The Marina Manager Opened a Folder Marked Owner Supplied

Bellglass Marina sat down a sheltered stretch of shore outside town. Its summer snack window was boarded shut. Wind lifted the loose end of a tarp against an empty boat stand.

Simone drove. I held the printed photograph on my knees.

"We are asking questions," she said. "We are not taking anything."

"I wasn't planning to steal back aluminum I'm accused of stealing."

"Good. That would be a difficult sentence to explain."

The marina manager, Ruth, met us at the office. Simone showed her city identification and explained the missing material inquiry.

Ruth's eyes went straight to me.

"You're the sled man from the radio."

I had not heard the radio.

"What did they say?"

"A contractor was suspended over missing supplies. No name. But there aren't many sled shops."

Simone set the picture on the counter.

"Was this taken here?"

"Seventeen. Wade's new landing. Why?"

Neither of us answered fast enough.

Ruth took off her glasses.

"What has he done?"

"That's what we're trying to establish," Simone said.

Ruth owned the marina. Wade rented a slip under a long lease and had paid to improve its landing. He had spoken of a better place to tie up the racing boat he hoped to buy.

She allowed us onto the dock and stayed beside us.

I recognized the yellow edge from the photograph. On the unfinished landing, rainwater stood in shallow beads on bare plate. Near a corner, under a clamp, I could read L8836/09.

I kept my hands in my coat.

"That's the number in his picture," I said.

Simone took a wide photograph, then a close one. Ruth stood in both.

"Please leave everything here untouched while I contact city counsel," Simone told her. "Can you pause the work voluntarily?"

"Yes. My builder isn't due back until Monday."

Inside, Ruth opened a folder marked OWNER SUPPLIED. Wade's landing estimate came to $24,600. A later change removed $18,480 for plate he would provide. The remaining labor and other materials cost $6,120.

I looked at Simone.

"Same dollar amount."

"An amount is a lead," she said. "We need its support."

The original estimate called for 6061-T6 deck plate. Attached to the change was a new material list: 5086-H116, three-sixteenths inch.

Simone took a long breath.

"He changed the alloy to match the city's order."

Ruth pushed the file across the counter.

"He said it was surplus he'd bought at auction."

"Did he provide an auction receipt?"

"I asked. He said the city was slow."

There was no receipt. There was a delivery note from a hired truck. Fourteen sheets, received at slip seventeen. Wade had signed the owner line.

Ruth gave Simone copies and kept the originals in her office safe.

"He wanted the remaining stencils ground off before painting," Ruth said.

"Is that in writing?" Simone asked.

Ruth opened an email and turned her screen around. Wade had called the numbers ugly.

I had spent years making those numbers easy to find. He had nearly paid someone to erase the route home.

Before we left, Simone called city counsel from the parking lot. She reported the visible sheet number, the documents, and Ruth's agreement to stop work.

Then she called the police desk and asked how to provide records for an investigator.

I watched two gulls walk across the empty lot.

"Now can we say he took it?"

"We can say where one numbered sheet went. We still need to show how it left city custody."

That was the part that scared me. The city's own form said I had received it. A marina full of plate could still become a story about something I had sold Wade.

"He'll say I delivered it," I said.

"Then we establish who did."

My phone rang before she started the car.

Wade.

I let it go to voicemail.

His message was short. "You were told to let the review process work. Calling people doesn't improve your position."

I played it for Simone.

"Save it," she said.

At home, I checked my bills. Shop insurance was due in six days. My truck payment was $412. The held $7,200 was money I had already earned on frames and fixtures, not a cushion I could spare.

I paid $600 for a consultation with a local lawyer, June Voss. She told me to send every paper, keep every message, and stop answering Wade directly.

"What about the rescue sleds?" I asked.

"We ask for a prompt safety review. You can't build through a closure order."

That night, someone pushed an envelope through my apartment mail slot.

Inside was Wade's proposed contractor resolution: admit responsibility, repay $18,480, and leave city work for five years. In return, he would recommend that no criminal complaint be pursued.

Across the top he had written, in blue pen, OFFER EXPIRES TOMORROW.