Drive Time (23 page)

“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.”

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.

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.