Two Graves

As they approached, Miller greeted the couple in a low-key way, speaking softly. He introduced Corrie as a salesperson in training and asked their permission for her to be involved. It was a nice technique and they said yes. “She might get her first commission out of this,” said Miller. “Could be a red-letter day for her. Right, Corrie?”

“Right!” said Corrie brightly.

Corrie looked the two over. The man was almost certainly a doctor, with very little time, used to making quick decisions. His wife, thin and nervous, dressed in track clothes, wanted a black Escalade. With no preliminaries, the husband launched into a carefully prepared spiel. He had spent hours on the Internet. He had actually identified the car on the lot that he wanted. It had a long list of optional equipment, which he had printed out; he knew the invoice price and was willing to pay two hundred dollars above it. If they weren’t able to make a deal now, on the terms he named, he was ready to move on to another dealer, the one in the next town, who had an almost identical vehicle on his lot. And another thing: he didn’t want any of that fabric protection or rust-proofing or other rip-offs like that. Just the car.

The doctor halted, puffing slightly. This was probably as stressful for him as an emergency room code, Corrie thought. She wondered just how Miller was going to handle it.

To her surprise, Miller didn’t seem put out. He didn’t launch into negotiations or try to counter the man. On the contrary, he complimented the doctor on his research, expressed the opinion that he himself appreciated the opportunity of concluding a quick and efficient transaction, even if there was little profit in it. A sale was a sale. Of course, he wasn’t sure it would be possible to sell the car at that rock-bottom price, but he would check with the owner of the dealership. Did the doctor intend to pay cash or finance?

The doctor would finance. Ten thousand down, the rest on time.

Miller got the good doctor’s Social Security number and other financing details. He deposited the doctor and his wife in the luxury waiting room with cups of coffee while he went back to his cubicle, Corrie trailing behind. She watched over his shoulder as he checked the doctor’s credit rating on the computer and began writing up the offer.

“Don’t you have to ask Mr. Ricco?” she said.

“I don’t need to ask him shit,” said Miller.

“Are you really going to let them have the car for what he’s asking?”

Miller gri

“So how can you make a profit? I mean, two hundred bucks seems hardly worth it.”

Miller continued to write, then signed at the bottom with a flourish. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said.

“Like how?”

“Watch and learn.”

She followed him back into the waiting room. He flourished the papers. “We’re all set,” he told the couple. “The boss, Mr. Ricco, approved it, although it took quite a lot of pushing. Between you and me, he wasn’t very happy. But as I said, a sale’s a sale and on a lousy day like today we’re lucky to make any sales at all. Only one thing, though: your credit rating didn’t quite qualify for the most competitive financing rate. But I still got you an excellent rate, almost as sweet, the very best possible under the circumstances—”

The doctor frowned. “What do you mean? My credit’s not good?”

Miller gave him an easy smile. “No, not at all! You have quite a good credit rating. It’s just not in the absolute top tier, that’s all. Perhaps you were late with a mortgage payment or two, maybe you carried over that credit card debt from one month to the next without paying the minimum. Small stuff. Believe me, I got you the very best rate possible.”

The doctor’s face flushed and he glanced at his wife, who looked put out. “Have we been late with a mortgage payment?”

Now it was her turn to redden. “Well, I was late by a week some months ago—you remember when we were on vacation?”

The doctor frowned, turned to Miller. “So what’s the rate you got us? I won’t pay anything exorbitant.”

“It’s just three-quarters of a percentage point higher than the best rate. I also was able to stretch it out to seventy-two months, to keep your monthly payments down.”

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 a

“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 a

“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 all of 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.