Holt kept his eyes on the road. “Harvey didn’t lie in his assessment,” Holt said. “He assessed damage. Damage doesn’t change.”
June nodded, but she did not look reassured. “No,” June said. “But it still looks like he was complacent.”
“That’s true,” Holt said.
They drove in silence for a few minutes after that. Holt found himself noticing small things he had not expected to notice. The way June’s breathing changed when they passed a logging truck. The way she watched intersections, as if she were measuringdistance and speed and the possibility of something suddenly stepping into their path. The way her fingers tightened when he slowed behind another vehicle and eased when he passed.
June’s accident had left marks in places no one could see.
After a while, the service road narrowed, and the fencing began. Holt saw the sign ahead. It was sun-bleached and slightly crooked:Fowler Salvage and Recycling.
He slowed as they approached the closed gate.
A small booth sat to the right. A man in a neon vest leaned against it with an air of tired patience, like he had been there long enough to know the day would do what it wanted, no matter what he did. A lean brown dog paced behind him, with a low tail and eyes tracking their vehicle.
Holt rolled to a stop.
The man pushed off the booth as Holt lowered the window. “We’re closed until eight,” the man said, not unkindly, but firmly.
Holt held up his badge. “Good morning,” he greeted. “My name is Holt Dillinger. I need to speak with the foreman.”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he read the badge. “What does the FBI want with the foreman?
“That’s something I need to discuss with him,” Holt replied, folding away his badge.
The man’s gaze flicked toward June, then back to Holt. “As I said, we don’t open till eight,” the man repeated.
Holt kept his tone steady. “I’m not here to browse through the junkyard,” Holt explained patiently. “I’m here to locate a vehiclethat was brought in last night from Sandpiper Shores.” His eyes saw the name plate on the man’s jacket:Dale.“Dale, is it?”
“Yeah,” Dale nodded. “Do you have a warrant or something?”
“Not yet,” Holt said. “I’m hoping it doesn’t need to come to that.”
Dale blew out a breath and gave a slight nod. “Give me a minute.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
Holt watched him, and within a few minutes, Dale came back. “You can go in. I’ll show you where to park and then take you to the foreman.”
Dale unchained the gate and pushed it open, stepping aside. Holt drove through the gate and waited as Dale closed the gate, then walked beside the car, pointing to a few parking bays.
“You can park in any one of those spaces,” Dale instructed.
Holt nodded and parked. He climbed out, and the smell hit him immediately. Old oil, sun-warmed rubber, metal baking in early heat.
June got out and came up beside him as Dale walked ahead, leading them between rows of stripped frames and stacks of doors. A forklift beeped somewhere deeper in the yard. A radio played faintly. The whole place sounded like a machine that never truly stopped moving.
They rounded a stack of crushed cubes and approached a cluster of men near a folding table. One man wore a cap and held a clipboard, his posture confident and managerial. Holt recognized him immediately as the foreman type, the man who decided what happened and how quickly it happened.
Dale lifted his chin toward the man. “Benny,” Dale called. “Here are your visitors.”
The man looked up. His eyes landed on Holt, who pulled out his badge, before they shifted briefly to June, then back to Holt. His expression did not change much, but Holt could see the calculation.
“Hi, what is this about?” Benny asked, walking toward them with his clipboard in his hands.
“I’m Director Holt Dillinger,” Holt introduced himself. “And this is my colleague, Mrs. June Carter.”
“I’m Benny Yonker,” Benny acknowledged them both. “This is my place. What can I do for the FBI?”
“I need to locate a vehicle that was towed in last night from Sandpiper Shores. It came from Vincent’s Auto Repairs.”
