He adjusted the strap of his watch.

“I can deal with Dale Owens if your head starts acting up again.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my head,” I said.

Garrett smiled and screwed the lid back onto the thermos.

“We’ll see what the numbers look like at noon.”

I pulled out of the warehouse lot at half past ten and headed straight downtown.

Dale Owens sat behind a broad mahogany desk on the third floor of First National Bank on Elm Street.

He stacked five loan folders into a perfectly square pile, his fingers lining up every paper edge until they matched.