She glanced up at the ceiling lights and then toward the hallway door before she spoke again.

“Who forged the nineteen ninety death certificate with Claire Rowan’s name on it?” Arlene asked.

No one in the quiet vault answered her.

We came up out of the courthouse basement at eleven forty-five and walked two blocks down the avenue to a small strip mall.

Howard Cobb’s law office was wedged between a dry cleaner and an abandoned bakery.

The glass door hummed when I pushed it open, letting out a stale breath of cold coffee and paper dust.