On the drive home, Jaylen kept asking about the old man. How had he known about Sutcliffe's truck? Why did he appear at the car lot and the auction? Had he planted the black tag in unit seven? Clayton had the same questions, but he refused to build answers where none existed.
The man might be connected to a legitimate investigation. He might be a former employee, a concerned witness, or simply someone who noticed what others overlooked.
"I don't know his name," Clayton said. "That's the truth. If we find him, we ask. Until then, he is not the foundation of this case."
Halfway back to Halcott, Sherman called. Gerald Peton had arrived at the shop and asked to see him alone. His voice was tighter than Clayton had heard in years. Clayton told him to keep the conversation in a public work area with other employees nearby and that he was returning immediately.
Peton stood in service bay two beside a customer vehicle, his navy blazer out of place among the oil drums and tool cabinets. He placed a thick white envelope on the hood and pushed it toward Sherman. "Name your retirement number," he said. "You have worked long enough. Florida, a boat, a warm place where the winters don't hurt your knees. You could have all of it."
Sherman looked at the envelope without touching it. "What do you want?"
"That old installation book," Peton said. "Nobody needs handwritten testing notes from a man who ought to be enjoying his retirement. Give it to me. You can say it was misplaced before the city took the cars."
Two younger mechanics stopped working. A customer waiting on tires lowered his newspaper. Sherman felt their attention and knew that every answer he gave would teach the young men something more lasting than any advice about brakes or wiring.
"I won't sell the book," he said. "It's a record of work we did honestly. The city signed the pages. Ambrose trusted me to keep the shop's memory straight."
"Loyalty doesn't pay a mortgage," Peton replied.
"It paid mine for forty-seven years." Sherman folded the rag in his hand and put it on the workbench. "Your father turned me away when I was twenty-four because he said he didn't need help like me. Ambrose said, 'Start Monday.' I never forgot which man gave me a chance. I don't intend to forget now."
Peton withdrew the envelope. His smile remained, but his eyes were flat. He warned Sherman that stubbornness could become expensive in old age. Sherman agreed that stubbornness had cost him things over the years, then said this was not one of those mistakes.
Clayton drove onto the lot as Peton reached the gate. The dealer stopped close enough for them to speak without raising their voices. "You think a book and a few photographs can break twenty-two years of relationships?" he asked.