Clare continued.
“The strongest thing you have right now may not be the truck.”
“What is?”
“The development application.”
Jory frowned.
“What application?”
Ron had uncovered it.
Fourteen months before Gerald’s stroke, a Devo-affiliated company submitted preliminary planning materials for a mixed-use project covering the Kier and Second assembly.
Baxter’s parcel appeared inside the proposed footprint.
The application described the site as:
Prospectively available pending ownership consolidation.
Gerald had never signed an agreement.
Never granted an option.
Never accepted an offer.
Clare tapped the page.
“Developers can plan around property they hope to acquire. That is not automatically illegal.”
Jory looked disappointed.
“But?”
Clare nodded.
“But representations made to lenders, investors, or municipalities about control of land they do not control can matter. We need the full file.”
“What do we do?”
“Preservation letters first.”
“To who?”
“Devo Development. Relevant corporate entities. Planning consultants. Possibly the municipality depending on what we find.”
“And Vickers?”
“Through counsel.”
Jory leaned back.
“Devo has people everywhere.”
“Influence is not magic.”
“He sits on boards.”
“So?”
“So people listen to him.”
Clare looked at her.
“Then we make listening less relevant than documents.”
That became the strategy.
No confrontation.
No threatening phone calls.
No Iron Pines members following anyone.
No leaked accusations.
Documents.
Corporate records.
Planning records.
Medical records reviewed through proper channels.
Witnesses.
Clare filed a civil action narrowly.
Property interference.
Misrepresentation concerns.
Preservation of development records.
She also prepared a referral requesting police review of circumstances surrounding Gerald’s collapse, emphasizing that Jory was not claiming proof of assault.
Two days later, Devo Development sent people to Iron Pines.
Property manager.
Two assistants.
Clipboards.
They claimed there was a parking encroachment near the club garage.
There wasn’t.
Nate walked them to Calvin.
Calvin sat behind his desk.
“Put it in writing.”
The property manager smiled.
“We hoped to resolve it informally.”
“Then write an informal letter.”
“We understand someone associated with your premises is making defamatory claims regarding one of our principals.”
Calvin looked at him.
“No one here discusses active legal matters.”
“We would caution—”
“No.”
The man stopped.
Calvin continued:
“Any property issue goes through counsel. Any question about Ms. Baxter goes through her counsel.”
“You don’t speak for her.”
“Correct.”
“Then why are you involved?”
Calvin leaned back.
“Because you’re standing in my garage asking questions about a person who works here.”
Silence.
The property manager nodded.
“We’ll be in touch.”
“With the lawyer.”
They left.
Jory had been in Bay Two the entire time.
She did not come out.
Later she asked:
“What did they want?”
“To see if we’d panic.”
“Did we?”
“You were rebuilding a transmission.”
“Good point.”
In late November, the black F-350 disappeared from the block.
That worried Jory more than when it had been there.
She began checking mirrors.
Changing routes home.
Calvin noticed.
“Someone following?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Then say no evidence, not no.”
She looked annoyed.
“You sound like Clare.”
“She sounds smart.”
Jory’s right hand was almost healed by then.
She finally told Brack the full story when he saw the scar.
The transmission jack accident had happened at two in the morning.
Gerald’s garage was behind on three customer jobs.
Jory tried moving a gearbox alone.
Jack shifted.
Hand trapped against a frame rail.
Nothing broken.
Badly bruised.
She wrapped it herself.
Worked the next morning.
Brack listened.
Then said:
“You do that here and I’ll throw the jack through the wall.”
“That seems more expensive.”
“Ask for help.”
“I’m capable.”