The first thing Tessa Rowan noticed about the man in the brown coat was the mud on his shoes. The second was that he was standing in front of the most expensive vehicle in the showroom with his hands clasped behind his back, looking as though he had every right to be there.
At Haven Motors, that kind of confidence generally came wrapped in a tailored jacket. The men who considered the premium sport-utility vehicles usually announced themselves with polished watches, impatient telephone calls, and a casual interest in monthly payments that sometimes disappeared when the numbers were written down. The man in the brown coat had a paper grocery sack under one arm. The cuffs of his trousers were frayed. A faint line of grease ran across his left thumb.
Tessa stopped near the reception desk and glanced toward the office windows. Grant Havel, her manager, was on his feet behind the glass. He had a telephone to his ear, but he was watching her. He tapped two fingers against the window. Two. She understood the gesture without being told what it meant. Two more signed contracts before Saturday, or the promotion she had been promised would go to someone else.
She had already pictured the promotion. It had an office, a salary that did not vanish whenever a buyer changed his mind, and health coverage she could finally use to get her mother into a rehabilitation program that lasted longer than six appointments. It had, more privately, the possibility of a life in which every Sunday night did not feel like an examination.
The man took a careful step around the display vehicle, his eyes resting on the hinges of the rear door rather than on the leather or the panoramic roof. It was an unusual point of interest. He leaned close enough to inspect the lower latch, then straightened when a passing customer brushed his sleeve.
"Excuse me," he said, though the other person had been the one to bump him.
Tessa approached with the professional smile she had spent four years perfecting. "Can I direct you somewhere?"
He turned. His face was narrow and deeply lined, his gray hair cut short as if by a barber who had known him since before the invention of appointments. One eye was slightly clouded. The other was bright and attentive.
"I'm looking for a vehicle I can trust," he said.
She gave a polite laugh. "That's what everyone wants. Do you have an appointment with a sales consultant?"
"I was hoping to speak to whoever knows about the doors. And the service records."
"Are you looking for a repair? The service entrance is around back."
"No. I'm considering a purchase."
Tessa saw Grant turn away from the window, and she made the calculation that she would later wish she had refused to make. A customer who wanted to discuss door hinges, who had arrived in work clothes, who had not asked about financing or availability, could consume forty minutes and buy nothing. In forty minutes, the owner of the construction firm from Salina might return her call. The attorney with the blue convertible might finally confirm his trade. Forty minutes could mean an entire quarter.
"These models are quite a substantial investment," she said. "We do have a pre-owned section outside, if you're looking for something practical."
The man studied her for a moment. It was not the injured look she expected. There was something more unsettling in it: a patient effort to understand what she meant.
"Practical is exactly what I'm looking for," he answered. "But I didn't say inexpensive."
A mechanic's impact wrench rattled beyond the service doors. Tessa shifted her weight. "If you tell me your budget, I can find somebody to help."
"I haven't decided on a budget. I need to know whether the vehicle does what the people selling it promise."
She folded her arms. "Sir, to save us both time, these units begin well above a hundred thousand dollars."
His gaze moved past her to the vehicle, then to the wall of framed customer photographs. "Does the price change how a door opens?"
Tessa could have laughed. She could have taken him seriously. She could have asked why he wanted to know. Instead, seeing Grant emerge from his office, she said the sentence that would accompany her into every difficult room for the next year.
"I don't think this is the place for you."
The man's expression remained quiet. "All right," he said. "Then perhaps you can tell me where the right place is."