Jayne and Steelie - 01 - Freezing by Clea Koff

before you start working on the cars. Come on. How else do you think we found you? LAPD gave us your number ’cause you’ve handled stolen cars.’
    â€˜But this one wasn’t stolen.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    Corso looked crestfallen; he’d walked straight into the trap Eric had laid. He sighed. ‘OK, fine, look. Look. I’ve got a contact at the DMV. He checks plates for me because of all the problems I had with the cops. I’ve been trying to go straight, OK? I only just got the place out of Chapter Eleven.’ He appealed to Eric.
    â€˜I don’t want to hear your bankruptcy sob story, Corso. Tell us about the plate on the van or we’ll be telling LAPD that you’re hacking into Department of Motor Vehicles files.’
    â€˜OK, OK! The plate was like I said, California. It was clean.’ He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper. He ran a finger down the page, then read out a license plate number.
    Eric nodded at Scott, who was writing it down. ‘So if it was clean, why the hush money?’
    Corso shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The guy just pulled out the cash – three hundred dollars – and I knew exactly what it was for. I didn’t want to take it but he said, “Remember, I know where you live.”’ Corso looked indignant. ‘I took the money, OK? I’ve got kids to feed, a mortgage.’
    â€˜Get out, Corso.’ Eric’s words were punctuated by the sound of the door locks lifting.
    â€˜Wait! What about the LAPD? What’s going to happen?’
    â€˜Just get out.’
    Corso looked at Scott for a reprieve but he was focused on his cell phone. The body shop owner got out of the car, shoulders still slumped, clutching the unzipped briefcase to his chest.
    Scott spoke as he dialed. ‘I’m calling the plate in.’
    Eric moved up to the passenger seat and read the notes Scott was making on a pad.
    As soon as Scott ended his call, Eric asked, ‘The van’s registered to a woman?’
    â€˜Well, the plate that Corso gave us is registered to this woman. But he didn’t check that the van actually went with the plate. Lance just ran the woman’s name through NCIC. No convictions, no arrests. Allegedly living at an address in Woodland Hills since nineteen ninety.’
    â€˜You thinking the perp comes out here from Georgia and borrows her plate to cover his tracks after he gets hit on the freeway?’
    Scott looked grim as he turned the ignition key. ‘All I know is, this is the only van we’ve found that matches the drunk’s vague description and needed repair to its back doors since Monday.’
    The FBI office on Wilshire was in a multi-story building constructed in the 1970s when concrete blocks and tinted, deeply inset windows were in vogue. Only the barricades at the front curb hinted that a warren of government offices lay behind the unremarkable exterior. Inside, Elevator Number 2 was moving silently upwards, carrying Steelie, Jayne, and Special Agent Weiss.
    Weiss had cleared the anthropologists through Security after they arrived from the visitor parking lot but as the elevator reached and passed the fourth floor, where Scott and Eric’s office was located, Jayne and Steelie exchanged a look.
    Steelie cleared her throat, watching the floor numbers go higher. ‘Uh, where are we going, Weiss?’
    â€˜I’m afraid that’s classified, ma’am.’ He smiled at her as the elevator doors opened. It was the tenth floor.
    He ushered them into a foyer with four doors marked ‘Restricted Access’. A wall-mounted keypad flanked each one. Weiss punched a code on the one directly ahead. A buzzer sounded and he opened the door for them. ‘Welcome to Critter Central.’
    Jayne went first into the large, windowless room whose rows of fluorescent tube lights gave it the feel of a clinical space. The foreground was a workspace;