The car rolled through the light rain on Lexington Avenue and turned east toward the expressway without a stop.

Forty minutes later I was sitting on a vinyl bench by a floor-to-ceiling window at Terminal 4, watching taxiing jets swing their wing lights toward the runway.

The screen in my palm refreshed its balance line, showing fifty million dollars in cleared, unencumbered funds.

Spencer’s full name lit up across the glass of my phone.

I reached out to touch the screen, then drew my thumb back.

The ringing timed out, went quiet for three seconds, and then started up again.