The wooden reception desk was empty.

A man stood behind a cluttered wooden desk in the back office, holding a manila folder inches from his face.

He looked up as I knocked on the open door frame.

He was older, maybe sixty-eight, in a gray suit that hung loosely on his frame.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Are you Mr. Vance?”

He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and polished them with a white handkerchief from his pocket.

“I’m Arthur Vance.