Space number one, where the red Explorer was parked for the news conference, was empty when I checked. And I figured that’s because they’d towed the car away. Which makes sense. But it may also be the space is empty because the car was never there.
Where did Franklin say the news conference was? Of course I don’t have my phone, so I can’t call and ask him. But. The news release is in my coat pocket.
“Ha!” I say it out loud. I unfold the white paper and see the solution. “Left side, space number one.” I bet I’m on the right side. And by that, I mean the wrong side. Maybe I got turned around when I was dodging cars.
The elevator arrives. I hop on, jabbing the black button marked G over and over. The doors open on the ground floor. And there’s Miss Bubble Gum in the ticket booth.
“Left side?” I say.
She lifts one bored finger and points. Across the garage. To the other bank of elevators.
I can barely see the bumper of our car through the array of lights outlining the garage entrance, but Franklin will be fine. I can get up, check out my theory and be back before he notices.
The elevator ride up is interminable. I drum my fingers on the waist-high brass railing encircling the elevator car. Maybe my theory is right after all. Nothing like a second chance. The elevator doors open on five left. I cross the fingers of both hands. And step out.
Space one, one-left, is empty here, too. Empty, except for a tiny scrap of black-and-yellow plastic curled in one corner.
I’m can’t help myself. Now I’m almost running. Down the middle of the ramp, past more white pillars, past the lines of parked cars on each sides of the divided parking lot. Here the numbers have white borders, not black like the other side. Every few steps, I check the numbers. They’re getting higher. The fifties. The sixties. The seventies.
Space 93.
I high-five the air. And I wish Franklin were here to see this.
This space is not empty. Blocky letters say 93. Two yellow lines along the sides. And in the middle? There’s a blue Mustang.
I stare at it, mesmerized. If I’m right, this is the clone of Michael Borum’s car. A car they stole. And the one they plan to sell. I take a step toward the shiny blue chassis, wondering if I can get close enough to it to check the VIN without setting off some kind of car alarm. Not that I know Borum’s whole VIN by heart. But I could at least write it down.
I stop. Write it down with what? I left all my stuff in the car. I pat my coat pockets, pulling out the contents. The news release. A toothpick. A tan rubber band, covered with lint. A gum wrapper.
Fine. No problem. I’ll run back to Franklin, get the car, drive back up here, copy down the VIN, get photos with the hidden camera, go back to the station, do our story, buy a dress for the Emmys and live happily ever after.
“Nice car, huh?”
Even without turning around, I can see him behind me. His body is reflected, distorted but distinct, in the Mustang’s glossy blue paint job. My brain takes in the whole picture in a fraction of a second. Tall. Black parka. Sunglasses. Gloves.
Tamping down my fear-it’s certainly just the car’s owner-I turn with a friendly smile and a ready excuse. “Yes, I love Must-”
And then I stop. Now I see he’s wearing sunglasses. Gloves. Levi’s and grease-stained work boots. And no hat.
No Hat.
No-Hat is smiling, looking me up and down. There’s not a flicker of recognition. He’s either really good at acting or he has no idea who I am.
I wrench my expression back to normal, hoping he didn’t notice my hesitation. All I can do is see where this goes. It’s a public parking lot just before rush hour. He couldn’t just shoot me. I put on a big smile. Because I have a little idea.
“I’m a big Mustang fan. Is this yours? Or are you just looking at it, too?” I use one hand to rake the bangs off my forehead, changing my hairstyle a bit, and also being the tiniest bit flirty. I pitch my voice a bit higher than natural. New England Valley girl. “I’ve really, really always wanted one. But I never found the right one. You know how it is.”
I take a step or two toward the front of the Mustang. Toward the windshield. Maybe if I can keep him talking, I can get at least a glimpse of the VIN on the dashboard. But if he says this is his car, I’m going for more than that.
If he doesn’t recognize me from TV-and he doesn’t seem to-I might have a play here. After all, until now No-Hat and I have had a one-way-only relationship. I’ve seen him, plenty of times and in the most illegal of circumstances. I even have him on tape. I can easily find him at the Longmore Hotel. But he doesn’t know that.
I hope.
No-Hat adjusts the collar of his waist-length parka, rolling his narrow shoulders.
“Yeah, it’s mine,” he says. He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, never taking his eyes off me. His black hair is so close cropped, it’s a dark shadow. “You got a car here?”
Caw heah, he says. Southern? Not from Boston. Which may explain why he doesn’t recognize me. Perfect.
“Oh, sure. But I’m a little lost? I think?” Then I go all little Red Riding Hood, pointing in the general direction of the elevator, but stepping even closer to the windshield. And closer to the VIN stamped on the dashboard. No-Hat is standing between me and freedom, but I have to see that VIN. If I leave, he’ll move the car and we’ll never find it again.
“And when I saw your car,” I continue, “I had to stop and look. It’s a real beauty. What year is it, anyway?”
No-Hat reaches into his pocket.
Uh-oh. Maybe he does recognize me. I imagine the gun that killed Michael Borum.
My heart lurches a beat. And lands in my stomach. I scan the garage behind him. Not one person. Not one moving car. Where are the pre-rush hour slackers when you need them?
And he pulls out a set of keys.
“It’s last year’s. And it’s your lucky day. I’m selling it for way cheap,” he says, dangling the keys at eye level. His eye level, which is higher than mine. “It’s Windveil Blue. Aluminum wheels. Three hundred horsepower. V-8 engine. Five-speed. The whole nine yards. Zero to sixty in four seconds.”
Huh? I look sincerely and suitably impressed.
“Cool,” I say. “Is it really that fast?”
“Only one way to find out,” No-Hat says.
No. No. No way.
I laugh, a little throwaway ha-ha, and pretend I think he’s joking. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t recognize me from TV, and even if he did, it might not matter. But I have no desire to find the answer by driving away in a stolen Mustang with a possible murderer beside me.
“I’d love to maybe sit in the front seat, though,” I say. This could be a dicey decision, but I won’t close the car door. “Maybe I could turn on the engine?”
No-Hat pulls off one black wool glove, then the other, and stuffs them both into a jacket pocket. He takes the key ring, a narrow twist of silver, and turns one blue-plastictopped key until it snaps free. Then he points a black electronic gizmo at the driver’s-side door. And the door clicks open.
“There ya go, Miss…” He pauses. “I’m Doug. Doug…Skith.”
Skith, I think. Clever. Because Smith sounds too made up.
“Jan,” I reply. Because Jane sounds too made up. I take the key from Doug, who I still think of as No-Hat, and ease myself into the Mustang’s creamy leather front bucket seat. I put one leg in the car, but leaving the car door open, I keep my other foot on the parking-lot pavement. In neutral territory.
Doug gets into the passenger seat. He swings both his legs inside. And he closes the door.
And I win. I can see the VIN number now, clear and precise, embossed on a metal plate inside the door frame. If we’re right, that plate is a phony, printed with Michael Borum’s VIN and attached by the No-Hat crew to this stolen car within the last few days. I memorize the last five numbers as I pretend to examine the fancy black-leather-covered dashboard. It’s jazzy as a jet cockpit, covered with push buttons, red-numbered gauges and rows of tiny lights. The odometer says 21,203 miles.