Iron Jack studied him. “Why preserve all that?”
“Because if I was wrong, I’d need to prove what I did. And if I was right, somebody would need to see it.”
The answer seemed to reach the older biker in a way a louder appeal would not have. He took a slow breath and looked at Grip. “A man trying to steal your parts doesn’t photograph them, label them, and keep the evidence.”
Grip stared at Caleb. The rage had not disappeared, but something beneath it had changed. “My frame was painted four weeks ago,” he said. “I rode it maybe a hundred miles before the first trouble. I thought the bike was getting temperamental with age.”
“Did you have the frame inspected when it was repainted?” Caleb asked.
“I had the paint done by people I trusted.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
One of the enforcers near the door gave a short exhale, astonished at the nineteen-year-old’s nerve. Grip’s gaze sharpened, but he did not move. Caleb felt his stomach tighten. He had not intended the words as an insult; they were simply true. For a second he saw Ray again, refusing to make a dangerous machine sound harmless because a customer happened to be angry.
Iron Jack lowered his head, almost concealing a smile. “Kid has a point,” he said. “What did you find about who worked on it?”
Caleb shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know who touched the frame. I only know the modification wasn’t an ordinary wear failure, and the machining looks deliberate.”
“Looks deliberate,” Iron Jack repeated, emphasizing the difference between a fact and an accusation. “Good. Keep it that way until we know more.”
Grip backed away from the bench and faced the open bay. Hundreds of men stood beyond the light, their shapes stretching between motorcycles. He seemed to be searching through a month of memories in the silence. “The frame went to Fresno for paint,” he said. “Iron Jack and I loaded it. Skinner helped when it came back.”
One of the men at the door shifted his weight. Caleb noticed without understanding why. Iron Jack’s gaze followed the movement, then returned to Grip. “We’ll make a list of everyone who had access,” the president said. “Painters. Drivers. The shop. Everybody. No accusations until we have facts.”
“Skinner was alone with it in the trailer,” Grip said. “He said he needed to check the straps.”
“Then we speak to Skinner,” Iron Jack answered. He turned to a broad-shouldered member called Dutch and nodded toward the doorway. “Find him. Bring him over here without turning the street into a spectacle.”
Dutch left quietly, followed by another rider. Caleb watched them disappear among the motorcycles and felt a new kind of unease. He had opened a machine and discovered something that might turn friends against one another. He had no appetite for becoming part of whatever punishment men like these considered fitting. He wanted his shop back, the bank paid, and the chance to sleep through one entire night. None of those things seemed close.