But Eleanor Ashford represented $12 million in service contracts, four of the rarest cars on the planet, a direct line to every collector, manufacturer, and automotive journalist in the northern hemisphere. Saying no to Eleanor meant losing everything. Saying yes meant admitting a kid from South Side Chicago might know more than her entire operation.
Victoria looked at Fletcher. He didn't look away. He didn't flinch. He stood there with oil under his fingernails and $20 in his pocket and absolutely no doubt in his eyes. She hated that look.
She hated it because it reminded her of something she hadn't seen in her own technicians in three weeks. Certainty.
"Fine." Victoria's voice was acid. "Let him touch the car. But when he fails, and he will fail, I want him arrested for trespassing and I want it on camera." She pointed at Dale. "Film everything."
Dale pulled out his phone. Victoria turned to Fletcher stepping so close he could smell her perfume. "You have 10 minutes," she whispered. "Not a second more. And when you break something, because you will, I'm going to personally make sure you never set foot in a real shop for the rest of your pathetic little life."
Fletcher didn't respond to the threat. He looked past her through the glass partition at the Pagani Huayra sitting under the lights. Ice blue, hood open, waiting. "I won't need 10 minutes," he said.
Chad buzzed open the service bay door. The hydraulic lock hissed. The smell of motor oil and solvent hit Fletcher's face like a homecoming. He stepped through.
The showroom followed. Victoria, Eleanor, Dale with his phone, Chad and Todd, the two customers from the lounge, the receptionist, the salesman, even the woman with the pearl necklace. They gathered behind the glass partition like spectators at a trial.
Fletcher walked to the Pagani. He didn't rush. He placed his hand on the fender feeling the carbon fiber cool under his palm. He closed his eyes and he listened.
The relay cluster whined, the fuel pump hummed, the cooling fans cycled at idle. Underneath it all, a faint arrhythmic click like a heartbeat skipping every fourth beat. Fletcher opened his eyes. He looked at Chad.
"Hand me a T25 Torx and your diagnostic laptop."
Chad looked at Victoria. Victoria said nothing. Chad handed over the tools. Fletcher Caine rolled up his sleeves, leaned into the engine bay of the most expensive car in the building, and went to work. On the other side of the glass, 12 people held their breath.
Fletcher didn't start with the diagnostic laptop. He started with his hands. He placed both palms flat on the engine block, closed his eyes, felt the vibration travel through the metal, through his skin, into his bones, the way his grandfather taught him before he could spell the word carburetor. The engine was cold, but it wasn't dead. It was confused.
"Boot it up," he said to Chad. Chad hesitated. He glanced at Victoria through the glass. She stood with her arms crossed, jaw set, watching like a hawk waiting for a mouse to make a wrong move.
"Boot it," Fletcher said again. Calm. No edge. Just fact.