"Seventeen days," Clayton said aloud. "They don't have to prove I did anything. They just have to keep that file open for seventeen days."
Sherman put down his reading glasses. "Your daddy would drive straight to city hall and ask who made the decision." Then he sighed. "But he'd probably read the contract one more time before he left."
Clayton called Rosa Lindfist, a lawyer in Indianapolis who had helped the family review commercial agreements after Ambrose's death. Rosa had worked in municipal procurement disputes for years. She told him to read the suspension clause slowly and then asked what documentation the police had provided on Saturday.
"Nothing," Clayton said. "No receipt for my father's keys, no report number, and no written accusation."
"Then the first question is what investigation they say is open," Rosa replied. "The second is who knew about it before purchasing sent this notice. Don't assume those two answers are the same. And don't let anyone lure you into doing something that gives them a new allegation."
She explained that suspension was not termination, and that the city's own procedures gave Reed a route to protest. But the city could create a genuine commercial crisis by letting the investigation remain unresolved until the rebid. Clayton understood the arithmetic: twelve finished vehicles, money tied up in components, employees whose wages came due every second Friday, and a competitor waiting to take the contract without doing the work.
At noon, a black sedan entered the lot and parked in front of the service bays. Gerald Peton climbed out in a navy blazer, an expensive watch visible at his wrist. He moved among the cruisers slowly, running his eyes over their light bars and interiors as if he were inspecting merchandise about to be transferred to him.
"Fine-looking fleet," Peton said. "Ambrose always did careful work. I suppose you inherited that much." Clayton kept his hands at his sides. He knew the old man's kindness was an instrument Peton used when he wanted someone to accept an insult as a compliment.
"What brings you here, Mr. Peton?" Clayton asked.
"Heard you had a rough Saturday. Heard the city is having second thoughts." Peton rested a hand on the hood of unit seven. "Twenty-two years of police vehicles, Clayton. That's how long this town has come to me. One low bid doesn't change a relationship like that."
"The city awarded the contract to us because we met the specifications and came in two hundred fourteen thousand dollars lower. That's the relationship that matters in public purchasing." Clayton saw Jaylen stop working nearby, but he waved him back into the bay.
Peton smiled. "Here's a neighborly offer. I'll buy those cars and the equipment at your documented cost. You'll cover your bills, the city can move on, and you won't have a public fight you can't afford."
"The cars aren't for sale to you," Clayton said. "They're committed to a valid contract with Halcott."
"Contracts change." Peton tapped unit seven lightly. "People get investigated. Banks get nervous. Employees start wondering whether their checks will clear. You don't want the last thing your father built to be lost over a misunderstanding."