Arthur Vance sat in a corner booth by the back door of the coffee shop, two heavy porcelain mugs of four-dollar coffee steaming on the Formica table between his hands.

Arthur, who had handled my grandfather’s forensic accounts for thirty years, put down his mug and took a microfiber cloth out of his vest pocket.

He polished his thin wire-rimmed glasses slowly before he said a word.

“I spent four hours at the county records desk last night, Madison,” Arthur said in his slow, dry professor’s voice.

He unzipped a dark leather satchel sitting on the vinyl seat next to him and brought out two stacks of old bank statements held together with heavy black binder clips.

“Take a look at page three of last year’s August summary,” Arthur said, laying the sheet flat on the table.