Every document I found pointed to a series of unexplained consulting fees paid to Marcus Salinas, a marketing consultant we had hired last spring.
The files did not contain any reports or deliverables to justify the eighty-five thousand dollars we had paid him over the summer.
I copied the transaction numbers onto a yellow legal pad, my pen making a sharp scratching sound in the quiet room.
By noon, the wind had picked up, and the security desk called to warn me that the city buses were suspending service.
I packed my notes into the black leather folder, resolved to complete the analysis at home where I had access to our older tax archives.
By three in the afternoon, the storm had turned the city into a quiet, grey grid of slow-moving traffic.
The driving had been tedious, the tires of my sedan slipping slightly on the steep climb up the hill back into Cherry Hills Village.
The private consulting meeting in town had ended early because the municipal offices were closing due to the weather.
