“Not that I’m aware of, but it’s a big building, a huge garage. Like I said, I don’t own one. I’m a writer—a blogger, I mean—and most of what I do is either food- or wine-related.”

“Excuse me,” Nicholas said, and stepped away to call Gray.

Mike scratched Pooh’s ears and asked, “What’s the blog?”

Ms. New York Hip sat forward, so excited she couldn’t sit still. “TheWineVixen.com. I search towns for the best wine buys, then pair the bottle with a recipe. I’ve been running it since 2009, since I turned twenty-one. I have lots of celebrity guest chefs and stuff.”

Nicholas held up his hand. “Ms. Finder, not only is the Suburban registered to this address, it’s also registered in your name. I believe you need to rethink ownership and tell us the truth.” His voice had lowered, and sure enough, Ms. Finder looked alarmed.

“No, no, it’s not mine. Really, it’s got to be a mistake. I mean, who would do that?”

“Let’s back up,” Mike said. “Perhaps you have a friend, someone who needed a landing spot for their vehicle? You have a garage space, don’t you?”

“Yes, all the tenants do, it comes with the apartment.”

“Maybe someone is using your spot and you don’t want to report it to the building managers?”

“That’s not a bad idea, Agent Drummond. I could rake in the bucks letting other tenants park their second cars there.” She grinned at them.

Mike didn’t grin back. Like Nicholas, it was time for her to intimidate. “Ms. Finder, the Suburban we’re looking for was identified at a crime scene in Brooklyn last night. Please tell us where you were yesterday from five o’clock on.”

Ms. New York Hip drew back, more than simply alarmed now. Mike could see the fear.

“I don’t understand. You think I had something to do with a crime that happened in Brooklyn? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’re asking me to give you an alibi? Look, I haven’t been in Brooklyn in two weeks, not since I had drinks at Cow and Clover and reviewed them for the blog. The entry went up yesterday. I was here, working on it.” She jumped up and ran to the chair by the window, grabbed her open MacBook Air. Both cats stared at her but didn’t move.

“See? I posted the piece at six-thirty last night, perfect timing for people getting ready to go out for the evening and looking for the coolest places to eat. Then I ate dinner, drafted five more blogs, and went to bed. I watched two episodes of The Walking Dead before I fell asleep. Had bad dreams, too. My Netflix queue would be able to verify the times, wouldn’t it?”

She started tapping on the computer, pulling up the website.

“I would assume it’s geocoded to both my account and my television. You can contact them, see where the account was being accessed and when.”

Nicholas took the computer from her. Nothing like the young computer geeks to speak the right lingo. He looked at the screen. The Walking Dead was indeed listed under “recently watched.” She was telling the truth.

Mike picked up one of the pictures sitting on the table by the sofa, held it up. “Ms. Finder, is this your boyfriend?”

“Yes, yes, that’s Craig. He’s in Paris right now. He’s training at Le Cordon Bleu. When he graduates, we’re going to open a restaurant. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t have a Suburban. Really, I don’t know what this could be about. It’s got to be a mistake.”

In the 5x7, Melody Finder and Craig were wearing hiking shorts and boots, standing in front of a mess of trees Mike didn’t recognize, wide grins on their faces.

“We ziplined in Costa Rica. We did it maybe half a dozen times.”

Mike lifted the cat off her lap, rose, and set him back down. He gave her the stink eye, then fell back asleep. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Finder. We’ll be in touch.”

“But why? I mean, you see now it’s all a mistake, right?” Melody was practically running after them to the front door, her Doc Martens hitting the floor hard.

Nicholas said, “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

“Well, okay, I guess. Hey, stop by my blog sometimes. You look like you’d enjoy a good Chianti. I have a lot of recommendations there.” And she gave them both a big smile, showing lots of white teeth.

When the door closed behind them, Mike said, “Property management company, now. Since it appears Ms. Finder doesn’t know anything, that means someone probably registered the car in her name. Let’s see if they’re using the garage, too.”

42

KNIGHT TO E2 CHECK

The on-property agent for the property management company was short, heavy, and annoyed, but willing to let them scout the garage for anything helpful. He rose from his comfortable leather desk chair to show them the way down.

“I don’t know if any of the tenants have a black Suburban. Then again, I don’t spend a lot of time in the garage. If someone buys a new car, they’re supposed to tell us what it is, but half the time they don’t. Melody’s space would be coded to her apartment, 1507, but she doesn’t use the garage, so I rented it to 1202 instead. He has a Prius and a Jaguar. Can you imagine, having two cars in this city? But he’s some Wall Street jockey who likes to go to the Hamptons on the weekends.”

This monologue took them to the elevator and down into the garage, where he handed off two Maglites.

“Have a time,” he said. “I’ll be back upstairs, checking with the management company to see if they have anyone with a Suburban.” He left them, the elevator doors closing with a whisper in the dark.

The lights were on motion detectors to save energy. A step forward and the whole quadrant lit up but left large swatches of dark. There were more than a hundred spaces on three underground levels to explore.

The slot for 1507 was on the top floor. It was empty.

Nicholas said, “Too much to hope for. Let’s split up. You take this floor, I’ll go down to the bottom. We’ll meet in the middle.” He checked his mobile—three bars. “I have service, so call me if you find something.”

Mike nodded. “Last time I was in a Manhattan garage with you—my very own apartment’s garage, I might add—we ended up in a shootout.” She touched the bullet hole in his jacket. “Let’s not do that today.” She stepped into the darkness, the flashlight beam skittering in front of her.

Nicholas took the elevator down two levels, stepped out, and started the search, looking systematically left to right. He was glad of the flashlight. The motion-detectors were slow because the lights were CFL to save energy; they needed to warm up to give maximum light, and that took a while. If it was busy, there’d be plenty of light, but in the midday with only two of then, all the shadows, the sounds of their footsteps, the dankness of the air, it was downright creepy.

It didn’t make sense, someone squatting his car registration on Melody Finder. Whoever did it must have known she didn’t have a car, so didn’t use her space, probably rented another tenant’s. Or she was right and it was all a mistake.

Ten minutes later, they’d searched the whole garage. Nothing. Nicholas saw the cameras as he walked back toward the elevator. They were tucked away, all but impossible to see. He pointed them out.

Mike shook her head. “That putz property manager could have mentioned they have video feed. Let’s go grab it for the past forty-eight hours, see if there’s anything worth seeing.”

The property manager was on the phone with the management company when they got back to his apartment. Nicholas asked to speak to them. With a few brief sentences, they happily agreed to let the FBI look at their feed, housed off-site. They promised to send the tapes to 26 Federal Plaza immediately.