“This is not that car, Miss McNally. That car was destroyed in a fire.”
I swallow hard, nodding. Turning the pages in my spiral notebook. “I know. Exactly. But please, check this car’s VIN again. Not against the stolen-car list. I’m telling you, it’ll come back as the destroyed blue Mustang. And that guy?” I point my notebook toward Doug. “He’s lying. He’s part of the whole operation. And told me it was his car. He even let me inside. He’s got the keys somewhere. He must.”
Zavala looks me up and down, his face the picture of disbelief. “He let you inside this car? When?”
I hold up the notebook, pleading my case.
“See this number? It’s the VIN of the destroyed Mustang. Take this. Compare this Mustang’s VIN to the number I’ve written down.”
“Lieutenant?” The officer calls out again. “Make it fast, sir. Mr. Skith is asking for a lawyer now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“He’s stashed the keys somewhere. I’m sure of it.” I touch Zavala’s arm with one hand, drawing his attention back to me. “Can you have your officer look for them one more time?”
Franklin’s shooting pictures of me talking with Zavala. Which means he’s got enough of the VIN.
“We patted him down.” Zavala says. “Suspect says it’s not his car. We found no keys. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe the 911 call was bogus. Happens every day, Charlie.”
This is bad. Switching to my first name, sympathetic and friendly, means he’s about to end our conversation. Plus, of course, I know the 911 call was bogus. My time is running out.
“How about, maybe, look in the wheel well?” It’s a last-ditch idea, but certainly the cloners heard how the cops identified the carjacked Explorer. And now it’s in their heads, like it is in mine. Since Doug doesn’t have the keys on him, he certainly knows where they are. Maybe he hid them, just in case, when he heard the sirens.
“You don’t give up, do you?” Zavala shrugs, the beginnings of a smile appearing for the first time. He cocks his head toward the car. “I’ll give you a shot, Charlie. Let’s take a look.”
“Franklin?” I say. I open my eyes extra wide, signaling potential success, and spiral my forefinger. Roll tape. We’ve got to get this on camera.
I briefly remember, with regret, I’m still wearing Franklin’s stupid hat.
“Let’s see that notebook now,” Zavala says. He points me toward the windshield as I hand him my notes. “Now. You read me the VIN from the Mustang dashboard.”
I get through all seventeen numbers before Zavala says a word.
“Hartwell?” Zavala looks toward the officer guarding Skith, calling out across the Mustang. “We’ll need another moment here. You’re sure he has no car keys? Check again, Officer.”
I see Officer Hartwell begin another pat down. But since I’m right here anyway, I lean over and run my hand under the left-front wheel well.
Nothing.
And then, something.
I stand, pulling out my empty hand. I look at Franklin, then at Zavala.
“I think you’re both going to want to see this,” I say.
Minutes later, Skith is in handcuffs.
I see Franklin is getting video of the whole arrest. I hope we’re not running out of tape.
“So you found some car keys.” Skith is spitting fire. “Who the frig says they belong to me?”
“Give it up, Skith,” Lieutenant Zavala says. “We’ll find your prints inside the car. Soon as we open it. Hartwell?”
The officer is now carrying a flat black plastic box, size of an anchorwoman’s makeup kit. He puts the case on the garage floor and flips open two latches. The outside of the box is labeled PRINTS.
Another officer is unlocking the passenger-side door with the keys they retrieved from the wheel well.
“Plus, Miss McNally here says you tried to sell her this car.” Zavala’s voice is mocking, sardonic, as he gestures toward me. “And she tells me you let her get behind the wheel.”
“Miss McWho?” Skith matches the sneer. “I never saw her before.”
I hold back the supreme temptation to whip off my cap and fluff out my hair like the heroine in some romance thriller. “Now do you recognize me?” I’d demand. It would be even more dramatically effective if I used some sort of exotic accent. But I restrain myself. And Skith, or whatever his name really is, already recognized me anyway. I watched his face change when he saw me with the camera. That reaction, even he couldn’t keep secret.
“Your odometer says 21,203 miles,” I say, keeping my voice calm.
“You could have seen that through the window,” he retorts.
“Your radio’s on Wixie,” I say.
“Big deal, so’s everyone’s,” he replies.
“And your car won’t start.” I can’t help smiling.
“What?” Skith says, his voice rising. “How’d-” He stops. Clamps his mouth closed.
“What?” Zavala says.
“Yeah,” I say, drawing out the word. “Try it.”
“Hartwell.” Zavala gestures to the officer who’s sitting in the front seat and dusting for prints. “Turn on the engine.”
“Huh?” the cop replies.
“Do it,” Zavala says.
We hear the hiss as the exiting traffic behind us continues to leave the garage. We hear a few honks from annoyed drivers. We hear the sounds of a too-loud radio blaring through open car windows.
But when Officer Hartwell turns the key, we hear nothing.
Hartwell tries again.
Nothing.
“Pop the hood,” I say. “You’ll find one battery wire’s disconnected.”
I dig into my pocket. And then I bring out a little silver hexagonal nut, offering it in the outstretched palm of my gloved hand.
“You’ll need this to fix it.”
I trot after Lieutenant Zavala as he heads back to his cruiser, stationed in a yellow-striped no-parking corner of the garage. The engine’s running, the blue wig-wags are flashing, there’s a cadet at the wheel.
“Remember, Lieutenant, you wouldn’t have this story without me. You’d have let him go, right? So the least you can do is hold off.”
Zavala stops. Turns around. Crosses his arms. And looks at me.
“What?” I say. I stop, too. I can’t read his expression.
“I’m sure you’re aware, Miss McNally, that a fraudulent 911 call is a misdemeanor, punishable by a two-hundred-dollar fine.”
I actually do know that. And I see where he might be going with this. It’s not a good place. I stall. “So?”
“Anything you’d like to confess?”
“Heavens, no,” I say, doing my best innocent look. My fake phone voice was pretty high-quality. Then I remember the best defense is a good offense. “All I’m saying is, there are no other reporters here. We’re working on a big story. It’ll be on-soon. Really soon. And if you’d keep this to yourself? For, like, a few days?”
Zavala’s expression hasn’t changed.
I slump my shoulders and stare at an oil spot on the garage floor, sensing imminent journalism disaster. Maybe I sacrificed our story to let the cops arrest Skith. But I couldn’t just let him get away. My stupid conscience wouldn’t let me ignore that catching the bad guy and potentially stopping a deadly scam is more important than our exclusive story. Even though we solved the case, not Boston’s finest.
A car zooms toward us, the last of the rush hour, then cuts its speed in half at the flashing blue lights. I watch it go by, dejected. I solved this. I uncovered a major criminal enterprise, got photos of the entire operation, figured out a pretty clever code and tricked the bad guy into giving himself away. And now, the cops will get all the credit.
Zavala clears this throat. “Miss McNally?”
“What?” I try to keep the petulance from my voice. After all, Zavala is on the side of justice. And I guess that’s what matters. Maybe they can get Doug to rat out the mastermind of this deal. Who that is, I admit, I still don’t have a clue.