The county records archive was in the basement of an old brick building three blocks from the courthouse. Walter Ashbury had a key from his retirement and a quiet understanding with the night security guard. He let Ulisses in at seven in the evening. The lights flickered.
The boxes were stacked by decade. “What is the notary's name on that contract of theirs?” Walter asked, setting down a thermos of coffee. “Cornelius Patterson.” Walter nodded slowly. He moved with the certainty of a man who had spent 50 years putting paper in boxes and could find any sheet in any year with his eyes closed.
He pulled a thin folder from the third row of the second cabinet. He sat it on the metal table between them. The folder said Patterson Cornelius, Notary Commission Records. He opened it.
He turned past the commission papers, past the renewal forms, past the address changes. Near the back, he stopped. He slid a single sheet across the table. It was a death certificate.
Cornelius Patterson had died on a date that fell eight months before the date stamped on the land transfer agreement Bradford Sinclair had submitted as exhibit A. A dead man could not notarize a deed. Ulisses did not smile. He did not let out a breath.
He only opened his notebook and wrote down the date in tight, careful pencil. Then he asked very quietly for a certified copy. Walter made him three. What else are you going to need, son?
The parcel survey number on exhibit A. Walter pulled out the surveyor's log book. He ran his finger down the column. He stopped.
He ran it down again to be sure. Then he looked at Ulisses for a long moment. This survey number didn't exist on the date that contract was supposedly signed. The county didn't issue it until a year and six months later, 18 months.
Two impossibilities. One, forgery. Sinclair's entire case rested on a single piece of paper that contradicted both physics and time. Ulisses sat down on a wooden chair in the basement of that records archive.