To anyone else it might not have been noticeable. But to me there was no question: The order of papers in my briefcase was always, always the same—calendar, then organizer, then certain files, all in a row. The order was still the same. But now the files, the calendar, everything was flipped. Someone had emptied my briefcase, then put it back together again—upside down.

I stood, glancing around, but the office was completely empty. I sat back down, heart pounding, angry at myself for not locking the case while I was gone. I dug through each pocket of the lid, but everything seemed to be in place—including the undelivered $250,000 check to Feed the Need. The file from Duane Perskie was there, too, right on top. When I was confident that nothing had been stolen, I snapped the case shut and placed it on the ground next to my chair. I would have to be more careful from now on. Though there wasn’t really any information in there that would compromise my case should it get out, it still bothered me greatly that someone had been audacious enough to take such a chance. Somebody was getting way too curious about me and what I was doing here.

Putting the briefcase matter out of my mind for the time being, I picked up the phone and dialed the law offices of Coates, Dillon, and McGruff. The receptionist answered promptly, then put me through to Coates’ secretary, a woman with a deep Southern accent despite the fact that their office was in downtown Philadelphia. I introduced myself as “Callie over at Feed the Need.” She didn’t question it.

“I need a favor,” I said warmly. “I’m trying to pull together some information about our current and future development plans. I was wondering if there’s any way you could fax me over copies of our current file.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she said. “Y’all have three current files, each one of them at least an inch thick.”

“Oh, gosh,” I said, reaching for my pen to doodle along the edge of the page. “Let me narrow it down for you. How about just the documentation regarding any real estate closings that are pending.”

“Pending?” she said, and I could hear the shuffle of papers in the background. “You’ve already closed on Taipei…Manila…and Tegucigalpa. I think that about covers it for active real estate matters. Nothing else pending.”

“We’ve already paid in full?” I asked. “For all of these properties?”

“Paid?” the woman drawled. “Heck, no, y’all sold. The people that bought the places paid.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Which department did you say you’re with again?” she asked, her voice suddenly turning suspicious.