Each incident had been classified as a service concern, not a conduct issue. Elliot read every line. He did not yet know whether Brent Lawson was responsible for any of it. He did not know whether the complaints were accurate, whether the manager had investigated them properly, or whether the reporting system had simply failed to capture the full picture. He knew only that the numbers were too neat and the comments too similar to dismiss.
He closed the report and went home. The following morning, Elliot did not put on his usual navy suit. He chose dark jeans, a plain gray shirt, an old brown jacket, and the scuffed boots he wore when he worked in the garage behind his house. He left his expensive watch in a drawer and drove an older sedan instead of the company vehicle with its discreet executive plates. In the mirror, he looked like a man who had come to ask about a car after finishing a shift. He did not look like the founder of a company with eighteen dealerships, a private investment portfolio, and a board that called him before making major decisions.
That was precisely the point. He arrived at Carter Motor Gallery just after ten in the morning.
The showroom was beautiful. Sunlight spilled through tall windows and fell across a polished stone floor. A black sports car sat on a circular display platform near the center, its sculpted body reflecting the ceiling lights. A row of luxury SUVs stood along the back wall. Near the entrance, a receptionist spoke quietly into a headset while two salespeople examined a tablet beside a silver sedan.
The place smelled faintly of leather, fresh coffee, and the cleaning product used on the floor. Soft instrumental music played overhead. Everything had been arranged to suggest ease, exclusivity, and money. Elliot paused just inside the doors. He was not looking at the cars yet. He was watching the people.
A young couple entered behind him. The man wore a work uniform, and the woman carried a canvas tote bag. A salesperson greeted them almost immediately and asked what kind of vehicle they were looking for. A few seconds later, an older man in a tailored coat walked through the same doors. Another employee approached him before he had taken three steps.
Elliot waited. One salesperson glanced at him, looked away, then checked his phone. Another made eye contact for half a second before turning toward the desk. No one approached. He walked toward the black sports car.
It was a striking machine, low and broad, with a deep black finish and narrow headlights that made the front end look almost predatory. Elliot had always admired the engineering behind cars like it. Beneath the polished exterior were years of development, carefully balanced suspension, and a powertrain designed to respond precisely to the person behind the wheel. He leaned slightly to inspect the interior through the window. “Hey. What are you doing in here?”
The voice came from behind him. Elliot turned. A tall man in a charcoal suit was walking toward him with the impatient stride of someone who believed his time was more valuable than the person he was approaching. His badge read BRENT LAWSON. “Good morning,” Elliot said. “I’d like to take a look at a few cars.”