“He had a huge lunch he’s sleeping off. Please, sit down, both of you.”
Mike and Nicholas sat on the sofa, on each side of the cat. Mike leaned forward. “Ms. Finder, we really don’t have much time. We—” Pooh opened her eyes, eyed Mike, and stretched out a paw to touch her on the knee. Mike automatically rubbed his ears. In the next moment the cat was curled on Mike’s lap. If the situation weren’t so dire, Nicholas knew he’d be hard-pressed not to laugh, particularly since Ms. Finder was staring at Mike in amazement.
“Pooh hates strangers.”
“I suppose even a cat has to respect the FBI,” Nicholas said. “Now, Ms. Finder, do you know anyone in the building who might have a Suburban? It seems the records were listed improperly.”
“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.