When I learned -- and it didn’t take long -- who the cops were looking at in addition to Granger the lifeguard, I took a ride down South Dixie to Carnival Discount Dealership (“Se habla Espanol”), cars bought, cars sold, cars, cars, cars, two big lots full of them. Priced to move.
In the countless times I’d driven down South Dixie, I’d never noticed Carnival, though why would I? My aging Saturn ran fine. There were, in fact, two other dealerships in the space of three blocks, and I’d never noticed them either. In the urban sprawl of super-tacky South Florida, you only saw what you looked for.
I looked for the salesman who’d sold a snappy yellow sports car to Carolyn Madigan exactly a year before her murder. I also searched, more discreetly, for the salesman’s boss, a target of the investigation.
Sandra Wilson had told me about the weekend her niece shopped for a car.
About Carolyn’s excited phone call -- she’d found the trendy, cool little sports job she wanted. A Triumph, a few years old but in fine condition, allegedly.
An ideal car for a 25-year-old to bop around the county. And zip down to South Beach for the weekend. Or to the Keys, or wherever she wanted to go. The car meant freedom for Carolyn, her aunt said, an obvious symbol of the new life she’d chosen, a reward for leaving the North.
I thought it might be a hassle to find the salesman, but Sandra said she didn’t think so. Carolyn was a striking young woman, and even the most oblivious, jaded salesman would probably remember her.
Sandra was right. The first salesman I talked to had been there only six months, but he referred me to a friendly, almost obsequious man in his 40’s who walked with a limp. He had sold Carolyn her car.
“No, I sure couldn’t forget her,” said the salesman, who wore a name tag identifying himself as Ellis Burger. He had a not-very-pronounced Southern accent, probably Virginia or North Carolina. “She was real pretty, real lively. Lovely girl. It was a pleasure helping her.”
“She was pretty excited about getting new wheels, right?”
“Yes, sir, her old Chevy was about ready for the junkyard, a real heap. We gave maybe a hundred dollars in trade. Believe me, that’s all it was worth. She drove it down here from way up North, Maine or something, wasn’t it?”
“New Hampshire. Was she by herself, do you recall?”
“Yes, sir, she was. She mentioned something about her mother coming along, but she couldn’t make it. That bastard killed her mother, too, right?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid he did.”
“It’s a shame. You know, Mister Arnett, there are some real scum in this world. You don’t realize it, I guess, until something like that happens.”
I nodded -- kind of hard to argue with him. “So was she looking here for a while, or did she spot the little Triumph right away?”
“She found it pretty quick. I took her out on the lot and there it was. Love at first sight, you could say.”
“Did she take it for a test drive?”
“Yes, sir, I went with her.” He glanced at his watch. Despite the “yes sir’s,” Ellis Burger was itching to get back on the floor. “She loved it. The way it handled. The way it looked. I tell you, she was really psyched, the poor kid.”
“And then you came back and worked out the purchase?”
“Yeah. Of course I had to clear it with the finance manager.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dick Francesca. He’s my boss, basically.”
Francesca. The guy the cops were looking at. For two reasons, I was told: first, he lived in the same complex as Carolyn and, coincidentally, she’d bought the car from his dealership. Or was that more than a coincidence? Had they met at the pool, or the tennis court? Had he fixated on her?
The second reason: Francesca had done time for attempted sexual battery, which in Florida meant a rape that didn’t happen. I didn’t know where or when, or anything else about him. I just wanted to get a look at him, maybe see how he reacted to the name Carolyn Madigan. The cops had already talked to him.
Francesca was in his office, the salesman said and, looking relieved, offered to lead me there. I followed him to a cubbyhole in the back of the dealership. Francesca was on the phone and gestured toward a chair. For some reason, he reminded me of a talk show host -- I couldn’t remember which one. Who could tell the difference? He had slicked back hair, a long face with a prominent jaw, and a deep voice.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” he said into the phone. “Sounds to me like we might have a deal. Have a great day.”
He hung up and looked at me a little warily. “What can I do for you?”
I introduced myself and asked if he remembered Carolyn Madigan.
“Carolyn Madigan. Carolyn Madigan. Sounds familiar. Should I?”
“Probably. She bought a car here. And she lived where you live.”
“You mean that shithole complex? Well, I feel sorry for her – two women got themselves killed there just recently.”
“She was one of them, Mr. Francesca.”
He looked more quizzical than concerned. “Oh, she’s the one -- I heard something bad happened to one of our customers.”
“You never met her at the complex?”
“No, that’s a big place. I don’t think I know anybody except my neighbor right next door. We only say hello in passing or comment on the weather.”
“Do you play tennis?”
“No, why? You looking for a game? Oh, I get it -- I’m a tennis player and I live in such-and-such a place so I must have known Carolyn Madigan because she was a tennis player. Good thinking, Sherlock.”
‘Thanks, Mr. Francesca. I work at it.”
“You can call me Dick.”
Or Dickhead, I thought. “So you didn’t know Ms. Madigan from the complex and you don’t recall her coming in here. She bought a little sports car -- does that help? And she was a good-looking blonde. Pert, bouncy. Maybe your type, Dick.”
“I don’t have a ‘type.’ I don’t like to categorize people. I treat them as individuals.”
“Very commendable.”
“And to answer your question, I don’t remember her. Maybe you should talk to one of our salespeople. I don’t think I can help you. I’d really like to -- I’d like to cooperate in any way I can, all kidding aside.”
“I’m not kidding, Dick. And neither are the cops, as you damn well know. Thanks for your time.”
I left the dealership office, not surprised that Francesca chose to play dumb. With one incriminating strike against him in the criminal justice system and the cops nosing around, he had to be edgy.
The salesman with a limp, showing a car to a customer, waved as I drove out of the lot at Carnival Discount.