In the inspection yard, Clayton found lot thirty-eight between a white van and a dark pickup. The sedan was charcoal gray, with dried mud in the wheel wells and the dealer plate still mounted on the rear. He photographed the full plate, the vehicle identification number, the consignment notice, and the car's condition. The characters visible in Jaylen's video matched in the same sequence.
"That's the car," Jaylen whispered.
"It is the same dealer registration and the same vehicle description," Clayton said. "We'll let a records examiner make the strongest identification. We don't have to solve every remaining question standing in this parking lot."
They were still documenting the sedan when the elderly man in the tan corduroy jacket appeared beside them. He wore the same brown flat cap as the stranger who had spoken up during the arrest and carried the same small black notebook. He did not introduce himself. His eyes rested on the dealer plate for a long moment before he spoke.
"Dealer plates," he said. "Check whose truck the deputy chief drives."
Clayton turned toward him. "Sir, were you at my shop on September twenty-sixth?"
The old man gave a brief nod that could have meant yes or simply that he had heard the question. Then he walked away through the crowded inspection yard. Jaylen hurried a few steps after him, but Clayton stopped him. They had no right to demand an answer from a stranger, and the man's silence was not proof of anything.
At the head of lane four stood Lyndon Craig. He wore a red polo shirt and carried a clipboard, his sandy hair combed straight back. Clayton recognized him from the business photograph Duke had shown him in the complaint file. Jaylen recognized him too and immediately looked toward the sedan.
Clayton approached within ordinary speaking distance. "Morning, Mr. Craig. That's an interesting car in lot thirty-eight. It looks like the one parked across from my shop before the police arrived."
Lyndon's expression changed for a fraction of a second. "Lots of gray sedans in Indiana," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then it should be easy to clear up," Clayton replied. "The full dealer plate is now in my records. Your name is also on the complaint that brought down my family's sign. I intend to give both to investigators who aren't involved in my contract dispute."
Lyndon looked toward the dealers listening nearby. "This isn't the place for accusations," he said.
"I'm not asking the crowd to convict you," Clayton answered. "I'm telling you what records exist. And I'm asking you not to destroy any further records about that vehicle or the complaint."
Lyndon called to withdraw lot thirty-eight and left the platform without addressing the substance of Clayton's questions. The withdrawal did not prove guilt. But it created another transaction record with a date, time, and business name, and Rosa would be able to request it later.
An older dealer in a canvas coat stopped Clayton on the way out. He remembered Ambrose selling him a wrecker in the eighties and said the price had been fair even when the repairs ran over budget. Clayton thanked him. He was struck again by the number of people who had carried quiet memories of his father across decades without ever believing they would matter to a dispute like this one.