Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

She got in her car and drove off. He got in his car and followed her. I got in my car and followed him following her. This is the exciting reality of detective work. A lot of waiting. A lot of watching. A lot of following.

They wound up parking several miles south, in an upscale condominium complex. I immediately deduced that the place had just opened-it had the freshly painted, newly planted exterior of a recently constructed building.

I heard Bill’s voice: “Right, detective. And that huge banner hanging from the roof proclaiming ‘Grand Opening, Now Leasing!’ has nothing to do with your conclusion.”

This is why my head will never get too swelled.

The two lovebirds, hand in hand, disappeared into one of the condos. I readjusted my thinking. Trophy mistress, maybe? They would be occupied for a while. I couldn’t think of anything more I could learn from the lovers, not pertaining to my case, anyway.

Assuming any of this pertained to my case.

I pulled out my iPhone, fumbled around until I opened the little pad-icon, and typed in the dealer name, as well as the unit number and address of the complex. After a few false starts, I also located Bill in my cell phone’s address book.

“Hey, partner,” he answered.

“Oh, hooray. I’m still ‘partner,’” I said.

“You must be about to ask me for a favor.”

“Dang, you’re good. Yes, I need you to run a couple of plates for me. Dealer plates. Can you do that?”

“Sure, unless they’re brand-new, as in a day or two old.”

I read him off the numbers.

“You’re in luck,” Bill said. “I’m at the office in front of the computer. Stay on the phone.”

Bill hummed a tuneless song while the keyboard clacked in the background. I already missed that habit of his, that endearing, tone-deaf drone.

“Okay,” he said. “Got something to write with?”

”I can use my phone.”

“Well, aren’t you the fancy one,” Bill said. “So, the E550 belongs to the dealership, Golden State Mercedes-Benz over in Pasadena. The SUV is registered … let’s see, uh, as of three weeks ago, to one Ramona C. Cunningham. Same dealership, though I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“Got an address for Cunningham?”

He read off a Newport Beach address, a long way from a condo on Coldwater Canyon. My mind quickly revised the front-page lede: Prosperous middle-aged lothario lures someone else’s trophy wife from her unhappy home in Newport Beach for trysts at a love nest in The Valley, with the help of a horse, a car, and a cappuccino. Catchy.

“Hey, Ten?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“Any money fall out of any tree yet?”

“Funny. Really funny.” I hung up on the sound of his laughter.

Next stop, Pasadena. Golden State Mercedes-Benz, to be exact. Three freeways later I parked at the far end of their visitor’s lot and started walking, praying to slip inside unnoticed. No such luck. Out of nowhere, a trim, eager young man in a suit and tie intercepted me. His eyes darted over my shoulder to my long-suffering Toyota, looking clunkier than ever. It slowed him down, but not for long.

“Good day, sir,” he said, offering me his hand. “Chad Willoughby, sales consultant.”

“Tom Smith,” I said. I’m nothing if not original at times like these.

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Smith? All showings are by appointment only.”

What would Sherlock do?

“No,” I said. “No appointment, but I spent some time with Mr. Barsotti this morning, and I really liked his new E550.” This is called lying and telling the truth at the same time, a skill all detectives, Holmes included, learn early in their careers. It was the closest I could come to observing one of the five root vows, while still being remotely effective in my job.

His demeanor changed instantly after I dropped the Barsotti bomb.

“Of course,” he said. “Please! Right this way.”

He led me to a row of brand-new SLK and E-class coupes, laid out like metallic jewels on the tarmac.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? Lease or purchase?”

“I haven’t decided,” I said.

“There are advantages to each,” Chad said. “I can go over them with you.”

I circled each car, squatting down to look at the tires and making other traditional auto-shopper-type moves.

Peering in a window, I kept my voice casual. “How long have you known Mr. Barsotti?”

“My boss? I’ve been working for him about a year over here. Before that I was at his Ferrari dealership on Pasadena Boulevard. When he sold it and moved here, so did I.”

So he owned a car dealership as well as a hog farm. Busy little bee, this Barsotti.

“Ferrari to Mercedes? Bummer,” I said. I was just making conversation, but Chad jumped on my comment with the intensity of the recently converted.

“Are you kidding me?” he said. “Ever know anybody with a Ferrari?”

I didn’t.

“Well, here’s everything you need to know about them: They suck. They’re great to look at and fun to drive, but they’re basically expensive pieces of c-r-a-p, crap. Buying a Ferrari is like finding out the blue blood you married is actually a stripper.”

Chad Willoughby might be politically incorrect, but he was also unusually candid for a car salesman. That could prove useful.

“Vince Barsotti will tell you the same thing. That’s why he unloaded the dealership.” He sighed. “Selling them’s a snap, mind you. They sell themselves. It’s what happens later that’s the problem.”

“How so?” I asked, trying to keep him loose and in the mood to confide.

“Guy comes in; maybe he’s just made his first big movie deal. He lays eyes on the Ferrari, it’s like he’s seeing his girlfriend naked for the first time. Practically drooling, you know? Twenty minutes later, you’re out on a test run with him, he’s listening to the snarl of that exhaust pipe, and he’s hooked. An hour later he’s taking his new baby home, I’ve got ten grand’s worth of commission in my pocket, and everybody’s happy.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Yeah. Like Christmas, right? The problem is, two weeks later the guy calls and screams at you for an hour because his new quarter-million-dollar pile of doo-doo has stranded him and his girlfriend on the side of the road somewhere. Again. You get one thing fixed and something else breaks a month later. Welcome to the Ferrari lifestyle. A year of that and the guy learns the truth about owning a Ferrari: the two happiest days of your life are the day you buy it and the day you unload it on the next poor sucker.”

He patted a bright red hood. “You can count on these,” he said. “They ride like hell, run forever, and start every time.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I said.

After that, Chad Willoughby was putty in my hands.

“Would you like a test drive?”

I pointed to the black hardtop in the showroom. “I’d like to see that one.”

Once inside, I used the “Which way to the restroom?” excuse to check out several framed photographs of my new pal Vince Barsotti, posing with sports celebrities and famous actors. No prize-winning pigs that I could see, at least of the hoofed species.

When I got back, Chad was using a chamois to stroke and polish the Merc’s hood.

“You’re a little beauty, aren’t you,” he crooned. He turned to me. “Carbon copy of Mr. Barsotti’s. You’ll love it.” He winked. “Shall I get the paperwork started?”

I pointed to an SUV nearby. “That’s the same model Ramona has, isn’t it?”

“Ramona?”

“Vince’s friend, Ramona.”

His body stiffened. I stayed relaxed. Said nothing.

“I think Mr. Barsotti handled that sale himself,” he muttered. “I’m not really sure.”