“You took your time,” she said.

“Traffic was bad,” I said.

“We need Wade’s keys,” she said, leaning over the sheriff.

She reached into his front pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key ring.

“His office is down the hall,” Sophia said. “He keeps the backup drives there.”

“The ones with the payroll?” I asked.

“Everything,” she said. “He’s been blackmailing Margaret for ten years to keep his job.”

We left Miller unconscious on the floor and dragged Wade into the corner.

Sophia used the nylon ropes to tie Wade’s hands behind his back.

“Try to scream, and I’ll come back,” she told him.

Wade glared at us, his breathing ragged.

We hurried down the hall to the sheriff’s private office.

The door was solid oak, but the key turned easily in the lock.

Inside, the office smelled of stale cigars and leather.

A large oak desk sat in the center, flanked by filing cabinets.

“In the floorboard,” Sophia said, pointing under the desk.

I knelt down and pushed the heavy leather chair aside.

There was a small safe bolted to the concrete underneath a loose rug.