“We were barely here for an hour, hour and a half at most.” I push Stop and lean across him, adding my two cents.
The attendant, who looks as if she has a supersize package of Dubble Bubble working, points to a glowing electronic readout that says $24.00, then to a hand-lettered and imaginatively spelled sign that reads “Attendant at Fifty-Five Friend cannot altar parking fees.” The sign also offers a phone number to report problems or complaints. As if anyone’s going to call some phone number.
I pause, staring at nothing, trying to retrieve an elusive thought.
“Fine, fine,” Franklin says. He takes his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket, and with a show of annoyance, hands over a twenty and four ones. “Receipt, please.”
“Gigi in accounting is going to flip,” I say. What is it that I’m trying to remember?
We pull out of the lot, Franklin still grumbling, and turn onto Friend Street. It was light when we went in, but it’s almost dark now, the weirdness of New England winter in daylight savings time. Franklin clicks on the headlights, then pulls the car to the curb. “Let’s see the tape, at least. If the numbers are there, it’s worth having Channel 3 bilked out of twenty-four bucks.”
I hand over the camera, part of my mind yanking my attention somewhere else. And then I have it. Not fully formed. But enough. It’s my song. My phone number song. I think I know what it means.
“Franko?” I say.
“What?” He’s only half listening, his eyes focused on the screen.
“I’ll be right back, okay? I’m going to check on something in the garage. I’ll leave my stuff here,” I say, pointing to my purse and tote bag. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m probably wrong about my idea. It’s almost ridiculous. But what if I’m right? The parking attendant doesn’t raise her eyes as I scoot around the entry arm and up the ramp into the garage. I suppose people walk in this way all the time, coming back from shopping or lunch or whatever normal people do.
Instead of trudging up five flights, I go for the elevator. The doors open. The car’s empty. I get in and push the green button marked with a big black five.
The metal doors slide open as I arrive on five, but I don’t get out. Holding the rubber edge of door open with one hand, I peer around the corner to space number one. The red Explorer is no longer there. That’s no surprise, since the tow truck was obviously there to haul it to the police evidence lot. And I’m relieved that all the cops are gone. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m still hanging around the garage. It’s not space number one I’m interested in.
The doors begin their automatic struggle to close, clanking softly and pushing against my gloved hand as I make sure the coast is clear. I step out into the empty garage. The doors swish shut behind me.
“Don’t forget your floor. You are on Floor Five,” a printed sign on a metal stand reminds those with short memories. Some genius has blacked out one letter so it says “Foor five.” Hilarious. In about an hour, this place is going to be teeming with commuters ready to battle the inevitable rush hour traffic jam. But now, it’s only me and rows and rows of cars. Hundreds and hundreds of cars, all in numbered spaces.
I’m looking for one particular space.
I trot down the rows of parked cars and vans and SUVs, the dim light dulling them to barely-varied shades of neutral. Twisting past the curving ramps and trying to follow the lighted signs and arrows, I hurry past the spaces in the thirties, past the forties, past the fifties. The signs are impossible. How can “no entrance” and “no exit” be in the same direction? At least the numbers are in order, stenciled, sprayed onto the water-stained concrete walls, blocky numerals with a black border, just at eye level.
Past the sixties. Then a wide exit ramp cuts another double-laned path through the numbering. A horn honks, twice. A navy minivan with two people in the front seat is coming right at me. Heart fluttering, I scoot to one side, getting out of the way behind a thick white-painted pillar. My heart beats even faster as I try, squinting, to recognize the driver or the passenger. Two women. Nothing sinister. They’re just heading for the exit.
I’m heading for answers. And the closer I get, the more I convince myself I might be right.
The song in my head becomes a sound track for my search. It’s all I can do not to sing it out loud. Five-five-five, zero-one-nine-three, my phone-number lyrics buzz through my brain, repeating and repeating like a broken record.
The lyrics are not a phone number. They’re directions.
Fifty-five Friend Street. Fifth floor. Space one, like zero-1, is where the red Explorer was found. If I’m right, there’ll be another carjacked auto waiting in space 93. 555-0193. Two cars, hidden in plain sight. One, in space 01, discovered by the cops. The other still waiting for the bad guys to come and retrieve it.
We’ve proved they first swipe a car from valet parking. Steal its identity. Then steal an identical-looking car. They do the presto-chango. Then they sell the stolen car.
But they don’t put ads in the newspaper. Oh, no.
They send their for-sale notices to the Drive Time radio show, where each one sounds like just another advertisement for a used car. But it’s really a free, widely broadcast and completely untraceable announcement to the rest of their team.
“We’ve got more clones,” they’re actually transmitting the news to their partners in crime. “Come and get them.” And the “phone number” tells precisely where. In Boston, so it’s area code 617. Fifty-five Friend Street. Fifth floor. And then, for the Explorer and the Mustang, 01 and 93.
Five-five-five isn’t a real phone-number prefix. Franklin found that out. But it sure is a good headline. And if anyone out of the loop tries to call the number, they’ll get the same irritating result I did. Doo doo DOO.
Who at Wixie is in on this? Possibly no one. The cloners are also hijacking the public airwaves. Maybe I’ll call Saskia, casually, and see if someone’s advertising an Explorer. Ten thousand dollars, I bet myself, the phone number is the same.
The stenciled numbers on the wall now say 90. Ninety-one. Ninety-two. And there’s space 93.
Empty.
“What?” My astonished whisper hisses through the deserted garage. I cross my arms in front of me, staring at a six-by-ten area of concrete. It’s marked parking space 93. Yellow stripes on each side. And in the middle? Nothing.
Nothing.
I trudge all the way back to the elevator. Bumming with every step. One hundred percent bummed. It was such a great idea. I jab the button with the black down arrow, preparing to tell Franklin I lost a glove or something. He’s probably confirmed we got the video of the cloned VIN. Most likely he’s so deep into texting, he won’t even notice I’ve gone. A sigh escapes. For the last two weeks, I’ve assumed he was doing research, or checking with sources, or sharing love texts with Stephen. Turns out, he was plotting his career moves. In secret.
Why is this elevator taking so long? I punch the down button again, with a bit more force than necessary. “Don’t forget your floor. You are on Floor Five,” the sign reminds me again. I blink, staring back at the black words, white background. Floor Five, it says. Not Foor Five.
Did someone fix it? Of course my brain instantly chooses the most unlikely alternative. Hands on hips, I stare at the sign. Only one answer. This is not the same elevator I came up in. And that means I’m in a different part of the garage than where I started. And in a different part of the garage than I should be. No wonder people can never find their cars. I turn, staring down the dusky rows of identical-looking car hoods and trunks and empty spaces. Seeing the confusion of twisting ramps and white pillars and neon arrows and ridiculous signs and double lanes.