She smiled despite herself.
Then the seriousness returned.
“Who are you?”
The question sounded different now.
Not dismissive.
Curious.
He gave her the simplest answer.
“A mechanic.”
“That explains the flashlight.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t explain this.”
She pointed toward the chassis number.
The Single Dad looked at the car.
“My father restored race cars.”
“Professionally?”
“When people paid him.”
“And when they didn’t?”
“He restored them anyway.”
The Female CEO folded her sunglasses.
“What was his specialty?”
“Forgotten cars.”
“That isn’t a specialty.”
“It was to him.”
The Single Dad smiled faintly.
“He liked machines that had already disappointed everybody.”
The Female CEO looked toward Lot 147.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Maybe.”
“You recognized the reinforcement pattern from photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Whose photographs?”
“My father’s.”
Her expression changed.
“Your father saw CGTR001?”
“No.”
“He collected research.”
“Magazine clippings.”
“Race programs.”
“Factory photos.”
“Anything.”
“He had a file on the prototype.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought the story was wrong.”
The Female CEO stared.
The Single Dad continued:
“The company said the chassis was destroyed after the crash.”
“My father thought the damage photos didn’t match total destruction.”
“He believed the company stripped the useful components, renumbered whatever survived, and quietly sold it as scrap.”
The auction specialist shook his head.
“That is speculation.”
“Yes.”
The Single Dad looked at him.
“Speculation becomes more interesting when it has a chassis number.”
The Female CEO turned toward the car again.
“What happened to your father’s files?”
“In storage.”
“Where?”
“New Jersey.”
“How quickly can you get them?”
The Single Dad frowned.
“You’re assuming I’m helping.”
The Female CEO looked genuinely surprised.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t you help?”
He looked around the auction hall.
Wealth.
Security.
Specialists.
Millions of dollars moving through conversations.
Then at her.
“Because five minutes ago you were laughing at me for looking.”
She did not flinch.
“You laughed at my estimate first.”
“True.”
“So we’re even.”
“No.”
“How not?”
“You control the auction.”
“I control the company.”
“Exactly.”
She understood.
Power.
Not ego.
The Single Dad continued:
“If this car is real, the value changes immediately.”
“If I help authenticate it, your company makes money.”
“The consignor makes money.”
“Collectors make money.”
“Everyone except the person who identified it.”
The Female CEO held his gaze.
“Are you asking for a fee?”
“No.”