“Yes.”
The bank was on the corner of Spruce and Main, across the street from Sweeney’s and an easy walk from where we were.
Alan made a beeline for the desk of one of the women who worked with bank customers. “Is Mr. Thornton available, Patsy?”
She checked her computer then told him he was and that she’d let him know we were there. Available apparently was a slight misnomer. It took fifteen minutes before he came out of his office to greet us.
“Planning on opening a money market account like I suggested, Sheriff?”
“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it,” Alan said. “Right now I need to talk to you about something else, in private.”
“No problem.” Thornton took us into his office before asking why I was there.
Alan told him while I took out my notepad and pen. Then he got down to busin
