Drive Time (24 page)

“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.”

“Y
ou 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.”

I click the phone closed as we once again pull a parking-lot ticket from the automatic dispenser. Now we’ll see if the cops arrive. And what happens after that.

Bubble-Gum Girl is oblivious as the metal arm rises to let us drive past. “Remember, fifth floor left, space 93. No, wait, go to the fifth floor. Then we’ll decide what to do,” I say, peering into the shadowy garage. Then I get an idea. “Let me have your hat.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Franklin says. He pulls the black knit cap from his head and hands it to me.

We pull around the twisting ramps leading up onto the second floor. Flipping down the sun visor, I make sure all my hair is tucked under Franklin’s cap. For as long as possible, I don’t want Skith to recognize me. I wish I could wear my sunglasses to complete my semi-disguise, but I’ll never be able to shoot video with them on.

By the time we hit floor three, I’m spinning out the story at light speed. I’m up to the part where I figure out the phone number indicates the address and the location of the stolen cars.

“It just hit me, you know? I guess it was when I saw the phone number on Bubble-Gum Girl’s ticket booth.”

“Who?” Franklin eases the car around another too-tight curve, avoiding a careening van full of teenagers. “I told you it wasn’t a phone number.”

No Windveil Blue Mustangs have passed us going the other way. And although this garage is an incomprehensible maze of curves, I’m pretty sure there’s only one way out. Even if my scheme failed, Doug is still in the garage and on his way down. We could follow him. If my scheme
worked, he’s still in space 93. Trying to figure out why his car won’t start.

“True, it wasn’t a real phone number,” I acknowledge. Franklin loves to be right as much as I do. I tell him about finally finding the Mustang and about the arrival of No-Hat. “He told me his name is Doug ‘Skith,’ can you believe it?”

“Because Smith sounds too made up?”

“That’s what I thought, too.” I look at my watch, frowning. “Do you hear sirens or anything?”

“Nope.”

I tell Franklin the rest of the story, the short version, as we drive, fast as we can, up the ramps. My tale ends with me assuring Doug his car is fine, giving him a fake e-mail address and letting him walk me to the elevator as if we had been on some blind date in bizarro-world. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened instantly for the first time in my life. I pushed the button for G with a vengeance, never so relieved to be headed for an exit.

“So, who knows what he did after that,” I finish. “If my battery move was successful, he’s probably pretty darn angry about now.”

Finally I hear sirens.

“I guess we caught the same 911 call you did? Guy in a black parka, stolen Mustang?” I’m talking to Lieutenant Henry Zavala. The camera viewfinder is still up to my eye, no need to hide it, and I’m rolling on every bit of the cops’ shakedown of an irate and fuming Doug Skith. Zavala, head of the Auto Theft Unit, is overseeing the operation.

“We were still in the neighborhood, so we got here pretty fast. So what’s the skinny? This a stolen car? Or what? That guy under arrest? Seems like you all are having a big day at the parking lot.”

“Could be,” Zavala says, answering most of my questions at once. He shrugs his narrow shoulders, then adjusts his chunky black utility belt. Radio. Nightstick. Big gun sticking out of a snapped holster. “Guy told us this is not his car. We’re holding him, under suspicion, while we run the plate.”

I forgot to look at the Mustang’s license plate. I wonder whose it really is.

“Thanks,” I say, moving so I can get a better shot of the rear of the car. “Let me know.”

Two black-and-white Boston police cruisers are blocking the Mustang into space 93. Sirens off, blue lights making glaring swirls on the shiny parked cars and flashes of shadow on the concrete walls. The arrival of the police has made it one-lane-only up and down the parking-lot ramp. A cadet cop in an orange cap officiously waves rubbernecking drivers past the scene.

Doug, legs spread, arms splayed and palms against the hood, is leaning up against a third police cruiser. Luckily, his face is planted in the roof of the car, so he hasn’t seen me in my new role. So far. A blue-uniformed officer pats him down, checking his parka, his blue jeans, his work boots.

“No car keys,” the officer calls out.

Another cop sits in the cruiser’s front seat, typing on the keyboard of a computer affixed to the dashboard.

“Let me get a shot of you talking to the police,” Franklin, standing behind me, whispers. “This’ll be great in our story.”

I hand Franklin the camera, still rolling.

“We may have a problem,” I say.

“What problem?” Franklin’s pointing the lens at Doug, who’s still spread-eagle against the car.

The computer-clicking officer hauls himself out of the front seat, shaking his head. “Plates are clear. No reports
of this car as stolen.” He moves his hat with one hand, scratches underneath with the other, then looks at Zavala.

“That problem,” I mutter. “They’ve certainly got this covered, they use plates from another matching car or something. This car’s not gonna show up as stolen. That’s part of the scam. It’s why it works. It’s a clone.”

“Ya run the VIN?” Zavala asks.

“Doing it.” The officer ducks back into the car.

“I see what you mean.” Franklin’s voice is low. “The VIN’s not going to come back as stolen, either.”

“I told you it wasn’t my car,” No-Hat yells into the police-car roof, slapping one of his flat palms against the white metal. “You have to let me go. I got rights.”

One officer answers him, hand on his weapon, leaning close to his prisoner and saying something I can’t hear. Apparently it was effective. Skith says no more.

“Right,” I answer Franklin. I press my lips together, trying to think over the rising cacophony of blaring car horns, angry motorists annoyed at having their ride home delayed.

“They’re not going to be able to arrest him,” I say, my heart sinking with the realization that we’re seeing, up close and on video, how diabolical this cloning scheme actually is. Even when police officers actually find a stolen car, they’ll have no idea it’s stolen. “When they run the VIN, they’ll find—wait.”

“What?” Franklin asks. “You figure out something?”

“Lieutenant Zavala,” I say, raising my voice over the honking and giving Franklin a surreptitious thumbs-up. “Can we get a close-up shot? We need to see the VIN number.”

“VIN’s clear,” the computer cop calls from his front seat. “Not on the stolen-car list.”

“Let me go, you jerks.” Skith is now performing in full wronged-innocent-citizen mode. “Police brutality. This is
not my car. I’m not stealing it. I didn’t steal it. I was walking here. I was only looking at it. It’s a free country. Whatever. Let me go!”

I take Franklin’s arm, not waiting for Zavala’s reply, and head both of us toward the VIN. Franklin moves closer to the car’s windshield, camera pointing in the right direction. We’ve got to get shots of those numbers for our story. Plus, if the police let Skith go, our proof goes with him. He’ll send some crony back to retrieve the not-stolen car. Game over.

“Loot?” the cop next to Skith calls out, waving him over. “We holding this guy as a suspect?”

“Lieutenant Zavala?” I call out, waving him toward me. “Please? First? Listen, quick question for you.”