The balance sheet for the south Detroit freight terminal was short two hundred thousand dollars in fuel surcharges, and the paper trail ended at Victor Vance’s desk.

He didn’t raise his eyes when I slid the green folder across the mahogany conference table.

“It’s a small accounting delay, Lucas,” Victor said.

He tugged slowly at his right cuff link before resting his manicured hands on the dark walnut trim.

“The winter storms held up four freight convoys coming up from the Ohio line.”

“The convoys got in Tuesday afternoon,” Paige said.

She checked her wristwatch, the second hand sweeping under the bright recessed ceiling lights.

“I signed the gate receipts at the south yard myself at six that morning.”

Victor gave a smooth, practiced smile, his dark eyes steady against the black glass of the forty-third-floor windows.

Outside, heavy winter snow whirled over Woodward Avenue, smearing the endless line of red taillights forty stories down.

“We need to restructure the shipping lines right away,” Victor said, waving at the digital projection screen on the wall.

“If we put the south route under my direct operational control tomorrow, these little discrepancies will sort themselves out.”

“Where’s the original audit file for the fall quarter?” I asked.

My voice stayed short and low.

“The yellow folder from this floor is gone.”

Victor straightened his silver fountain pen on the blotter.

“I sent those particular papers to central storage for safekeeping during the preliminary review.”

Paige leaned over the table, her voice sharp.