Crowley looked at Grip. 'That's not how a thief works.'
Grip rubbed the back of his neck. The realization was working through him slowly, fighting with embarrassment and the violent instinct that had brought him across the workshop. He lowered the metal onto the cloth and stared at the raw repair section again.
'When was that frame last apart?' he asked.
Caleb opened the folder and showed the recent paint invoice. 'Somebody did work on it before it came here. I don't have the full job history.'
Grip's eyes sharpened. 'Fresno.'
Iron Jack didn't speak, but his attention shifted. A silent exchange passed between the two men, carrying the weight of information Caleb did not have. Then Crowley asked the question in a voice so level it made the others stop moving.
'Who had access to it while it was stripped for paint?'
Grip looked at the floor. 'Me. You. The prospect who helped load it.'
'Skinner,' someone near the doorway said.
Grip raised his head. The name seemed to hit him harder than the fact of the damaged frame. 'Skinner helped move the bike,' he said, speaking mostly to himself. 'He said the paint shop needed more time. Said he stayed late to make sure the trailer was secured.'
Crowley turned to one of the men at the door. 'Dutch, find Skinner. Quietly. I want to hear from him before anybody decides they know what happened.'
The enforcer nodded and disappeared into the growing dark. Caleb watched him go and felt the shop become colder despite the heat. He had not accused anyone; he had only explained a machine. But the evidence was beginning to pull apart loyalties inside a group he barely understood, and he knew some men responded to that kind of uncertainty with violence.
'Listen,' Caleb said, louder than he intended. 'If someone tampered with it, that piece should go to the police or an independent investigator. I've kept it clean. I have photographs. I don't want somebody getting hurt because of what I found.'
Iron Jack regarded him for a long moment. 'You think I don't know what evidence is, kid?'
'I think you know people who are angry.'
One of the enforcers drew a sharp breath, but Crowley raised his hand before anyone moved. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a thin smile that contained no amusement. 'Aaron taught you how to talk yourself into trouble, too.'
Grip put both hands on the bench. For the first time Caleb could see that he was frightened, although the emotion looked strange on a man his size. He had been riding that motorcycle fast enough to die on it, and someone he knew might have arranged for it to fail. The realization did not make him gentler all at once, but it changed the shape of the silence around him.
'You saved me from riding it out of here,' Grip said at last.
'I didn't finish the job,' Caleb answered. 'The frame work still needs a second inspection and the bike's not assembled.'