“Go for it,” Doug instructs, pointing both forefingers at me. “Get a feel for your new car.”
Keeping my door open and one foot on safe ground, I turn the key. The engine whines, then roars, throbs, surprising me with its power. The seats vibrate. The seat belt alarm pings. Every light on the dashboard pulses red, then flashes to green. Music blares, speakers from all sides rattling the windows.
“Wow,” I say, raising my voice over the thundering bass of sixties garage music. Radio. Drive Time. I can’t let this car get away. It might be the proof of what happened to Michael Borum. What’s more, a person almost certainly involved in Borum’s murder might be sitting in the bucket seat beside me. I have about two minutes to think of something.
Doug flips the radio off, then waves a hand, gesturing me to close my door.
“Come on, Jan. Take a test-drive. You know you want to.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“You know what?” I say. I twist the key off, pull it out of the ignition and hand it to Doug. “You should drive. It’s too chancy. You know? For me to drive this.”
Doug waves me off. “Hey. You want to buy it? You gotta drive it.”
I plant both feet on the garage floor, extricating myself from the Mustang and, I can’t help but think, from certain death. Semi-safely back on public property, I put both hands on the Windveil Blue roof and peer inside. Doug is still in the passenger seat, holding the ignition key.
“Too bad about the recall, huh?” I say. “You get the power steering fixed?”
This is pure fiction. But it might work. If it doesn’t, I’m heading for the elevator. Zero to sixty in about one second.
“Recall?” Doug’s brain is apparently sorting out possibilities of what this might mean. He finally gets it. “On this car?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” I say, nodding sagely. “I did a bunch of research on these. Like I said, I’m in the market. And this one? At 21,000 miles? The power steering’s gonna go.”
If it could get my rented black Vallero recalled, I figure, it could do the same for a Mustang. A car’s a car.
“I know how to check, though,” I say. “Pop the hood.”
It’s a good thing this guy doesn’t know me. If he did, this would be the moment he burst out laughing. I hope the hood lifts from the front and not the other way. I can’t let him see what I hope to do. Thanks to Frick Jones at the Power House, I may be able to pull this off.
Doug, looking skeptical but curious, reaches across the stick shift and touches a square black button on the lower dashboard. There’s a soft click. The hood pops open, just a fraction. And luckily, the latch is in the front. When I lift the hood completely, No-Hat Doug will not be able to see what I’m doing. But I should still keep him busy, just to make sure.
“Now, reach over and turn on the car,” I say. “I have to see the engine idling.”
I walk to the front of the car, briefly regretting the imminent demise of my black leather gloves to inevitable engine grease and wishing, madly, for a wrench. But ruined gloves are hardly life and death. The rest of this endeavor may be.
Attempting to channel Frick Jones, I lift up the hood and click the metal rod into place. And there’s what I’m looking for. So far so good. I lean to the left, one hand still on the hood, checking on Doug. He’s looking out the window, trying to see me.
“Perfect,” I say. “Now, turn off the ignition. Then watch the steering wheel. Carefully. Keep an eye on it. See if it moves, even a little.”
“Why?” he says.
“You just do it,” I say, all twinkly and adorable. In our hidden-camera video, Doug is not actually taking part in the cloning or air-bag removal. And I’m hoping that’s because he’s only a valet parker, not a mechanic. If I’m lucky, maybe he’s as clueless about car engines as I am.
“I told you I looked into this, right? I sure don’t want to spend my hard-earned cash to buy a car with bum power steering.”
The car is still vibrating under my hand. Under the already warm hood, I can see belts moving and a fan turning. Heat from the engine radiates onto my face. I feel flushed, and hot. Or maybe that’s fear. Then, everything stops. Belts, fan, heat, engine noise. He’s cut the ignition. It’s quiet. And now’s my only chance.
“Watching the wheel?” I call out.
“Watching.” Doug’s muffled reply comes from inside the car.
Motor safely off and Doug, I hope, safely focused on the steering wheel, I tuck myself under the hood again. Doing the opposite of what Frick Jones demonstrated, I try to use my fingers to unscrew the nut connecting the thick black wire to the battery post.
It won’t budge.
If this is going to work, I have just a few seconds.
I reach into my coat pocket and pull out that linty rubber band. Wrapping it around the nut for traction, like I do when the stubborn lid of a jar of spaghetti sauce won’t open, I try to unscrew it again. I feel a tiny movement.
“Anything?” I call out to Doug.
“No,” he calls back.
“Great,” I reply. “One more minute. So far, looks like you’re fine. Keep your eye on that wheel.”
The nut moves. It turns. And it keeps turning. I lift the metal-connector thing from its stubby silver post, lay the black wire beside the battery and tuck the hexagonal nut in my coat pocket. Now, even if Doug knows how to fix it, he won’t be able to. If I understood what Frick Jones was saying, this car ain’t going anywhere. And, happily, I’ll be long gone when Doug No-Hat “Skith” finds that out.
With a brief prayer to the journalism gods, I slam down the hood.
“Why are you so out of breath?” Franklin looks up from his texting as I slide into the front seat.
I ran the whole way to the car, terrified No-Hat was behind me. But no time to explain that now.
Franklin looks at his watch, then goes back to his BlackBerry, complaining while his two thumbs type at ultra-speed on the tiny keyboard. “And where the hell were you, Charlotte? Shopping?”
“Where’s the little camera?” I say, ignoring him. My hands are shaking as I plow through my purse, digging for the notebook with Michael Borum’s VIN. And I need my cell phone. My heart is pounding, my brain racing. I have to plan our next moves. And whether No-Hat is a savvy mechanic or not, this has all got to happen pretty darn fast.
“Why?” Franklin says.
He’s still midtext, but at least he’s looking at me.
“Really, Franko. Trust me on this, I’ll tell you why on the way. Power up the camera. Give it to me and then we’re going back into the garage. Fifth floor, left side. Same floor as the news conference. I’ll show you where.”
“But-”
“Franklin! Listen, just do it, please, okay?” I find the notebook. Yes. Yes. I think the VIN numbers are a match. We’ll find out soon enough. I hit the green button on my cell, and punch three numbers. “Honest, I’ll tell you everything in a second. But now we have to go. Go!”
“Y’all have lost it…” Franklin mutters as he pulls the minicamera from the console between us, flips out the screen and turns a silver wheel to lock it in record mode. Giving me a dubious look, he places the camera on my lap. He turns the key in the ignition, then looks back to me as I begin to speak. His face registers utter bafflement as I begin my phone performance.
“Is this 911? Yes, um, this is…well, anyway…” I make my voice high-pitched and whispery. Pretending I’m a frightened teenager. Or something like that. Anyone but me. “That blue Mustang that was just stolen? That the cops are looking for? My boyfriend took it. And I know it’s in the Garage at Fifty-Five Friend Street. Fifth floor left, space 93. He’s wearing a black parka. But I think he’s getting ready to leave. Don’t tell him I told you.”