“My father wants this settled fast,” I said.

“Then we go straight to the record room,” Daniel said, buttoning his wool coat.

“We need to pull the original tax rolls for parcel nine before five o’clock.”

We walked two blocks to the Portsmouth Municipal Building.

The double glass doors shut behind us with a heavy thud.

The basement record room smelled of old canvas binders and damp concrete.

Clara Potts sat behind the frosted glass counter.