“Leave the bank before the manager calls Oakridge security.”

The line went dead.

A man in a gray suit walked out of a glass office and looked straight at me.

I pushed through the heavy double doors and walked quickly back to my Buick.

I drove straight from the bank to Howard Finch’s office.

His private investigator’s office was above a hardware store on Main Street.

At a quarter to six, the sky outside his second-floor window was completely dark.

Howard spread three large county mapping records across his metal desk.