“He told me he was meeting a contractor.”

The paper shook in his hand.

He set it flat on the steering wheel.

“He built a paper trail pointing straight to your door,” David said.

“If an audit ever came, he wanted your name in the first paragraph.”

The parking lot smelled of hot asphalt and fried onions.

A truck engine turned over two rows away.

“Who at the bank would accept this?” I asked.