Two Graves

She silently closed all the file drawers, hoping they weren’t too obviously mangled, slipped the pry bar into her shoulder bag, and retreated toward the back of the suite. Where?

The bathroom.

Easing open the door, she slipped in, bolted it behind her, and went into the stall, shutting and locking that as well. She climbed onto the toilet.

All was silent. Whoever was in the showroom wasn’t likely to come into Ricco’s office. And even if they did, they wouldn’t come into the bathroom. Or would they? Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have shut and locked the damn bathroom door. That would look suspicious, especially if they tried it and found it locked. She should have left the door partway open.

She started to sweat, the stupidity of her B&E sinking in. She had committed a serious crime—yet again. What was wrong with her? Was she a criminal at heart? Why did she take these crazy risks?

The click of footsteps came closer, and she heard the outer office door open. They were coming in. The footsteps now fell more softly on the plush carpeting of the outer office. She strained to hear.

A loud screech caused her to jump—the person had opened one of the jimmied filing cabinets. He slammed it rather loudly. Now the footsteps, brisker, moved through the suite of offices.

Suddenly there was a loud rattle of the bathroom door. A brief silence, then another, even more forceful attempt to open the door, with the muffled sound of a body pushing itself against it.

Who was it? Ricco? This was it. She was toast.

And now came a crash as the person hurled himself against the door, another crash, the splintering sound of wood—and light flooded into the bathroom.

A momentary silence. Corrie couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was rattling in her chest like a rock being shaken in a tin can.

A quick footstep and the stall door was flung open so hard the flimsy latch went flying.

“You!”

Charlie Foote stood there, his pale face sweating. He was almost as frightened as she was.

“Let me explain—” Corrie began all in a panic.

Foote let out a long breath, held up his hand. “Please… get down off that toilet. You look ridiculous.”

Corrie got down. He turned without a word and she followed him out of the bathroom. She could see the future parading before her eyes: the police arriving, her arrest, the discovery that she was her father’s daughter, which in turn would lead to her father’s arrest. Both of them convicted, sentenced to prison—maybe for years. It was the end of her career and her association with Pendergast… the end of her life, in fact, which she had only recently dragged up and out of the shit.

The train of thought was so awful that she staggered.

Foote caught her arm. “Easy.” His voice was quiet. “Let’s go into the lounge, where they can’t see us from the street.”

Corrie collapsed into the first chair she came to. Foote took a chair opposite her, elbows on his knees, staring at her.

“Please—” she began, ready to do anything, anything, to get out of this. But he shook his head and pressed her hand for quiet.

“Look, Corrie,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.”

She stared.

“You’re Jack Swanson’s daughter, right?”

She said nothing. This was worse than she thought.

Foote went on. “It’s okay. Just calm down. I’m not going to rat on you. I already had my suspicions—the way you were always looking around, asking a lot of questions. And now, going through Ricco’s office—you’re trying to help your father, aren’t you?”

Corrie said nothing.

“You may not look much like him, but I can hear his voice in yours. Corrie, I always liked your father. He and I were friends. I didn’t—and don’t—like what’s going on around here, just as he didn’t. Maybe he got a bum rap.” He paused. “Is that what you think? Is that what this is about?”

Corrie looked at him. It was true, he’d always been polite to her, rather quiet, rarely joining in with the other salesmen’s crude jokes. And she knew he was no fan of the credit-cozen scheme. Still, Corrie didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to confirm or deny anything.

Foote nodded to himself. “Yeah. That is what you think—that he was framed. And you’re here, breaking into the place, to prove it.”

She was astonished at his perspicacity.

He reached over and gently grasped her bag, opening its flap. “And there it is: Jack’s perso

“You’re not going to turn me in?”

He laughed, shook his head. “No way. But we’d better get out of here before Ricco Senior arrives. The old skunk sometimes comes in as early as five to do paperwork.”

He held out his arm. Corrie almost felt like crying with relief. She staggered to her feet and caught it.

“I know an all-night diner where we can grab coffee and breakfast—and you can tell me all about your father and why you think he was framed.” And he gestured toward the rear door of the dealership.

49

THE CABLE STREET DINER WAS LIKE A TIME WARP, CORRIE thought. No retro Hollywood chain could touch it. It was perfect down to the broken jukeboxes at each table, the bubbled linoleum floors and Formica tabletops with their decorative peach and turquoise triangles, the fly-specked menus, and the bleached-blond waitresses belting out the early-morning orders to the fry cooks in the back.

At least the coffee was strong.

Corrie went to the ladies’ room, reached into her pocket, and threw away the wadded ball of latex gloves she’d worn when she broke into the dealership. She wondered what old Ricco would say when he found his files had been rifled. At least she could take the day off so she wouldn’t have to listen to him rant. Exiting the ladies’ room, she returned to the booth, drank coffee, and listened to Foote. He was angry, and the more he talked, the angrier he got.

“It frosts me,” he was saying, “that those guys can’t make an honest dollar. I’m the number two salesman there. And you know why? Because people sense that I’m not a cheater. I don’t need to run nickel-and-dime scams to make money.”

“I’m convinced they framed my father.”

“The more I think about it, the more I think you may be right. Jack was a good guy. Not much of a salesman, but he had integrity. Hard to picture him robbing a bank.”

A silence.

“So how do you make money if a guy wants a car two hundred bucks over invoice?” Corrie asked.

Foote sipped his coffee. “There are all kinds of honest profits in selling a car. Let’s say you sell one for seventy grand. First off, you’re going to get a three percent dealer holdback. That’s not deducted from the invoice price, and it’s twenty-one hundred bucks right there. Then you might get a spiff—that’s a dealer incentive—worth another one to two grand. And on top of that there’s a reasonable profit in honest financing. There’s no need to jack up the rate.”

He bit down on his toast with a crunch, his jaw muscles bulging.

“Anyway,” he continued after another gulp of coffee, “the credit cozen isn’t the only scam they pull. Sometimes they’ll actually sell one vehicle and then, if the customer is old or inexperienced, and if he leaves for a while and comes back to pick up the car, they’ll rework the paperwork and switch the car he bought with a cheaper one that looks the same. Twice I’ve seen salesmen fix up cars wrecked in a test drive and sell them as new. And the Riccos encourage it. Not directly—they’re not that stupid—but with a wink and a nod, if you know what I mean.”

Foote flagged down the waitress, ordered a second round of fried eggs. The man had an amazing appetite. He looked at her appraisingly across the table. “You absolutely sure your father didn’t rob that bank?”