My hand shook slightly as I slid the key into the lock.

It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

I pushed the door open.

The office smelled of stale cigar smoke and expensive leather.

A massive mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, lit only by the green glow of a banker’s lamp.

Behind the desk was a built-in bookshelf filled with old, leather-bound ledgers.

“Lock the door behind us,” Denise said, pulling a portable scanner from her briefcase.

I turned the deadbolt.

I went straight to the filing cabinets in the corner.

They were heavy, olive-green metal, dating back to the late seventies.

The second drawer was locked, but the lock was old and worn.

I grabbed a heavy metal letter opener from Nico’s desk and wedged it into the seam.

With a hard yank, the lock gave way with a sharp, metallic snap.

I pulled the drawer open.

Inside were rows of yellowed manila folders.

Most of them were labeled with dates from the 1980s.

My fingers brushed past files on food distributors, linen services, and tax filings.