Chapter 2 - The Man at Bay Two Knew Why Ward Put the Wrench Out of Reach.
Then he turned.
“My name is Adrian Santoro.”
The scanner in Marin’s hand stopped mattering.
Everybody in Providence knew the Santoro name.
Some people knew it because of restaurants.
Construction.
Trucking.
Waste contracts.
Others knew it because older men lowered their voices before saying it.
Adrian Santoro was forty-four.
He had inherited Bellwether Logistics from his mother.
He had also inherited things no corporate filing listed.
Connections.
Debts.
Men who waited for his approval before deciding whether an argument was business or something worse.
Marin looked toward the black sedan in Bay 2.
Then toward the three newer Bellwether cars sitting near the front wall.
“Bellwether is yours.”
“Yes.”
For three years, Bellwether had kept Ashb Auto alive.
Three cars almost every month.
Cash.
No complaint about price.
No invoice requested.
Marin felt something cold move through her.
“Why?”
Adrian’s eyes stayed on the wrench.
“Because your father asked me to keep work coming here if he ever couldn’t.”
There.
Marin did not move.
“My father died three years ago.”
“I know.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
Adrian looked at her.
“Well enough that he told me you would hate this conversation.”
There.
That sounded like Ward.
Which made it worse.
Marin set the scanner down.
“Get your car out of my garage.”
The two men near the door straightened.
Adrian raised one hand.
They stayed where they were.
Good.
“No one touches her.”
He said it without looking away from Marin.
She hated that too.
“I didn’t ask you to protect me from your own men.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“Fair.”
He looked toward the door.
“Outside.”
Both men hesitated only half a second.
Then left.
The older driver remained in the sedan outside.
Adrian stood alone in the garage.
“Better?”
“No.”
Also fair.
“Why did my father ask you to send work?”
“He didn’t ask for charity.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“He said if anything happened to him, Tobin would still need trade hours and you would try to keep the shop open until the building fell down around you.”
Marin’s jaw tightened.
“Sounds like him.”
“He made me promise the work would be real.”
There.
“It was.”
The Bellwether cars had needed brakes.
Oil.
Air conditioning.
Sensors.
Normal fleet wear.
Marin had never been paid to do nothing.
That mattered.
But not enough.
“Why cash?”
Adrian’s mouth tightened.
“That part is not mine.”
Marin laughed once.
“You own the company.”
“Yes.”
“Then try again.”
Good.
He did.
“My fleet supervisor kept using the payment method Ward had accepted.”
“I never accepted anything.”
“I know that now.”
There.
Adrian reached into his coat.
Marin’s body tightened.
He stopped.
Then slowly removed a business card.
Placed it on the workbench.
“Bellwether is audited. If you continue working on our vehicles, you’ll invoice the company like any other customer.”
“If?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m keeping the account?”
“I think that is your decision.”
Good.
Something in Marin relaxed despite herself.
Only slightly.
Then Adrian looked at the wrench again.
“Your father put that there after Vincent came here.”
“Who is Vincent?”
“My brother.”
There.
Marin stared.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
The word came flat.
Not emotionless.
Practiced.
“Vincent Santoro disappeared three years ago.”
The garage seemed to shrink.
Marin thought of the tin beneath the bench.
The cracked watch.
Stopped at 3:12.
Ward:
It belonged to someone who stopped by at 3:00 in the morning.
Marin’s pulse changed.
“What did he look like?”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
He took time.
“Thirty-nine. Dark hair. Scar under his chin. Broke his right index finger twice.”
Not useful.
Then:
“He wore an old watch our father gave him. Brown leather strap. Stainless case. Thin black face.”
There.
Marin went still.
Adrian saw.
“What?”
Nothing.
Marin’s mouth had gone dry.
“Wait here.”
“No.”
His answer came too fast.
She turned.
“What?”
“If this is about Vincent, do not disappear into the back of the shop alone after a man threatened you yesterday.”
Marin stared.
“How do you know Howerin was here?”
There.
Adrian’s silence answered too much.
Her anger arrived.
“You have people watching my garage?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“The driver outside saw Howerin’s car yesterday.”
There.
“He reported it because Bellwether vehicles were scheduled here.”
Not surveillance exactly.
Still.
Marin crossed her arms.
“Why would your driver care about Breck Howerin?”
Adrian’s expression cooled.
“Because Howerin has been trying to move stolen vehicles through independent garages for years.”
There.
“The cars get new plates, altered identifying parts, paperwork washed through small businesses, then resold or exported.”
Marin thought about Howerin’s offer.
Change plates.
Alter a few things.
No paperwork.
Two thousand a week.
Exactly.
“Did you know he came to my father too?”
Adrian’s face changed.
“No.”
There.
Marin believed him.
That irritated her.
She walked to the bench.
Knelt.
Pulled out the cookie tin.
Adrian did not approach.
Good.
Marin carried it to the workbench.
Opened it.
Investigation report.
Notebook.
Watch.
Adrian saw the watch.
Every part of him stopped.
Not metaphorically.
His shoulders.
Hands.
Breathing.
Everything.
He crossed the distance slowly.
“Where did you get that?”
“My father had it.”
Adrian reached.
Marin closed the tin.
His hand stopped in the air.
Good.
“Ask.”
His jaw tightened.
“May I see it?”
There.
“Yes.”
She reopened the lid.
He lifted the watch by the leather strap.
Turned it over.
On the back was a shallow scratch Marin had always assumed was damage.
Adrian rubbed it with his thumb.
Then showed her.
V.S.
Tiny.
Almost erased.
Vincent Santoro.
Marin sat.
“He came here.”
“Yes.”
“At three in the morning.”
Adrian looked at the stopped hands.
“Three twelve.”
“What?”
“The watch stopped at three twelve.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Vincent called me at three seventeen that morning.”
There.
Marin’s heart accelerated.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
She frowned.
“He called. I answered. The line stayed open twelve seconds.”
There.
“Then disconnected.”
“Did you call back?”
“Twenty-three times.”
Of course he knew the number.
“Police?”
Adrian looked at her.
“No.”
There.
That answer mattered.
“Why?”
“Because Vincent was involved in things neither of us wanted police examining.”
There.
Honest.
“Crime.”
“Yes.”
Good.
“And you?”
Adrian looked at her.
“Yes.”
No romantic euphemism.
Marin leaned back.
“So the most feared man in Providence walks into my garage, tells me he knew my father, recognizes a dead man’s watch, admits his brother was a criminal, and expects me not to call the police?”
“No.”
There.
“I expect you to.”
That stopped her.
He placed the watch back in the tin.
Carefully.
“Do not give that to me.”
Good.
“Why?”
“Because if it was Vincent’s last known possession, it is evidence.”
There.
Marin stared.
“You say that like you learned it the hard way.”
“I did.”
He looked at the investigation report.
“Your father’s fire.”
She closed the tin again.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get everything because you walked in and knew one object.”
There.
Adrian nodded.
“Fair.”
Then Marin said:
“Howerin offered me two thousand dollars a week.”
Adrian’s eyes hardened.
“For what?”
She told him.
Plates.
Alterations.
No paperwork.
He did not interrupt.
Then she said:
“My father’s notebook has the same amount starting three months before the fire.”
There.
Adrian’s jaw moved once.
“Show me?”
“No.”
Good.
He nodded.
“Then call police.”
Marin looked toward the smoke stain.
“The fire report says electrical.”
“Reports can be right.”
There.
“Threats can also repeat old patterns.”
Good.
“Do not decide before evidence.”
That sounded annoyingly reasonable for a man newspapers called a Mafia boss.
She picked up her phone.
“Who?”
Adrian gave her a name.
Detective Lena Ortiz.
Rhode Island State Police organized crime unit.
Marin looked at him.
“You have a favorite police officer?”
“She hates me.”
“Useful.”
“Yes.”
Good.
Marin called.
Not through Adrian.
From her own phone.
She told Ortiz exactly what she had.
Threat.
Notebook.
Watch.
Old fire.
No conclusions.
Ortiz said:
“Do not touch anything else in the tin.”
Good.
“Can you lock the shop and wait somewhere else?”
Marin looked around.
“This is somewhere else.”
Ortiz sighed.
“Ms. Ashb, a man threatened to burn your garage yesterday.”
There.
“When you say it like that.”
“I am saying it exactly like that.”
Fair.
Ortiz advised leaving until a trooper arrived.
Marin agreed.
Then Adrian said:
“I can wait outside.”
Marin looked.
“I didn’t ask.”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
There.
He accepted.
“I’ll leave.”
Good.
At Bay 2, his sedan remained half-diagnosed.
“What about your car?”
“Keep it.”
Marin almost smiled.
“Storage is seventy-five a day.”
“Invoice Bellwether.”
Good.
He walked toward the door.
Stopped under the pegboard.
Looked at Ward’s wrench one last time.
“Your father told Vincent something the week before he disappeared.”
Marin stiffened.
“What?”
Adrian looked back.
“Never let a man turn your skill into his alibi.”
There.
That sounded like Ward too.
Then Adrian left.
Twenty minutes later Detective Ortiz arrived.
Forty-two.
Short black hair.
Raincoat.
No patience.
She photographed the tin before touching anything.
Bagged the notebook.
Bagged the watch.
Copied the old fire report.
Then she stood beneath the pegboard.
“Which wrench?”
Marin pointed.
Ortiz looked.
“Why does it matter?”
“I don’t know.”
Good.
She brought a step stool.
Took the wrench down with gloves.
It was heavier than Marin remembered.
Ortiz turned it.
Something rattled inside the hollow handle.
There.
Marin stared.
Ward had not hung the wrench high because he wanted to think before using it.
He had hung it high because he never wanted anyone to use it at all.
Ortiz unscrewed the capped end.
Inside was a tightly rolled strip of paper sealed in plastic.
Three names.
One address.
May you like
And one sentence in Ward Ashb’s handwriting.
IF VINCENT DOESN’T COME BACK, HOWERIN KNOWS WHY.
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