"Somebody's here from security," he said. "Says he has orders from headquarters."
Daniel asked which department had issued the orders. Lawson shook his head. Before anyone could answer, a metal service door at the far end of the building slammed shut with a noise that traveled down every aisle.
Victoria stood. Daniel moved the box behind the table and checked the signal on his phone. It was weak but present. The police report had already been logged, and the patrol unit was still on its way. He opened the recording function, not because he believed a telephone could protect them, but because he had learned that precise evidence could protect the truth afterward.
Footsteps approached from the front office. A security guard in a dark uniform entered the archive with a printed work order in his hand. He looked first at Daniel, then at the open box, and his expression altered in a way Daniel recognized from years of dealing with employees asked to carry out instructions they did not fully understand.
"Mr. Carter," the guard said. "I'm going to need you to come with me."
"On whose authority?" Victoria demanded.
The guard raised the work order. "Richard Vail." Daniel looked down at the box containing Henry Grant's impossible signature. Then he looked at the two doors, the guard, and the woman beside him. He knew that the next few minutes might determine whether the documents survived and whether Victoria ever learned why her father's records had been hidden here.
"Victoria," he said quietly, "call the police again. Tell them the situation has changed." The guard's name was Cole Branson, according to the badge stitched above his pocket. He was a contract security employee assigned to protect the off-site archive, and his work order listed Richard Vail's division as the requesting department. He held the paper stiffly, as if the authority written on it might help him ignore the woman standing beside the table.
"Mrs. Grant, I have instructions to secure these records and remove unauthorized personnel," he said.
"I'm the chief executive of the company that owns them," Victoria answered. "My counsel authorized this inspection."
Branson glanced at Daniel, then toward the door. He seemed to be having second thoughts, but a voice came from the entrance before he could speak.
"You should have taken the first offer and gone home, Daniel."
Richard Vail walked into the archive as though he owned it. His overcoat was dry, his shoes expensive, and his face carried the same calm expression Daniel had seen in the executive conference room. He looked first at the open boxes and then at the founder's daughter. Nothing in his posture acknowledged the absurdity of appearing at an archive warehouse after telling the new regional director to stop asking questions.
"What are you doing here?" Victoria asked.