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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 imp
ossible 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.
For the moment, they were at a dead end.
Mike said, “This is getting frustrating. We keep having these great breaks that don’t pan out.”
“The bright side,” Nicholas said, “Mrs. Antonio might wrap this up for us, give us the faces of everyone in COE.”
She nodded, dialed Ted “Bud” Anders, in her opinion their best sketch artist. Between him and his laptop, if there was a chance to come through with a good likeness of the four individuals, he’d find it. They’d asked him to do the Middle Eastern man first.
Nicholas heard Bud’s enthusiasm. “Mrs. Antonio has great visual memory, so it won’t take too long, Mike. I’ll send the Middle Eastern guy’s sketch to your cell as soon as I have something.”
When she punched off, Mike said, “No way to nail Bud on how long it’ll take, so I guess we now have to focus on the Honda with Mr. Wounded Knee and his buddy, whoever that was. You know they were probably two of the four people staying in that apartment.”
“And Mr. Wounded Knee was looking for something. But what?”
She threw up her hands. “Nicholas, we need more agents and another twenty hours in the day. And I’m hungry. Let’s head back to the office, pick up some pastrami on rye on the way.”
“I heard your stomach talking, but I was too polite to say anything. Pastrami on rye? I could go for that, maybe a double.”
They jaywalked, got into the Crown Vic. Nicholas had just turned over the engine and started to pull from the curb when Mike suddenly grabbed his arm.
“Nicholas. I don’t believe it. Look, a black Suburban, coming up the street.”
He braked, the car half out into traffic. “Are they going into the garage? Bloody hell, they are. It’s about time a little luck flowed our way. Can you see who’s driving?”
“No, but I can get the plate. It’s New York.” She read off the rest of the numbers.
