Frank raised one finger and waited for the tone.

“Miller owned the tow truck parked by the upper bridge,” Frank said into the phone before anyone picked up.

“Zane paid him cash to forget he’d seen the red truck’s engine running at two in the afternoon.”

He hung up without waiting for anyone to answer and took his leather jacket off the back of the chair.

We drove his rusty Ford pickup to the basement side door of the county building on Main Street.

The air down there smelled of wet concrete and old cardboard.