"My sergeant's coming," Brodersen said. "And detectives, probably, now. And somebody from the bank, if they can wake anybody up. You're going to have to stay a while. I need a statement."
"Okay."
"You're not under arrest. You're not detained anymore. You could walk away right now and I couldn't stop you. I'm asking you to stay."
"I'll stay."
"Why?"
Lorenz looked at him. It seemed like a strange question. "Because it's Dorrit's money," he said. "I'm not leaving it on a car."
Brodersen made a sound that was not quite a laugh. He stripped off his gloves and went and sat down on the curb at the edge of the bank lot, under the floodlight, with his forearms on his knees, and after a moment Lorenz went and sat beside him. Not close. There was a yard of concrete between them. The cold of the curb came up through his jeans.
"There was a van," Lorenz said.
The cop turned his head.
"When I came down Broadway. Across the street, at the auto-parts place, in the lot. White cargo van, full-size, a Ford I think, the tall roof. Ladder rack on top. No ladders. The engine running, the parking lights on. I couldn't see inside. When your lights came on, I heard something pull out from that direction and go north. Not fast. Just driving away."