Fletcher hated this part of the job. Bank policy, etc., yes, he knew. Many finance companies would just send letters and lawyers and then the sheriff with a padlock: part of what kept him at Morgan, Tanner and Rosenbaum despite the money he might make at BOA or even Wells-Fargo was the personal touch.

That didn’t make kicking people out any easier.

He pulled into the gate and drove up to the front of the derelict hotel. Jesus F. Christ, they hadn’t done anything with the place. He was starting to think – starting to hope, even – that the people had just taken the money and left the country. Paperwork would be Hell, but he wouldn’t have to serve them with the eviction today.

But no, there was a car parked out front. Someone must be here.

He walked up the wide steps and tried the door, which swung open easily – obviously oiled, recently. And someone was playing a radio, within, he was sure of it. Oldies. He could hear a trumpet’s high warble from far inside.