The garage bay doors were rolled halfway up, and the smell of fresh solvent drifted out into the gravel lot.

Dale sat at the metal counter in the front office, wiping grease off a pair of safety glasses with a shop rag.

I laid the silver key ring on the glass counter between us.

“The diagnostic scanner manuals are piled on the bottom shelf next to the tire balancer,” I said.

Dale set the glasses down and looked at the empty spot where my red coffee can used to be.

“The mechanics need somebody who knows the parts inventory, Becky,” Dale said.