Page 34 of Fighting For You

I unfolded it. Names, addresses, phone numbers, all written in neat block letters.

"How do you know all these people?"

"Firefighters know everyone. When you respond to enough car accidents, you end up knowing who handles what afterward."

The first lot was off Boulder Highway. Rows of sedans and SUVs sat baking in the sun with prices written on the windshields in white marker. A salesman in a polo shirt started toward us the second we got out.

Knox put his hand up. "We're just looking."

The salesman slowed but didn't retreat.

Knox walked me through the first row. He stopped at a silver Honda and crouched by the driver's door.

"First thing you check is the VIN plate." He pointed through the windshield at the small metal plate on the dashboard. "It should match the one on the sticker inside the door jamb. If those two numbers don't match, you walk away."

"Why wouldn't they match?"

"Because the car isn't what they're telling you it is. Stolen vehicles get new VIN plates. Or they'll take the plate from a totaled car and put it on a stolen one so it comes back clean when you run it." He opened the door and pointed at the jamb. "This one matches. That's step one."

He showed me what to look for under the hood. Mismatched paint on the fenders that meant a previous accident they hadn't disclosed. Fresh undercoating sprayed to hide rust or flood damage. Bolts on the hinges that had been turned, which meant the hood or the doors had been removed and replaced.

He stepped back from the hood and I realized how close he'd been standing. Close enough that I'd felt the warmth of him over my shoulder the entire time he was pointing things out, his voice low and right there. He was tall enough that I had to tip my head back when he turned to face me, and for a second I forgot what we were looking at.

"If anything looks too new on a car this old, ask why."

I was writing mental notes as fast as he was talking. He went through it patiently, never rushing, circling back when I had a question. He checked the tires, the brakes, the oil. He started the engine and listened with his head tilted like a doctor with a stethoscope.

"Sounds decent. A little lifter tick, but that's the mileage."

"Is that bad?"

"Not yet. It will be eventually."

We moved through the lot. I liked a blue Civic with low mileage, but Knox pointed out the paint mismatch on the rear quarter panel and a VIN sticker that looked like it had been peeled and reapplied. I liked a white Camry, but the price was too high for what it was.

"Trust your gut on the price," Knox said. "If it feels like too much, it probably is. These lots mark up twenty to thirty percent because they know most people don't shop around."

The second lot was smaller, tucked behind a tire shop off Lamb Boulevard. The owner came out and shook Knox's hand like they knew each other.

"Sullivan. Haven't seen you in a while."

"Ray. This is Nora. She's looking for something reliable. Under ten thousand. Nothing fancy."

Ray walked us to the back row. "I've got three in that range. A Corolla, a Sentra, and a Mazda3. The Corolla's the safest bet. The Sentra's cheaper but it needs brake pads within six months. The Mazda drives the best but it's at the top of your budget."

Knox checked all three the same way he'd checked the ones at the first lot. VIN plates, paint, hinges, tires, engine. He took longer with the Corolla. Walked around it twice, got underneath it with his phone flashlight, came back up and brushed the gravel off his jeans.

"This one's clean."

"Is that the professional opinion?"

He almost smiled. "It's the closest you'll get from someone who isn't a mechanic."

I sat in the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors, and put my hands on the wheel. The interior was worn but not damaged. It smelled like it had been detailed recently, which Knox told me could mean they were covering something or it could mean the previous owner just took care of it.

"How do I tell the difference?"

"You don't, on a test drive. You take it to a mechanic for a pre-purchase inspection. Sixty bucks. Worth every cent."