We don't want to say anything out loud—it'll be recorded on the tape.
The crying starts again. Getting louder. Where's the ambulance? And then I see what J.T. is capturing on camera.
A man hauls himself, hand over hand, out of the front seat. He leans against the open door, parka to window, and presses one gloved hand to his bleeding forehead. He's thirtyish, suburban. His pale blue puffy jacket, striped muffler and jeans are spattered with blood. "Gabe," he says. "Sophie."
He gestures toward the car, then crumples onto the front seat, planting his salt-stained Timberland boots in the snow. Red drops plunk onto the white, then one splats onto his tanboot. "I'm okay," he insists, waving a hand. "Justdizzy. Head on the steering wheel. Please. Gabe and Sophie."
"Sir?" Franklin says, stepping closer. "We called 911 and…"
I'm already yanking open the passenger-side rear door. A boy, five years old maybe, in chunky mittens and red parka, is still in his booster seat, seat belt on. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are wide. The crying is coming from beside him. There, an unhappy toddler in a pink hat, squirming in her flowered sweater and matching snow pants, is strapped into a padded baby seat.
"Are you the doctor?" the boy asks me. "Daddy said you would come."
"Hi, Gabe. I'm Charlie," I say. Am I supposed to move him? I glance at the driver's seat. In a newish car like this, I would have expected air bags in the front. "Everything is going to be all right, sweetheart. The doctor will be here in one second to get you out. Is that your sister? Do you hurt anywhere?"
"I was in a crash, so I cried a little," Gabe says. He's earnest, his brown eyes trusting. "But I'm a big boy. And I always wear my seat belt. So I don't hurt. Is my daddy hurt? Sophie is crying. She always cries. She's only one years old."
"Your dad is fine, that's a good boy," I reassure him. Little Sophie begins to wail full blast. Her blanket is on the floor of the car. I can't leave her there. Where is the ambulance? What makes a car blow up?
"Gabe? If I unhook your seat belt, can you get out? I'm going to get your sister, and then we'll all walk away from the car. Can you do that?"
If I move the kids, am I going to make this worse? Neither seems really hurt. And the ambulance must be on the way. And except maybe for the hit-and-run element, this is not much of a story. Luckily for all involved. But we have to wait for the EMTs, at least. And maybe the cops, too, since, technically, we're witnesses.
"I want out." Gabe, his face suddenly racked with uncertainty, elongates the final word into a mournful plea.
I reach over, unclick four pink webbed straps from around the now-quieting Sophie and ease her out of the baby seat, grabbing the yellow chenille blanket from the floor and wrapping it around her as I back out the door. Sophie sniffles, once, then I feel her little body burrow into my shoulder. On the other side of the car, her father is standing again. Where's the ambulance?
"The kids are fine," I call to him across the car. "We'll come to you."
The sky is steel and ice, promising another bitter night. I tuck the blanket closer around Sophie, and wiggle my fingers toward Gabe. "Take my hand, honey. Can you get down?"
Gabe slides off the seat and grabs my hand. His lower lip gives the beginnings of a quiver. "I want to see my daddy," he says, looking at me.
"Absolutely," I say. "And we can tell him how brave you are."
This has got to be the strangest interview I've ever done. The EMTs finally arrived, pleading "wicked traffic" and "buncha jerk" drivers. They checked the kids, plastered Declan Ross's forehead with a gauze-and-tape bandage, pronounced everyone fine and took off. Now Sophie's nestled peacefully over my shoulder, her little breath sounds snuffling into my ear. Franklin and Gabe, holding hands, are watching as I use my non-Sophie hand to hold the Channel 3 microphone, its chunky logo red, white and blue against the gray slush. I know we probably won't use my interview with Declan Ross, or even the video J.T. shot of the victims' car—Franklin's already informed the assignment desk it's too minor to make air.
And I'm yearning to leave, meet up with Josh, share our celebratory dinner. Take a step closer to becoming Penny's mom. But we're here, and my years of experience dictate it's easier to erase an interview than regret not doing it. Better to be safe than scooped. Your job could depend on it.
"So just to be clear," I say, bringing the microphone back in my direction, "this car is rented because yours is in the shop?" I flip the mic back to Ross.
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
The Best in this series!
By Cindy Bauer
Ms. Ryan has really outdone herself on this last installment to the Charlotte McNally series. This time Charlie's aiming to stop a car scam operation while at the same time, planning for her upcoming wedding. By far the best of the four McNally stories, Ryan has held nothing back in this one. Full of action including high-speed car chases, hidden video, stakeouts, and even her fiancé and stepdaughter get tangled up in the weaving of deception, secrets and murder.
Ryan has a knack for storytelling and her real-life experience in news reporting is highly reflected in her writing. She has a very unique voice and the ability to make each story in her books better than the last one. Though her characters are fictional, you can only suspect that the McNally character reveals many of Ryan's own qualities, which appears to add humor and hands-on investigation into even to the grimmest of crimes.
Her stories in this series are well written, the plots are intriguing, the characters are extremely realistic and the background settings are right on target. I've read all four books in the McNally series and have to admit I've loved them all, but this last one, Drive Time, tops them all. A difficult task in outdoing the last great read, Ryan has handled the task with the ability to keep all the characters, old and new, in place - their personalities never faltering.
Also due to her experience in getting the facts and reporting the news, she's able to use her talents as well to make her stories realistic, allowing the reader into the mind of McNally, and laying out the details to make everything fit into place exactly right, holding the reader in suspense until she lets go of the climatic ending.
What I really enjoy about Ryan's writing is that you can't figure out the plot and ending before finishing the book. I just didn't want to put it down. A real page-turner!
Ryan is an amazing new talent in writing mysteries laced with realism, facts, and plenty of action! I'll miss the series and hope she will add more later on!
Reviewed by Cindy Bauer for [..]
Cindy Bauer is the well-seasoned author of the Memory Box Trilogy (Chasing Memories, Shades of Blue and Crystal Clear), an Inspirational Fiction series. She is an avid reader, a freelance writer and editor, and reviews books for [..]. She's also a volunteer staff member at Visual Arts Junction and contributes articles on writing, publishing and marketing works.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
CHange is on the Air
By Nash Black
Charlotte McNally is trying to cope with changes in her life as the wedding day approaches. Can an investigative reporter keep secrets that may lead to a breaking story, a change in employment, or affect the loyalty due her intended, her working partners? The burden of shielding the source and doing the job she loves while making decisions that will affect her future make for a strong plot the plows through the narrow streets of Boston.
Hank Phillippi Ryan brings her fans the strongest mystery to date with DRIVE TIME. Charlie Mac at 47 is trying on motherhood, faculty wife, and maintaining the never ending task of following leads to develop a top breaking story for the newest ratings. Three murders, an auto accident, and a faculty meeting have her hopping from abode to home while living out of her tote bag.
This is one you will not want to miss from the annals of crime fiction related to television. Charlotte McNally will dig a hole in your heart and take up residence.
Nash Black, author of Indie finalists WRITING AS A SMALL BUSINESS and HAINTS.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Drive Time
By Destiny Booze
Star Reporter Charlie McNally is juggling a heavy load. She has a wedding to plan, a big promotion to consider and a deadline to meet. Work and family are a new mix for her and she struggles with how to prioritize between the two.
Incorporating her soon-to-be step-daughter Penny into her life is also a challenge. When an unexplained death happens at Penny's school, Charlie steps in to help in the way that she knows best, as a reporter. There's a definite story there and she'll do what she needs to do to uncover the truth.
How much should she tell her fiancé about the stories she's working on? Where do her loyalties belong? As a woman with a loud biological clock ticking away the years, should she just give up the whole idea of a family by this stage in her life?
If you want to know what it's like to be a reporter in the fast lane, read DRIVE TIME by Hank Ryan Phillippi. This story felt real to me. I loved following Charlie as she works to solve the mysteries in the plot. Her character has a quiet strength that seems heroic even as she works through real emotions and issues that many women face every day.
This review is courtesy of Romance Junkies.
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