Hank Ross was parked on Maplewood Lane at a quarter past one, his sedan angled to watch a converted bungalow with a yard sign that read Vance Holdings, Accounting Division.

“Small operation,” he said.

“Two women and a fax machine.

The process server went in at one-oh-five.”

“Any problems?”

“She read it twice and asked if she could call someone.

I told her she could call whoever she wanted, the papers were already in her hand.”

Hank took a folded receipt out of his jacket and smoothed it on the steering wheel.