The tires crunched over the loose gravel.

We left the marina behind and drove back toward the county line.

At two o’clock, we sat around the large mahogany table in Carl’s office.

The room smelled of lemon polish and old leather.

Carl opened his briefcase.

He took out a thick stack of bank ledgers and accounting summaries.

He laid the papers out in three neat rows across the polished wood and set a silver paperweight on the top corner to hold them down.

“The fraud is systematic,” Carl said.