Skinner looked toward Caleb. 'What kind of something?'
'A dangerous modification that wasn't on the build records,' Caleb said. 'Somebody concealed it before the bike was painted.'
For an instant Skinner's eyes moved not to the frame, but to the small tray on the workbench. It was the kind of glance that would have meant little if Caleb had not been looking for it. He knew better than to present a glance as proof. Still, he made a note of it in his mind.
Iron Jack spoke before Grip could. 'You were at the paint shop while the bike was stripped. Tell us who else was there.'
Skinner's answer came quickly. 'The painter, some guy from the next bay, me. Half the shop had people coming through.'
'Which painter?' Crowley asked.
'Gus, I think. The old man with the beard.'
'You signed the pickup slip,' Grip said. 'Gus's name is on it. You know his name.'
Skinner looked at the invoice and swallowed. 'I was busy that day. I don't remember every person I met.'
The room seemed to tighten around him. Caleb could feel the club's impatience gathering like pressure behind a closed valve. He thought of the motorcycles outside, the alley beyond the dumpsters, and the dangerous appeal of resolving uncertainty with force. The idea frightened him enough that he stepped closer to the bench and said something before the men could start filling in the gaps themselves.
'The bike isn't evidence of who did this,' he said. 'It's evidence somebody did something wrong. The rest has to be proved separately.'
Grip looked at him sharply. 'You keep defending him.'
'I'm defending what we know.'
Skinner seized on the phrase. 'See? The kid knows this doesn't mean anything.'
'It means I could have died,' Grip replied. 'Don't confuse caution with forgiveness.'
Jonah moved to the photographs and pointed to a dated image of the newly painted motorcycle. 'The alteration was under the recent finish. Somebody who knows the paint job can tell you when the area was exposed. Whoever repaired it left records somewhere, even if they weren't records they meant you to find.'
Skinner made a dismissive noise. 'Maybe one of those famous shops screwed it up. They all touched it.'
'Not before the repaint,' Caleb said. 'The other shops' work orders came later. This section was already concealed by then.'
Iron Jack turned toward Dutch. 'Keep Skinner here while we verify the paint records. No one touches him. I mean that.'
Dutch's eyebrows rose slightly. 'Jack, you sure?'
'Yes.' The president looked around the shop, making his meaning unmistakable. 'If he's guilty, I want facts no one can argue with. If he's innocent, I don't want a good man injured because we're too angry to think.'
Skinner leaned against the doorframe, pretending relief. His eyes kept moving toward the street, and Caleb wondered whether he was looking for a way out or for someone who might help him explain. The question remained unanswered, but for the moment Iron Jack had replaced the promise of immediate violence with the slower work of finding out. Caleb felt the difference as a physical easing in his chest.