“Get me Arthur Vance,” Sarah said into the receiver. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

She hung up and looked at me, her face pale but set in a hard line.

“Who is Arthur Vance?” I asked.

“The forensic accountant,” Sarah said. “If we want to stop this motion, we have to show the judge that Grant is hiding assets and manipulating the system.”

Ten minutes later, a thin man in a charcoal suit walked into the office.

Arthur Vance had thick, silver-rimmed glasses and carried a black leather briefcase that looked older than I was.

He did not shake my hand; he simply nodded and sat down in the chair next to mine.

“Show me what you have,” Vance said, his voice flat and dry as paper.

I pushed my leather-bound logbook across the desk toward him.

On top of the logbook, I placed Nolan’s drawings.

Vance took a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and began to flip through my notes.

The office was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights and the distant sound of traffic on Gay Street.