Leo Driscoll bought a crashed 2012 sedan at a county auto auction for $850 to salvage its engine.
A sharp rapping echoed through Bay Three, cutting through the low hum of power tools. I looked up from the engine block, wrench still in hand.
A man in a crisp suit stood at the bay entrance, a stack of papers clutched in his hand. He looked out of place among the grease stains and spare tires.
Carla, wiping oil from her hands with a rag, moved to intercept him. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice already edged with impatience.
“Leo Driscoll?” the man asked, scanning the bay. His eyes landed on me.
I froze, the name catching in my throat. I hadn’t seen a process server since before my parole.
“I have an emergency temporary restraining order,” the man announced, holding out a document. “Issued by the Superior Court, on behalf of Apex Restructuring LLC.”
Carla snatched the papers. Her eyes darted across the legal jargon, her brow furrowing deeper with each line. “What is this?” she demanded. “You can’t just stop work on a customer’s car!”
The server remained impassive. “The order mandates immediate cessation of all work on the 2012 sedan, VIN ending in 7748. Furthermore, it prohibits any alteration or removal of its contents.”
My mind raced. The phone. It was still tucked into my toolbox, right beneath a set of metric sockets. If they searched the car now, it would be found.
I casually leaned back against my workbench, my hand inching towards the toolbox lid. Carla was still arguing with the server, her voice rising in frustration.
“This is ridiculous!” Carla exclaimed, waving the papers. “We have a lien on this vehicle for storage and labor. Who even is Apex Restructuring?”
The server just shrugged, already turning to leave. “My job is to deliver, ma’am. Any questions, contact the court.”
As he walked away, I quickly slid the cracked smartphone deeper into the toolbox, pushing it under a pile of rags. The last thing I needed was more trouble.
Maya, who had been sitting in the small office nook, came out, her laptop open. She had heard the entire exchange.
“Apex Restructuring LLC,” she murmured, already typing. “That’s awfully fast. Julian Brody’s body hasn’t even been officially identified yet.”
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. The screen glowed with corporate registration records.
“Huh,” Maya said, a flicker of something unsettling in her eyes. “This LLC was only formed four days ago.”
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