Sofia led him into her office. The room looked out over the showroom through a wide pane of glass. On one wall hung photographs of the group's fourteen dealerships. On another stood a cabinet filled with awards. Nathaniel stopped before a framed picture of an old brick building, its painted sign almost illegible.
REED AUTO REPAIR & USED CARS, 1978.
Beside a rusty station wagon stood a dark-haired young man with an oversized wrench in his hand and an expression halfway between pride and panic. It was Nathaniel at twenty-eight. Next to him stood a laughing woman in a flowered dress, holding a small boy on her hip.
"Rose chose that photograph," Sofia said.
Nathaniel nodded. "She said it reminded her of the last time I wore a shirt without an oil stain."
His wife Rose had died six years earlier. He still caught himself turning toward an empty chair to tell her something funny. She had been the daughter of a school librarian, practical and warm and stubborn in a way that made most arguments with her brief and educational. The boy on her hip was their son, Julian, who now served as the group's chief executive officer.
Nathaniel looked away from the photograph before Sofia could notice his expression.
"Tell me about Damian Cross," he said.
Sofia sat down slowly. "He's our highest-earning sales consultant."
"I didn't ask how much he earns."
"He's been with us four years. Customers who buy from him often give excellent reviews."
"And customers who don't buy?"
Sofia frowned. "I don't know."
"That's an expensive thing not to know."
She looked down. "I've had complaints about his manner. I addressed them."
"How?"
"Coaching sessions. Two written warnings. He was told he needed to change."
"Did he?"
"For a while."
Nathaniel pulled a folded piece of paper from the leather folder. He slid it across her desk. It was a printed copy of a customer complaint, written in careful, awkward sentences by someone who had clearly spent a great deal of time trying to sound reasonable.
Sofia read the first line. Her face changed.
"Where did you get this?"
"It came to my house. Not to headquarters. Someone addressed it in ink and put a stamp on it."
The complaint described a sixty-nine-year-old woman who had visited the dealership with her granddaughter to purchase a reliable vehicle after her husband died. A salesperson had refused to discuss a car without the woman's adult son present. When she insisted she made her own financial decisions, he had laughed and suggested she might be confused about the price. She had left in tears.
Sofia closed her eyes. "Mrs. Bellamy."
Nathaniel nodded. "You know her?"
"She called after the visit. I spoke to her."
"And?"
"She said she didn't want anyone fired. She just wanted to be treated like an adult."
"Did someone apologize?"
"I did."
"Did the employee?"
Sofia hesitated.
Nathaniel folded his hands. "There's our answer."
He pulled out a second page. This one contained six handwritten numbers, apparently vehicle identification numbers, and a brief sentence beneath them: ASK WHY THE SAME CAR WAS SOLD TWICE. Nathaniel had received it two weeks earlier, tucked into the envelope with Mrs. Bellamy's complaint. He could not establish whether she had written it; she had told him in a telephone call that another customer had helped her address the envelope, but she did not know anything about the numbers.
Sofia read the sentence twice.
"What does that mean?"
"That's what I hoped you could tell me."
"It could be an administrative mistake."
"Six times?"
She lifted the page again. "I'll have inventory check them."
Nathaniel watched her. "Have you seen any unusual paperwork lately?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then perhaps we need to look a little harder."
Sofia turned toward the glass. Below, Damian stood near the showroom entrance, pretending to study a tablet. Leah was helping a mother lift a stroller through the door. An elderly man in a delivery uniform passed through the service lobby with a set of keys.
"I'm sorry," Sofia said suddenly.
Nathaniel looked at her. "For what?"
"For what happened downstairs. You trusted me to run this place."