Different passenger.
I made no visible reaction.
At nine, one of my mechanics, Devin Brooks, arrived even though I had told everyone to take the weekend off.
Devin was twenty-four, talented, impatient, and incapable of leaving a question alone.
His mother had sent him to me at nineteen after he was caught stripping a stolen Honda behind an apartment complex.
I made him spend six months sweeping floors before I let him touch customer cars.
He had complained every day.
He also had not been arrested again.
He entered through the front office carrying breakfast sandwiches.
“You good?”
“Yes.”
“That answer means no.”
“It means I’m standing.”
He looked at the office safe.
Then at me.
“I heard police were here.”
Small businesses have faster intelligence networks than federal agencies.
“Two detectives.”
“Why?”
“They thought we had something they wanted.”
He waited.
I did not explain.
“Do I need to worry?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
That one I meant.
If the people behind Riggins wanted intimidation, they would likely stay focused on me until they knew whether I was dangerous to them.
Devin put the food on the counter.
“Then I’m working.”
“I told you not to.”
“You also told me not to overtorque aluminum heads. I listened to that one.”
I stared at him.
He grinned.
I let him stay.
At noon, my attorney, Rachel Kim, arrived.
Rachel had handled my business contracts for six years.
She was forty-three, Korean American, raised in Marietta, and possessed the useful quality of appearing calmer as everybody else became less reasonable.
She walked into my office, closed the door, and said:
“Civil forfeiture my ass.”
“That’s your legal analysis?”
“Page one.”
She held up the receipt.
“No verified agency case identifier. No detailed inventory. No supervising officer. No property-room intake number. No explanation of probable cause. And this signature—”
“Riggins.”
“Is written like a man hoping God forgets handwriting analysis.”
She sat.
“Your warehouse closing is Monday.”
“Yes.”
“Seller knows?”
“Not yet.”
“He needs to.”
“I know.”
“Can you replace the funds?”
“Not without financing I deliberately avoided.”
“So this wasn’t only a theft.”
“No.”
She studied me.
“What are you thinking?”
“That they knew exactly how much cash was inside.”
“How?”
“My bank.”
Rachel leaned back.
“You think somebody tipped them?”
“They arrived less than seven hours after I withdrew it.”
“You told anybody?”
“You.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“The seller. My accountant. Branch manager.”
“Employees?”
“No.”
“Devin?”
“No.”
Rachel tapped the seizure form.
“If there’s a leak from the bank, this gets ugly.”
“It already is.”
She looked at me.
“You called someone last night.”
“Russ Vance.”
Her expression changed.
“The task-force commander?”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
“I used to.”
“That answer feels incomplete.”
“He worked for me.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“In the Army?”
“Yes.”