“So my father’s Ferrari has been waiting for you.”
The Single Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“That’s romantic nonsense.”
She almost smiled.
“Very disappointing.”
“It was waiting for somebody who understood the system.”
“And that somebody happens to be you.”
“Today.”
She moved closer.
“That sounds remarkably like fate.”
“That sounds remarkably like maintenance records.”
She laughed.
The Single Dad smiled despite himself.
Then the senior technician entered.
“We found something.”
He carried a folder.
The CEO turned.
Inside were invoices from the previous five years.
Repeated replacement parts.
Distributor assemblies.
Coils.
Fuel pumps.
Switchgear.
Several components supposedly purchased as original vintage parts.
The Single Dad read.
Then frowned.
“This makes no sense.”
“What?”
The CEO asked.
He pointed toward one invoice.
“They replaced the original distributor three years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the removed one?”
The technician shook his head.
“Not in storage.”
The Single Dad looked toward the CEO.
“Who authorized parts disposal?”
She called her Collection Director.
The answer arrived fifteen minutes later.
Original replaced parts were normally retained.
Especially on historically significant cars.
But several components from the Ferrari had been recorded as “non-recoverable damaged items.”
The Single Dad’s face hardened.
“Distributor housings don’t become non-recoverable because a car won’t start.”
The CEO understood.
“You think something was stolen.”
“I think something is missing.”
The investigation changed direction.
The garage inventoried everything removed from the car over five years.
Seven historically significant original parts could not be located.
Invoices showed they had been replaced.
The replacements were high-quality replicas.
Functional.
Expensive.
But not original.
The CEO’s face became cold.
“How much are those original parts worth?”
The Garage Owner hesitated.
“Collector market?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
He named a number approaching seven figures.
The CEO did not react.
The Single Dad did.
“That’s why your father locked the car.”
She looked toward him.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
“But maybe he knew somebody was taking pieces.”
The CEO remembered something.
Before his death, her father had fired a Collection Manager.
At the time, she assumed it involved personality.
Her father refused to explain.
The man later opened a restoration brokerage.
He had recommended several specialists used during the Ferrari’s failed restoration.
The CEO’s stomach tightened.
She called her attorney.
By lunch, records were being preserved.
The Single Dad hated where the story was going.
He wanted a machine.
He was getting a conspiracy.
The CEO seemed almost energized.
He noticed.
“Don’t enjoy this too much.”
She looked toward him.
“Someone may have stolen from my father.”
“Yes.”
“I’m allowed to be angry.”
“You look happy.”
“I like having a target.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She stared.
He continued working.
The attraction between them became increasingly difficult to ignore.
Especially because every argument placed them close together.
That afternoon, the CEO leaned over his shoulder while he traced the interlock.