“Possibly.”
For the rest of dinner, he said nothing about Callaway Auto.
Victoria interpreted the silence as surrender.
It was not.
After she left, Theodore remained at the dining table.
The household staff cleared the plates.
A cup of coffee appeared.
He barely touched it.
He replayed his daughter’s story.
Not her conclusions.
The facts.
A mechanic diagnosed a safety issue.
Quoted a price.
Completed the job.
Charged the quoted amount.
Accepted public insult without retaliation.
Allowed a wealthy customer to drive away rather than escalate a scene.
That interested Theodore.
Not because Ryder had lost money.
Theodore had no romantic fascination with poverty.
Being underpaid did not make someone virtuous.
But composure under unfair pressure revealed something.
Theodore had spent forty-four years building businesses.
His first had been a metal fabrication shop at twenty-six.
Three rented machines.
One employee.
No air-conditioning.
An accountant who told him six months in that the company would likely fail.
For his first four years, Theodore remembered every unpaid invoice.
Every customer who delayed payment because they knew he could not afford court.
Every large company that extended terms from thirty days to ninety because they assumed he would tolerate it.
He remembered lying awake doing payroll calculations.
He remembered selling his watch once to make a supplier payment.
Money had eventually changed his circumstances.
It had never fully erased the memory.
Theodore walked into his study.
On the wall hung a black-and-white photograph of that first fabrication shop.
He looked at it.
Then called Gerald Watts.
Gerald had worked with Theodore for eighteen years.
Former corporate security.
Former military investigator before that.
Now officially Director of Special Projects for Sterling Capital, which was a vague title designed to accommodate whatever Theodore asked him to do.
Gerald answered.
“Evening.”
“Do you know Ashford?”
“The town?”
“Yes.”
“Passed through.”
“There’s an auto shop. Callaway Auto.”
“All right.”
“Owner is Ryder Callaway.”
“What did he do?”
“Maybe nothing.”
Gerald waited.
Theodore continued.
“Find out who he is.”
“Financial?”
“No.”
“Legal?”
“No.”
“What exactly?”
“The part no database tells me.”
Gerald understood.
“Community.”
“Yes.”
“How deep?”
“One day.”
“That’s not deep.”
“It’s enough if people are honest.”
“Anything I should know?”
“My daughter had a dispute with him.”
Gerald paused.
“I’m investigating somebody because Victoria didn’t like the bill?”
“You’re not investigating him.”
“What am I doing?”
“Listening.”
Gerald laughed.
“You get more philosophical every year.”
“Age.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
The next morning, Ryder opened Callaway Auto at 6:55.
By 7:10, he had a sedan on the lift for a transmission service.
At 8:00, Gerald Watts entered Mrs. Patton’s diner.
He ordered coffee and eggs.
Then he asked casually about the garage down the street.
Mrs. Patton narrowed her eyes.
“You buying it?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want to know?”
“I’m doing some work for somebody considering business in town.”
This was vague enough to be true.
Mrs. Patton poured coffee.
“Ryder isn’t selling.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“He better not.”
“Good mechanic?”
“Best around.”
“That because he’s cheap?”
“No.”
She put the coffeepot down.
“Because when he says something’s broken, it’s broken.”
Gerald smiled.
“That unusual?”