I took a couple of deep breaths. “Let’s get back to the job thing,” I said to Evan. “Why wasn’t she happy?”
“Like I said, she didn’t really go into it. She just said the job made her sad. She said the people there, lots of them wouldn’t talk to her. It’s like they were scared all the time. It was creepy.”
“Scared?” said Susanne. “Creepy?”
Evan shrugged again. “I don’t know. That’s what she said. She didn’t like to talk about work that much when we were hanging out. It’s not like we were hanging out all the time. We’ve all got lots of stuff to do.”
“What have you been doing?” Susanne asked. “When you’re in that room of yours all by yourself?”
Bob said, “Suze. Come on.”
“I’d like to know,” I said.
“You’ve already admitted that you’ve had sex with my daughter,” Susanne said. “So you might as well tell us about the other stuff.” She paused. “Why don’t we start with the stealing.”
“Susanne, he told you he didn’t do that,” Bob said.
But Susanne wasn’t looking at him. She still had her eyes fixed on Evan.
“The thing is,” Evan said, now looking at his father, “I asked you if you could help me out a bit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you I needed some money.”
“I gave you some money. For working around here.”
“I mean, more money.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he said. “And I said no.”
“Well, I kind of needed some extra cash,” Evan said.
“So you took it from my purse, from the office, and you took my watch,” Susanne said. She was on fire for someone who’d just collapsed.
“But I got it back from the pawnshop,” he said, like he thought he deserved some credit, “when I had a good stretch.”
“A good stretch?” I said. Evan glanced at me, realizing he’d made a slip. “A good stretch of what?” I took a shot. “Luck?”
“I guess.”
“What?” Susanne said to me, sensing I had figured something out.
“Gambling,” I guessed. “Online gambling.”
“It’s just once in a while,” Evan said. “Just for fun.”
“So you’re stealing money to pay off your credit card bills,” I said.
Evan didn’t respond. His father jumped in. “I gave you a card for emergencies, not for playing poker on the Internet.”
“How much do you owe?”
“Just, like, a thousand or so.”
“Or so?” Bob said.
“About four thousand,” Evan muttered.
“Christ on a cracker,” Bob said.
“Evan,” I said, “did you ever steal any money out of my house?”
He shook his head violently. “Never, swear to God, I never took anything from your place.” He paused. “But… I’ve borrowed some from friends.”
“In addition to the four grand on your Visa?” Bob asked.
Evan nodded sheepishly. “Like, about six hundred.”
All of us, except Evan, were doing a variation of the same thing. Looking down, shaking our heads, thinking, is there no end to the kind of shit that kids can get into?
Susanne turned to me and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
We took a few steps back in the direction of the office. I let her put some weight on my arm.
“This thing, the gambling debts?” she said. “That’s Bob’s problem.”
I wasn’t sure. I wondered whether Evan’s debt problems could have drawn Sydney in somehow, but I let Susanne continue.
“Maybe the reason she’s gone… is she’s pregnant. She’s too afraid to tell us and she’s run off to have the baby.”
I wasn’t buying it, although, in some ways, it would be a relief to learn this was the reason for Sydney’s disappearing act. At least it would mean she was okay. That she was alive. I could welcome home a pregnant daughter if there was a pregnant daughter to welcome home.
And yet.
“Why run off now?” I said. “If she is pregnant, it’s just at the beginning. Is she going to be gone for eight months? If she were going to run off to have a baby, wouldn’t she have waited a little longer?”
Susanne nodded. “I know, I know. Maybe she ran off to have it dealt with. To get an abortion.”
“She’s been gone for weeks, Suze. How long would she need to do that? And don’t you think, even if she was scared, and embarrassed, that eventually she’d screw up her courage and come to us for help? Something like this, wouldn’t she have come to you, if not me?”
Susanne was starting to tear up. “Maybe not if she blamed me. Because I’d moved us in with Bob, and then Evan. Because she’d think it was my fault.”
I thought there was something to that, but kept it to myself.
“It doesn’t explain other things,” I said. “What about that van you said has been watching your house? Syd’s abandoned car? Or me being tricked into flying to Seattle? My house getting torn apart?”
Susanne shook her head in frustration. “The van, that’s probably just my imagination. I’m so tense, I’m seeing things that aren’t there. You know?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“And it could have been kids who broke into your house. Just stupid vandalism.”
I didn’t bother to tell her about the phone I’d found, how that discovery tightened the knot that brought all these things together.
“And maybe the Seattle thing,” Susanne continued, “was just some prankster. You know there are some pretty sick people out there. It could have been someone who saw the website, just wanted to mess with you.”
How comforting it would be to believe what Susanne wanted to believe, that our daughter was out there, pregnant but safe, just waiting for the right time to come back home.
“Suppose I talk to Detective Jennings,” I said, “and tell her they should check with Planned Parenthood offices, abortion clinics, that kind of thing. See if anyone there has seen Sydney.”
Susanne sniffed and nodded. “Okay.”
“It’s worth a shot,” I said.
“Okay,” she said again.
“Excuse me.” It was Bob, with a contrite Evan standing at his side. Susanne and I looked at the two of them without saying anything. “Evan has something he’d like to say to the both of you.”
Susanne and I waited. Evan cleared his throat twice and said, “I’m sorry.”
Bob offered up several small nods, smiled. Susanne and I looked at each other, then back at Evan.
“Well,” I said. “Everything’s just peachy now, isn’t it?”
TWENTY-TWO
I LEFT A MESSAGE FOR KIP JENNINGS on my way to Riverside Honda. I pulled into the dealership a little after three, settled in behind my desk, and fired up the computer. Following my routine of the last few weeks, I checked the website for any tips about Sydney, and, finding none, checked my work voice mail. There were three calls from people wondering how much they could get for their used cars. I made a note of their numbers so that I could call them back.
The hell of it was, I still had to make a living. I had bills to pay, not the least of which was a round-trip to Seattle.
Andy Hertz had his head down at his desk, writing down some numbers on a yellow pad. “Hey,” I said to him. It wasn’t like him to be antisocial.
“Hey,” he said, glancing up. “Welcome back.”
“Anything going on?” I asked.
“Not much.”
“Sell any cars?”
“It’s been kind of slow,” Andy said. “This idea of yours, to call up people selling their used cars, that hasn’t worked worth a shit.” Then, remembering, “You find Sydney?”
“No,” I said.
I got back behind my desk, unable to think about anything but my daughter. But I’d been able to go through the motions before when she was the only thing on my mind, so I got to it. I dug out my book of recent lead
s—people who’d taken test drives, asked for brochures, made low offers, and walked away. I took a breath and started dialing numbers.
I didn’t leave messages when no one picked up. The chances that anyone would return a car salesman’s call were about the same as a Prius winning the Indy 500. You had to talk to people directly.
A rich stockbroker from Stamford told me he was still mulling over whether to get the Honda S2000 he’d been in salivating over a few weeks ago. I put him in the “call back” list. An elderly couple from Derby had changed their minds about getting a car now that the husband had been diagnosed with cataracts.
And then I’d come to Lorna and Dell. The couple who’d looked at just about every car on the market and couldn’t reach a decision. They’d come close to driving me mad with their indecision, but some sales you just had to work harder for than others.
I glanced at the clock, saw that it was after four, and took a chance Lorna might be home from her teaching job.
She picked up. “Hello?”
“Hello, Lorna,” slipping into my car salesman voice, which is not far off from my regular voice, except that it sounds as though I’ve just had some cough syrup. “Tim Blake from Riverside Honda.”
“Oh, how are you today?”
“I’m just great, how about yourself?”
“We’re terrific. We’re loving the car.”
I almost asked her to repeat herself, but calm prevailed. “That’s just great,” I said. “I’ve been off a few days, you know. Just what did you end up getting?”
“We bought a Pilot. We spent all this time looking at sedans, and then we thought, maybe we could use a little more room. Are you feeling better?”
Evidently I had been ill. “Yes, much better,” I said. “I trust you were well looked after in my absence.”
“Oh, yes. We came in looking for you, and that nice boy Andy helped us out.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Be sure to drop by and say hello when you’re in for service.”
I hung up.
How it’s supposed to work is this: If a customer you’ve been working with for some time finally decides to buy, and he shows up on your day off to make the deal, the salesperson who helps him splits the commission with you. That is, if he’s not a scumbucket.
I poked my head around the divider and said to Andy, “Hey, you want to go grab a coffee and get some air?”
Andy looked up nervously. “Now?”
“Sure,” I said. “I could use a coffee before I start making any more calls.”
We walked over to the communal coffeepot, poured ourselves each a cup, then walked around to the back of the dealership where there was shade from some tall oaks on a neighboring property.
“Nice day,” Andy said.
“Oh yeah,” I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee.
“Laura’s sure been on the warpath,” he said. “Leaning on everyone to get their numbers up. But sometimes, you know, things are just slow. What are you gonna do, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “It happens.”
“Yeah,” he said, like we were two buddies, just shootin’ the shit.
“So, you gonna tell me?” I asked.
“Hmm?” said Andy.
“You going to tell me about the Pilot you sold to Lorna and Dell?”
Andy coughed up a nervous laugh. “Oh yeah, I was going to.”
“Were you?” I said. “You seemed to have forgotten about it when I asked you how things had gone the last few days.”
“It just kind of slipped my mind, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll split that commission down the middle with you.”
“Let me tell you something, Andy,” I said. “You’re still relatively new, so I’ll cut you some slack today, but you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll slam a hood down on your fucking hand.”
“Sure, you bet,” Andy said. “Won’t ever happen again. You gonna tell Laura on me?”
I shook my head. “Laura’s sales manager. She doesn’t give a shit who gets the commissions as long as the cars get sold. She’ll just let us sort it out, and that’s what I’m doing now. Understand?”
“You bet.”
I tossed my full coffee into an old oil drum and went back inside. There was a guy hanging around my desk. The girl at reception caught my eye as I walked into the showroom and said, “That gentleman asked for you.”
He was sandy-haired, trim, mid-thirties, smart clothes. I put out my hand as I approached. “Tim Blake,” I said. “You were looking for me?”
He nodded and returned the handshake. “Eric Downes,” he said. “I got your name from a guy I work with who bought a car from you a few years ago.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Dan?” he said. “I don’t even know his last name.” He laughed self-consciously. “You’d think I’d know a coworker’s last name.”
“No problem,” I said. I could recall two or three Dans off the top of my head, but it didn’t really matter which one. “What can I help you with?” I asked.
“I’ve been seriously thinking about a Civic coupe,” Eric Downes said.
“The regular coupe, or the Si?”
“Oh, the Si,” he said.
“Nice vehicle,” I said. “Six-speed, alloys, 197 horsepower. It really goes, and at the same time, you’re going to get respectable gas mileage with it.”
“Everyone’s thinking about that these days,” Eric said. “I’ve been reading up on them online, I’ve looked at other people’s, but this is the first I’ve been into a showroom to look at one. Thing is, I’ve also been looking at a Mini, and a GTI. The Volkswagen. But I wanted to check the Si first. You have any in stock?”
“I don’t have one on the floor here,” I said, “but I have one on the lot, a demo.”
“What I’d really like to do,” he said, “is take one for a test drive, but like, do I have to put down a deposit first to do something like that?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “I can arrange for you to take one out if you’d like. I just need a copy of your driver’s license, and it’d be my pleasure to ride along with you to show you the car’s features.”
Not that Eric would be able to pick up a load of manure with an Si, but I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Eric glanced at his watch like he had someplace to get to, then shrugged and said, “What the hell, let’s do it.”
While I was arranging to have one of the summer hires bring the red demo we had up to the door, I watched Andy skulk in and slink into his chair. He didn’t look over at me, or my customer. He was an okay kid. He just still had a lot to learn. Unless, of course, his ambition was to be a slimy car salesman. If that was the case, he was ahead of the game.
Shannon, at reception, made a copy of Eric Downes’s license, gave the original back to me, and I handed it over to him while he inspected other new cars on the lot. A couple of minutes later, the red Civic Si rolled up.
“What are you driving now?” I asked Eric.
“I’ve got a Mazda,” he said. “I’ve had good luck with it, but I feel like a change.”
“You’d be looking to trade it in?” I asked.
“I’m actually at the end of a lease,” he said.
“They call this Rallye Red,” I said, pointing out some of the Honda’s exterior features for Eric. The rear spoiler, the Si badging. I opened the door for him to get behind the wheel, then joined him on the other side.
“Nice,” he said, running his hands over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I directed his attention to the navigation and audio systems, the side bolsters on the racing-style bucket seats.
“Start ’er up,” I said.
Eric turned the engine over, gave the accelerator a couple of light taps to hear the revs, pushed in the clutch and worked the gearshift around, getting an idea where all the gears were.
“Can I smoke in here?” Eric asked, about to reach into his jacket.
“Once you own it,” I said, s
miling. “But for now, no, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” he said.
“Let’s go out that way,” I said, pointing right. “Then we’ll head up to the turnpike, get an idea how it performs on the highway.” I got the navigation screen set up so we could keep track of our movements. “You ever had a car with one of these built into the dash?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Eric. He didn’t seem particularly impressed.
While Eric waited for a break in traffic, I happened to look across the street at the vacant lot there. It’s usually totally empty, which probably explains why the dark blue Chrysler van with tinted windows sitting there caught my eye. I didn’t give it another thought after that. There are a few thousand of those on the road in Milford alone.
Eric put the Civic into first, eased up on the clutch, and took us out onto Route 1. But instead of turning right, as I had suggested, he went left, front tires squealing. This is one of the first things you learn in the car-selling business: test-drive routes have as few left turns as possible. You don’t want someone unfamiliar with the car making turns in front of traffic. That goes double when the car has a stick instead of an automatic.
I said, “No, I thought we’d head—”
“I want to go this way,” he said.
Eric tromped on the gas, the engine pushing the car up through the gears until we were cruising in sixth, weaving from lane to lane, zooming past motorists with more conventional driving habits. I glanced over at the digital readout on the dash, saw that the car was topping out at more than sixty.
“Eric, I know the car goes like stink and it doesn’t feel like you’re going as fast as you are, but I think you might want to let up a bit on the pedal there before we get a ticket or something worse.”
Eric glanced over and flashed me a grin, but there was nothing friendly about it.
“Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the ride,” he said, “and tell me where the fuck your daughter is.”
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN I DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY SAY SOMETHING—I was too stunned to respond for several seconds—Eric said, “It’s got good handling, I’ll grant you that. You don’t really think of that with a Civic, at least I never have. I like the road feel. Comes right through the steering wheel. Some cars, they’re all mushy, you know? I like a car where you feel connected, you get what I’m saying?”
Fear the Worst Page 19
