“I used the service entrance key your housekeeper gave me last week,” he said, stepping into the study.

He looked at Arthur, then at the black computer screen.

“I saw Preston’s car down the street ten minutes ago,” Daniel said. “He wasn’t alone.”

“He wiped the drive,” Arthur said, rubbing his temples. “Everything we pulled from the server is gone.”

Daniel set the briefcase on Arthur’s desk.

“Then it is a good thing I didn’t rely on the digital files,” Daniel said.

He opened the latches of the briefcase with two sharp clicks.

Inside were thick stacks of paper, bound by heavy blue rubber bands.

“What are these?” I asked, touching the cold edge of the top folder.

“Physical ledgers from the hotel’s private vault,” Daniel said. “Preston kept a duplicate set of books for his personal expenses here.”

“Can we use them?” I asked, looking at Arthur.

Arthur turned over a page, his eyes scanning the columns of numbers.

“Not on our own,” Arthur said. “We need Marcus Vance.”

Two days later, the rain turned to heavy snow against the window of a small, windowless office on Madison Avenue.