And it didn't match the authorization procedures used by the preservation company.
Then the recovery company's internal messages revealed another problem.
The first job description called for removal.
A later instruction requested immediate destruction.
That second request was sent after the preservation supervisor refused to release the vehicle.
It came from an account associated with the HOA president.
The message described the vehicle as a "nuisance object" and instructed Premier to complete disposal before the owner returned.
My attorney read the wording aloud during a meeting.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then she looked toward me.
"That's important."
I nodded.
The timing mattered.
The president knew I objected.
She knew the preservation company wouldn't release the car voluntarily.
And she specifically requested destruction before I could intervene.
It was becoming difficult to describe the incident as an innocent misunderstanding.
The recovery company's owner eventually requested a meeting.
My attorney agreed to speak with his counsel, but she refused to let the conversation become an informal attempt to make me accept blame or surrender my claims.
The meeting took place in a neutral conference room.
The owner was a heavyset man in his early sixties with graying hair and a rough voice. He'd operated heavy recovery equipment for more than twenty-five years and built the company from a small towing business into a regional service provider.
He looked exhausted.
For several seconds, he studied me.
Then he spoke.
"I didn't know what that car was."
I remained quiet.
He continued.
"If I'd known it was worth that kind of money, I never would've let the job go forward."
My attorney leaned toward him.
"Are you saying you would've verified authorization only if the vehicle was expensive?"
The man froze.
For a moment, he looked toward his lawyer.
Then answered.
"No."
My attorney waited.
He sighed.
"That came out wrong."
I looked directly at him.
"It doesn't matter whether the car was worth four million dollars or four hundred."
He nodded.
I continued.
"It wasn't yours."
The man lowered his eyes.
For several seconds, he remained silent.
Then he admitted that the company should have verified the paperwork properly and stopped the operation when the preservation supervisor objected.
His lawyer clarified that the formal allocation of responsibility remained disputed.
But the owner didn't try to pretend the crew had handled everything correctly.
He looked toward me.
Then said quietly.
"I'm sorry about your father."
For a moment, I felt my throat tighten.
He'd learned about the car's history through the documentation.
He knew the Phoenix represented decades of family work.