Calvin drank coffee.
“Land?”
“Yes.”
Baxter’s Garage occupied a corner parcel where Kier Street met Second Avenue.
The building itself was not impressive.
Concrete block.
Two service bays.
Small office.
Rear storage shed.
But the neighborhood had changed.
Former industrial lots had become mixed-use redevelopment targets.
New condominiums stood four blocks away.
Retail rent had risen.
The Baxter property was a stubborn low building sitting on land developers now valued far more than the business operating there.
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Offers?”
“Several.”
“Your father refused?”
“Every one.”
“How much?”
“First was six hundred thousand.”
Calvin raised his eyebrows.
“Last?”
“Just over one point two.”
“And still no?”
“Dad owns the building outright.”
“That doesn’t answer why no.”
“The shop is his life.”
Jory wrapped both hands around the coffee.
“He started there at twenty-six. Bought the property when the area was considered useless. My mother died when I was twelve. After that it was basically me, Dad, and the garage.”
Calvin said nothing.
Jory continued.
“Devo’s project needs the corner parcel. Not technically. They can build around it. But the access configuration is worse without it, less retail frontage, less parking, more complicated service lane.”
“So he wants clean assembly.”
“Yes.”
“Your father has a stroke.”
“Yes.”
“And Devo?”
“Made me an offer six days after Dad entered hospital.”
Calvin’s face changed.
“How’d he know?”
“I asked.”
“What’d he say?”
“Public information.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
“You think somebody told him.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Calvin waited.
Jory looked toward the bay door.
The truck was gone.
“There’s more.”
“I assumed.”
“A week before Dad’s stroke, Devo sent someone.”
“Lawyer?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Reg Vickers.”
The name meant nothing to Calvin immediately.
“What does he do?”
“He handles problems.”
“That’s vague.”
“So is his employment history.”
“What happened?”
“Dad called me that night.”
Jory’s voice became flatter.
Not emotionless.
Controlled.
“He said Vickers came in after closing. Asked what it would take to sell. Dad said nothing. Vickers walked around the garage twice while they talked. North lot. Rear alley. Storage. He looked at the property more than Dad.”
“Threats?”
“Nothing Dad could quote.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Businesses change hands every day. Sometimes owners get tired before they realize they’re tired.’”
Calvin’s jaw tightened.
“Your father’s stroke?”
“Two days later.”
“You believe they’re connected.”
Jory looked directly at him.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was more important than if she had said yes.
“My father was fifty-eight. Healthy enough. No diagnosed hypertension. No prior stroke history. He was found unconscious inside the north bay Monday morning.”
“Who found him?”
“Parts delivery driver.”
“Police?”
“Ambulance. Police came because he was unconscious and the back gate was open.”
“Anything missing?”
“No.”
“Signs of assault?”
“No obvious signs.”
“Cameras?”
“Rear camera had stopped working the week before.”
“That convenient?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell police about Vickers?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“No evidence connecting him.”
Calvin nodded slowly.
“That’s a serious suspicion.”
“I know.”
“Have you said it publicly?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“You think I’m wrong?”
“I think believing something and proving it are different jobs.”
“That’s what my dad says.”
“Then he sounds smart.”
“He is.”
The black truck came back Thursday.
Then Saturday.
Never close enough to trespass.
Never long enough to create an obvious offense.
It parked.