“They caught him with two five-gallon cans of kerosene in the bed of his truck,” Voss said. “He didn’t even have time to wash the soot off his sleeves.”

“Did he talk?”

“Not yet,” Voss said, his eyes dropping to the wooden box in my arms. “But he will. He’s a country club broker, Maren. He isn’t built for a state penitentiary.”

“We found the trust documents,” I said, tapping my pocket. “And a drive.”

Voss’s eyebrows shot up. “Where?”

“Under the velvet lining of the medal case.”

Voss let out a dry, short laugh. “The old man always did know how to hide things in plain sight.”

We walked inside the lobby.

The interior smelled of pine-scented cleaner, old paper, and burnt coffee.

A young deputy behind a high bulletproof partition nodded to Miller and pressed the buzzer to let us through the inner security door.

The linoleum floor clicked loudly under my military boots as we walked down the narrow, white-walled corridor.

At the far end of the hall, through a small wire-glass window, I could see Arthur Vance.