Miller named the monthly payment, which did indeed seem reasonable to Corrie, especially for a loaded, eighty-thousand-dollar Escalade. She began to wonder how they made money selling cars at all.
In twenty minutes, the good doctor and his wife were driving off the lot with their new car, and as soon as they were gone Miller began wheezing with laughter. He retreated to the staff lounge, refilled his coffee cup, eased his stout frame down. “Just sold Dr. Putz an Escalade,” he announced to the assembled group. “Two hundred dollars over invoice. Putz was determined to make a crackerjack deal. So I made him a crackerjack deal.”
“I’ll bet,” said one of the others. “Credit problem, right?”
“Right. I told him his credit wasn’t quite up to snuff… and he financed at seven and a half percent over seventy-two months!”
Laughter, shaking heads all around.
“I don’t get it,” Corrie said.
Miller, still chuckling, said: “The profit built into that financing deal is, what, eight thousand dollars? That’s how we make our money—financing. That’s the first lesson in selling cars.”
“Eight thousand profit?” she asked.
“Pure, unadulterated profit.”
“How does that work?”
Miller lit up, inhaled a massive lungful, kept talking while the smoke dribbled back out. “Before he came in here, old Dr. Putz obviously spent a lot of time checking Edmunds, but he failed to check the most important thing: his own credit rating. Jacking up his rate by three-quarters of a percentage point over seventy-two months on seventy thousand is over three grand alone. And that’s on top of a jacked-up rate to begin with. Shit, if he’d gone to his bank before he came in here, he could’ve borrowed that money at five and a half percent, maybe less.”
“So that wasn’t true—that his credit rating wasn’t good?”
Miller swiveled his head around. “You got a problem with that?”
“No, no,” she said hastily. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Charlie rolling his eyes, a look of annoyance on his face. “I think it’s just fine,” she repeated.
“Good. ’Cause your predecessor, old Jack, he just didn’t get it. Even when he sold a car, which was hardly ever, he’d give them the true best rate. Then, when we called him on it, the son of a bitch threatened to go to the attorney general. Report the dealership.”
“That sounds serious. What would’ve happened?”
“It’s not exactly an uncommon practice. Anyway, it didn’t come to that, because the dickhead went off and robbed a bank. Solved our problem for us!” He turned and stared at Charlie. “Right, Charlie?”
“You know I don’t like that way of doing business,” said Charlie quietly. “Sooner or later, it’s going to come back and bite you.”
“Don’t pull a Jack on us,” said Miller, his voice suddenly not so friendly.
Charlie said nothing.
Another couple came into the dealership.
“They’re mine,” said another salesman, smacking his hands together and rubbing them. “Seven and a half percent, here we come!”
Corrie looked around. It was now as clear as day. One of them had framed her father to stop him from going to the AG.
But which one? Or… was it allof them?
40
THE ALARM BELLS HAD BEEN GOING OFF EVER SINCE D’Agosta got the message that Glen Singleton wanted to see him. And now, as he entered the captain’s outer office, the alarms rang even louder. Midge Rawley, Singleton’s secretary—normally so gossipy—barely looked up from her computer terminal as he approached. “Go right in, Lieutenant,” she said without making eye contact.
D’Agosta walked past her into Singleton’s private office. Immediately, his fears were confirmed. Sure enough—there was Singleton, behind his desk, nattily dressed as usual. But it was the expression on the captain’s face that made D’Agosta’s heart sink. Singleton was perhaps the most straightforward, honest man D’Agosta had ever met. He hadn’t the least hint of guile or duplicity—what you saw was what you got. And what D’Agosta saw was a man struggling with a very thorny problem.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?” D’Agosta asked.
“Yes.” Singleton glanced down at a document that lay on his desk. He scanned it, turned a page. “We’re in the midst of a situation, Lieutenant—or at least, you’rein the midst of it.”
D’Agosta raised his eyebrows.
“As squad commander for the Hotel Killer murders, you appear to be caught in a turf war. Between two FBI agents.” He glanced down again at the papers on his desk. “I’ve gotten my hands on a formal complaint Agent Gibbs has just made against Agent Pendergast. In it, he cites lack of cooperation, freelancing, failure to coordinate—among other grievances.” He paused. “Your name comes up in the complaint. Comes up more than once, in fact.”
D’Agosta did not reply.
“I called you in here, privately, for two reasons. First—to advise you to stay out of the crossfire. This is an FBI matter, and, believe me, we don’t want to get involved.”
D’Agosta felt himself stiffening, as if at a cadet review.
Singleton glanced back down at the document, turned yet another page. “The second reason I called you in was to learn anything special about this case that you might know. I need you to share with me the relevant information— allthe relevant information. You see, Lieutenant, if the shit hits the fan and this thing escalates into World War Three, I don’t want to be the one who gets blindsided.”
“It’s all in the report, sir,” D’Agosta said carefully.
“Is it? This is no time to take sides, Lieutenant.”
A silence settled over the office. At last, Singleton sighed. “Vincent, we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. But I’ve always believed you were a good cop.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“But this is not the first time your association with Pendergast has become a problem. And jeopardized my good opinion.”
“Sir?”
“Let me be frank. Based on his report, Agent Gibbs seems to believe Pendergast is withholding information. That he isn’t sharing everything he knows.” Singleton paused. “The fact is, Gibbs is deeply suspicious about Pendergast’s actions regarding this latest murder. And I don’t blame him. From what I’ve seen in this document, there’s not even a hint of standard law enforcement protocols being followed here. And there seems to be a lot of unexplained, ah, activitygoing on.”
D’Agosta couldn’t meet Singleton’s disappointed gaze. He looked down at his shoes.
“I know that you and Pendergast have a history. That you’re friends. But this is one of the biggest serial murder cases in years. You are the squad commander. This is yours to lose. So think a minute before you answer. Is there anythingelse I should know?”
D’Agosta remained silent.
“Look, Lieutenant. You went down in flames once before, almost destroyed your career, thanks to Pendergast. I don’t want to see that happen again. It’s obvious Gibbs is bound and determined to crucify Pendergast. He doesn’t care who gets caught up in the collateral damage.”
Still D’Agosta said nothing. He found himself recalling all the times he’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pendergast: against that terrible creature in the natural history museum; against the Wrinklers, deep beneath the streets of Manhattan; against Count Fosco and that bastard Bullard in Italy; and, more recently, against Judson Esterhazy and the mysterious Bund. And yet, at the same time, he could not deny his own doubts over Pendergast’s recent behavior and motives, even his concern for the man’s sanity. And he couldn’t help but recall Laura Hayward’s words: It’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. This isn’t about friendship. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. Youhave to do the right thing.