“Right now we need to put the fear of God into a retired hospital administrator.”

Arthur wrote three dense paragraphs on his legal pad.

He used a ruler to tear the sheet off cleanly, folded it in thirds, and slipped it into a thick manila envelope.

“Where do we find him?” I asked.

“Richard spends every Friday afternoon at the country club,” Arthur said.

“Club.”

Arthur stood up and reached for the tweed jacket hanging on the back of his door.

We parked at the Oakmont Country Club at two fifteen.