The first sign that something was wrong came just after six in the evening. Lawson Customs had finally gone quiet and I stood behind the reception desk finishing the last invoice of the day while Ben cleaned the workbench.
Outside, the sun was dropping behind the buildings, and the familiar golden light stretched across the pavement.
"Everything done?" Ben asked as he looked up from the computer.
"Everything except the collector's motorcycle." I said.
I glanced toward the rare vintage machine sitting beneath its protective cover.
"That one's going nowhere tonight." I said.
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow." He said as he grabbed his jacket.
"Drive safely." I said.
"You too." He said.
After Ben left, I checked the locks, switched off the workshop lights and headed upstairs.
Diesel gre
