The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(84)

He swiveled and took a quick look at the street. No cops. If they had been watching the place he was sure they would have been on him by now.

However the old man found out, it meant he was going to have to get rid of him. He did not want to have to do that, but Oliver left him no choice.

“Didn’t ’spect to see you again.”

“I know, but the Buick you sold me, well, it had a limited useful life. It was real old and we both knew it didn’t have much time left. Served me well, though. Worth every dollar I paid.”

“What can I do for you?” Oliver asked, his gaze settling on the phone as he turned and walked toward his desk.

“Well, I need another car.”

“Uh-huh.” He stood behind his ratty chair, holding the back as it rolled a bit left and right with his shaking hands. “Well, I’m about to close. I was on my way to lock the door. I usually get out of here by 5:45 but I fell asleep at my desk. How’s about you come back tomorrow, 9:00 AM?”

Marcks pursed his lips, as if he was considering Oliver’s suggestion. “Well, being that I’m here now, and it only takes a few minutes, I sure would appreciate it if we can take care of this right now. I’ll give you a few extra bucks. You’ll be on your way and I’ll have a set of wheels.”

Oliver jawed his lips but did not reply.

Marcks studied him a moment. “So the cops paid you a visit, huh? That it?”

Oliver looked away, shuffled his feet a bit. “They came by, yeah. Said you were dangerous, escaped prison. Seemed angry I sold you a car.”

“Well, how were you supposed to know?”

Oliver’s gaze swung back to Marcks. “That’s what I told ’em.”

“What else did they say?”

He shrugged. “Just, you know, to let ’em know if I saw you again.”

“And? You gonna do that?”

Oliver danced a bit, looked around the room—everywhere but Marcks’s face.

“I’ll make this easy on you, Oliver. Because you’ve been good to me. You sell me a car and I’ll be on my way. Give me a ten-minute lead. Then, if you see fit to call the cops …” He gave a casual shrug as if it were no big deal. “I’m good with that. You have to do what you have to do. Your civic duty. I get it.”

“Fought in the war, you know? Killed some Germans. Now them Nazis, they was bad guys. You, you don’t look so bad.”

Marcks laughed. “Things get blown out of proportion in the news. Half the stuff they say about you isn’t true. The cops exaggerate. Lie. I’m not tellin’ you anything you don’t already know. Now—” He held up a hand and dipped his chin—“I’m no saint, I gotta tell you. But who is?”

Oliver nodded, his jaw working out the nerves.

“So why don’t you and me take a walk outside and I’ll pick a car that works for me?”

“Don’t have no more that cheap. They’re all more expensive.”

“That’s okay. I brought some more money with me tonight.” He gestured with his left hand, waving Oliver to follow him to the door.

The man complied and they walked onto the fairly well-lit sales lot. Marcks did not want to stay under the lights too long for fear a passerby would recognize him and call it in. Not to mention the circulating police cars, many of which he was sure were added to a round-the-clock patrol to search for him.

He ducked his head down and tried to angle his face away from the avenue that fronted Oliver’s Used Cars.

He grabbed hold of Oliver to prevent him from slipping on the ice that coated the asphalt. “Just trying to keep you from falling. You hit your head at your age, could be fatal.”

“Need to put salt down, melt this stuff.”

“You want, I’ll throw some down after I pick out a car.”

“’Preciate that.” He lumbered along a few feet then asked, “How much you lookin’ to spend?”

“I need something newer. Leather interior, air-conditioning, traction control. Maybe a Mercedes or BMW.”

Oliver stopped shuffling and turned stiffly to face Marcks.

“I’m kidding, Oliver. A guy can dream, right?” He laughed—and got a cigarette-stained smile from the proprietor. “How about a sedan, late 1990s or early 2000s?”

“You still dreaming? Because you’re talking a lot more money, like two or three thousand. You got that much?”

“I can spend about three. Show me what you have.”

Oliver turned left down a row of cars, passed a dark gray Chevrolet Impala and shuffled up to an adjacent Toyota. “Now there’s this here one, or down the next—”

“This one’s perfect, actually. The Chevy.” It was better than Oliver could know because it was parked in a darker area of the lot, and farther from the avenue. More importantly, the vehicle had tinted windows, which would reduce the risk of being seen—and identified.

Oliver turned and glanced at the Impala—he knew the price without looking at the sign in the window, which read $3800: a little more than his customer’s budget. “But this is an ’05.”

“And it’s perfect for my needs.”

Oliver, either knowing the first rule of sales that you did not try to talk your customer out of a more expensive product, or realizing it would be better not to argue with Marcks, nodded his head and upper body, which moved stiffly, in unison. “Okay.” He reached to the bulging carabiner on his side and selected the correct key and unclipped the quick release. Tried it in the door and it worked. He left it hanging out of the lock and turned to Marcks. “I can give this to you for $3500. Cash price.”