“I am looking at the ledger,” I said.
“The bar association representative called my office at six,” Dorothy said. “They want to schedule the hearing for next Tuesday.”
“I will be ready,” I said.
“Evan has already submitted his version of the billing records,” she said. “He is claiming you authorized the transfer of the retainer.”
“He is lying,” I said.
“I know he is,” Dorothy said. “But the bank has no reason to doubt him unless we show them the original signed contracts.”
“The originals are still in his office cabinet,” I said.
“The building is locked at six,” she said.
“I still have the security pass,” I said.
There was a long pause on the line, the sound of Dorothy’s breathing quiet against the receiver.
“Be careful, Claire,” she said.
“I will call you when I have them,” I said, and hung up the phone.
The Friday afternoon bank deadline was less than twenty-two hours away.
If I did not act tonight, the bank would call the loan, and the files would be locked behind a court order.
I picked up my car keys from the counter.
My hand brushed against the bare spot on my left ring finger, the skin there still slightly pale.
The yellow legal pad remained on the table, the columns of numbers written in my precise script.
I walked to the front closet and pulled my heavy wool coat from its hanger.
The glass lobby of the office tower on Cary Street was silent when I pushed through the heavy revolving door at ten o’clock.
Frank, the night security guard, looked up from his small television screen behind the white marble desk.
He had worked the desk for six years, and he knew my face from the nights I had stayed past midnight working on Evan’s proposals.
“Working late, Miss Vance?” Frank asked, sliding his black leather logbook toward me.
“Just a quick errand,” I said, reaching into my purse for the blue plastic security pass.
The plastic card felt light in my hand, its magnetic strip worn thin from years of daily use.
I held it near the black reader on the barrier, waiting for the green flash that would let me through the turnstile.
The machine gave a short beep, and the metal arm clicked open.
Frank watched me step through, his hand hovering over his black telephone.
“Mr. Richardson said the office was closed for the week,” Frank said.
“I am just here to collect my personal legal references from the cabinet,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“He said no one was supposed to go up to eight,” Frank said, squinting at the logbook.
“I still have my active keys,” I said, showing him the brass keyring.
He looked at the keys, then back at his television screen.
“Just sign the book on your way out,” he said.
“I will,” I said.
I signed my name on the blue line, noting the time as ten-oh-five.
The elevator lobby was empty, the polished marble floor reflecting the brass light fixtures above.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor.
The elevator climbed silently, the numbers lighting up on the panel above the door.
The air in the metal car was cool and smelled of industrial cleaner.
I adjusted the collar of my wool coat as the elevator slowed to a stop.
The elevator doors slid open into a dark reception area that smelled of lemon wax and stale carpet.
The glass double doors of Richardson Consulting were locked, the gold lettering on the front reflecting the exit sign.
I did not have the key to the front door, but the service entrance near the mailroom was always left unlocked for the cleaning crew.
I walked down the narrow side hallway, my heels clicking softly on the linoleum floor.
The utility door opened with a quiet creak when I turned the brass knob.
Inside, the desks were dark shapes in the shadows, their computer monitors blank and black.
I walked toward the corner office, the one with the view of the river that Evan had insisted on leasing.
His mahogany desk was clear, except for a leather blotter and a silver pen tray.
On the corner of the desk sat a framed photograph of the two of us at the botanical gardens last spring.
I picked it up, turned it face down on the polished wood, and walked behind the desk.
Against the back wall stood the four-drawer steel filing cabinet where the active client files were kept.
I pulled the small brass key from my coat pocket, the spare key I had kept in my kitchen drawer.
The lock turned with a dry metallic click.
I pulled the second drawer open, its rollers squeaking in the quiet room.
The green hanging folders were organized alphabetically, but Arthur’s file was not there.
I searched the third drawer, my fingers flipping through the tabs until I found the thick manila folder labeled Vance and Vance Retainers.
Inside were the original signed contracts, the ones showing that my firm had performed seventy-four thousand dollars in unpaid legal services.
These documents proved the work was done before Evan took the forty thousand dollars.
I lifted the folder from the drawer and held it against my chest.
A floorboard creaked in the outer hallway, and the sound of a heavy bucket hitting the floor echoed through the suite.
I stood perfectly still in the dark office, holding the files.
The whistling of the janitor started up near the reception desk.
If he found me here, he would call security, and Frank would have to report my presence to Evan.
I slid the drawer shut, locking it with the spare key before slipping it back into my pocket.
I walked out through the back door, keeping my head down as I descended the concrete steps of the fire stairwell.
The air in the stairwell was cold, and my breath misted in the damp light.
I pushed open the heavy exit door at the bottom and stepped into the alley.
The cold pavement was wet from the evening mist, and the damp oak leaves clung to my leather shoes.
I walked quickly to my car, placing the manila folder on the passenger seat before locking the door.
The kitchen clock showed eleven-thirty when I locked my front door behind me.
I laid the original contracts on the counter, their blue ink signatures clear under the fluorescent bulb of my small home copier.
These documents were the only proof that could save Vance and Vance from the bank’s claims.
If Arthur saw that Evan had lied about our legal coverage, he would have no choice but to terminate his contract.
I turned on the copier, the machine warming up with a low hum that filled the quiet room.
I placed the first page on the glass and pressed the button.
The white light flickered, illuminating the dark corners of the kitchen as the machine began to print.
I prepared two large manila envelopes, writing Gary’s name on one and Arthur’s on the other.
The original files would go into my office safe tomorrow morning, but these copies would be delivered before the five o’clock deadline.
The green light of the copier swept across the white pages in the dark kitchen.
By ten o’clock on Friday morning, the mahogany table in our main conference room had been wiped down twice, leaving the faint scent of lemon oil in the dry air.