Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  “You don’t say,” said Pendergast.

  “I do say. In fact, I believe this is significant. He killed first in the Marlborough Grand, the Vanderbilt, the Royal Cheshire. Five-star hotels all. It suggests to me the perp comes from a wealthy, privileged background. He starts off where he’s comfortable, then, as his confidence grows, he gets more daring, goes slumming, so to speak.”

  “He chose this hotel,” Pendergast spoke mildly, “for one reason only: because it is the only one in Manhattan with a twenty-one in its address. It has nothing to do with his background or his ‘slumming’ habits.”

  Gibbs sighed. “Special Agent Pendergast, how about if you stick to your own area of expertise and leave the profiling to the experts?”

  “And which experts might that be?”

  Gibbs stared at him.

  Pendergast glanced at the open door of Room 516; at the shadows of those working within, still silhouetted upon the opposite wall of the corridor by the bright crime-scene lights. “Do you know Plato’s Allegory of the Cave?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You might find it enlightening in the present situation. Agent Gibbs, I’ve thoroughly examined your forensic profile of the so-called Hotel Killer. As you say, it is based on probabilities and aggregates—the assumption that this killer is like others of his type. But the truth is, this killer is completely outside your bell curve. He does not fit any of your assumptions or conform to any of your precious data. What you are doing is not only a colossal waste of time but an actual hindrance. Your puerile analysis is badly sidetracking this investigation—which may well be the killer’s intention.”

  D’Agosta stiffened.

  Gibbs stared at Pendergast, and then spoke in measured tones. “From the beginning, I’ve wondered what the hell you were doing on this case. What your game was. We at the BSU have looked into your record, and we’re not impressed. I’ve seen all kinds of unusual stuff in there—mysterious leaves of absence, inquiries, reprimands. It’s amazing to me you haven’t been cashiered. You speak of a hindrance. The only hindrance I see here is your interfering presence. Be warned, Agent Pendergast—I won’t stand for any more of your games.”

  Pendergast inclined his head in silent acquiescence. There was a silence—and then he spoke again. “Agent Gibbs?”

  “Yes, what now?”

  “I note blood on your left shoe. Just a spot.”

  Gibbs looked down at his feet. “What? Where?”

  Pendergast stooped, rubbed a finger along the edge of the sole, brought it up red. “Unfortunately, the shoe will have to be taken up as evidence. I’m afraid a report will need to be made of your error at the scene of the crime. Alas, it’s obligatory, as the lieutenant will confirm.” Pendergast waved his hand, calling over a CSI assistant with evidence bags. “Special Agent Gibbs will give you his shoe now—pity, as I note it’s a handmade Testoni, no doubt a painful loss for Mr. Gibbs, considering his modest salary.”

  A moment later, D’Agosta watched as Gibbs stomped down the hall in one shoe and one stockinged foot. Funny—he himself hadn’t noticed any blood on the agent’s shoe.

  “One has to be so careful at a crime scene these days,” Pendergast murmured at his side.

  D’Agosta said nothing. Something was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be nice.

  39

  IT WAS A COLD, GRAY, DRIZZLY MONDAY MORNING, THE cars lined up on the lot like blocks of wood, dull in the dull light, streaming rivulets of water down their flanks. It was just past eleven but already it was shaping up to be a terrible day for selling, which was just perfect as far as Corrie was concerned. She’d retreated with the other salespeople into the lounge, where they were all drinking bad coffee and shooting the breeze, waiting for customers to show up. There were four other salespeople in the lounge—all men. Joe Ricco and his son Joe Junior weren’t around, and the salesmen were in a relaxed mood.

  Corrie had gotten to know them over the past two days, and they were all first-rate, top-drawer assholes. All except Charlie Foote—the man her father had mentioned. He was younger than the rest, a little shy, and for the most part he didn’t join in the asinine frat-house banter. He’d graduated college, unlike most of the others, and he was the best salesman of the group; something about his gentle voice and understated, self-deprecating manner seemed to work like a charm.

  One of the older salesmen had the floor and was finishing up a tits-and-ass joke, which Corrie laughed hard at. She took a sip of her coffee, added another container of fake cream to try to drown out the burnt taste, and said, “Weird, isn’t it, that I replaced a salesman with the same last name.”

  She directed her statement to the salesman who had made the joke. His name was Miller. He was a real comedian, and Corrie had been forcing herself to laugh at all his lame jokes. She had even passed on a hot customer to him, pretending to need guidance, and then let him keep the sale. In return, Miller had sort of taken her under his wing, no doubt hoping to get lucky. He was already starting to make comments about a bar he went to after work that served killer margaritas. She wouldn’t disabuse him of the pathetic notion she might sleep with him—at least, not until she had a chance to cash in her chips.

  “Yeah,” said Miller, lighting up even though he was only supposed to do that outside. But Joe Ricco smoked and so no one objected. Miller was a beefy, crew-cut redhead with triple rolls around his neck, a beer belly, wide lips, and a pug nose. The look was somewhat mitigated by his expensive suit. They all dressed well. Gone were the days, she thought, of the fast-talking salesman in plaid polyester.

  “What was he like?” Corrie asked. “Jack Swanson, I mean.”

  Miller exhaled. “Asshole.”

  “Oh, yeah? So that’s why he was fired?”

  Miller guffawed. “Nah. The guy robbed a bank.”

  “What?” Corrie feigned shock.

  “Miller, take it easy, we’re not supposed to talk about that at work,” said another salesman, a guy by the name of Rivera.

  “Fuck it,” said Miller. “There’s no customers around. She’d hear about it eventually.”

  “Robbed a bank!” Corrie interjected, eager to keep the thread of conversation going. “How?”

  Miller seemed to find this funny, too. “The guy’s an idiot. He can’t sell cars worth shit, makes no commissions, so one day he borrows an STS off the lot, drives to the local Delaware Trust, goes in, and robs the damn place.”

  More laughter.

  “How do they know it was him?” Corrie asked.

  “First, the car came from our lot, like I said, our dealer plates. Second, he’s wearing his usual crappy suit—which we all identified. And Ricco himself saw the guy driving it off.”

  Nods all around.

  “Third, they find a hair of his on the headrest.”

  “Open and shut,” said Corrie. She felt glum. This was going to be a bitch and a half—assuming her father really was innocent in the first place.

  “Not only that, but they found his fingerprints on the piece of paper the guy handed to the cashier.”

  This was beginning to sound just a little too convenient. “And now he’s in jail?”

  “Naw. The guy disappeared. They’re still looking for him.”

  Corrie let a beat pass. “So how was he an asshole?”

  Miller took another drag, exhaled into his nose while looking at her. “You’re interested, aren’t ya?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we do have the same name.”

  A nod. “Like I said, he couldn’t sell worth shit. And… he wouldn’t get with the program.”

  “Program?”

  “We do business a certain way around here.”

  “Should I know about this program?”

  Miller stubbed out the cigarette and rose, looking toward the showroom floor, where a couple of people had walked in and were folding their umbrellas. The man was holding a manila file folder. “You’re going to find out right now. On a crappy day like today, everyone who
walks in is a buyer. Follow me.” He winked at her, his eyes roaming over her tits.

  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 grinned. “Sure.”

  “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 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 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.

  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’re in 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—all the 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.”