Arthur Vance had both banker’s boxes open on his conference table before I’d gotten my jacket off.

“The records came Tuesday,” he said.

“I wanted you here when I broke the seal.”

The flap lifted with a papery sound.

Inside were folders held together by rubber bands gone soft, and the smell of a basement rose off them.

“Coffee’s behind you.

It’s been there since seven and it’s terrible.”

I poured half a cup and put it back on the tray without tasting it.