He stood by the reception desk with his pen already in hand, tapping it once on the edge of his legal pad.

“Ms. Whitcomb. Right on schedule.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Walter would’ve expected nothing less.” He glanced at the check, folded it once, and tucked it into his breast pocket without commenting on the amount.

“Come on back to the file room.

I want you to see what we’ve got.”

The file room smelled of old paper and warm toner.

On a long table sat three binders, each as thick as a phone book, and a banker’s box of manila folders with dates written on the tabs in Walter’s own hand.