“You ran the routing numbers from the deposit,” I said.

Arthur laid the paper flat on the reception counter.

He pointed to a string of nine digits highlighted in yellow.

The drone of old window air conditioners filled the little lobby.

“I figured it would trace back to his commercial account,” Arthur said.

“It didn’t.”

I looked closely at the highlighted digits.

They didn’t match the local community bank we’d been to the week before.