At the bottom of each certificate were two tiny inked footprints, no bigger than the tip of my thumb.

I pulled the desk phone over, picked up the heavy receiver, and dialed the private line to the dispatch yard.

Dale answered on the second ring.

“Garrett,” Dale said.

“Where are you at right now?”

“In the home office,” I said.

“I’m holding the bank record from the lake lot sale.”

Dale cleared his throat on the line.