The garage smelled of old oil and damp cardboard.

I went straight to my car and drove downtown through the morning traffic.

The county land registry office reeked of industrial floor wax.

A line of wet boots had tracked mud over the white tiles from the glass double doors to the main counter.

At ten o’clock sharp, Susan was standing behind the glass partition.

She had on a thick gray sweater over a collared shirt and held a stack of blue property files against her chest.

“I need to look at the title on the Birch Street property,” I said.