I parked three spaces from the elevators, left the engine running, and reached for my phone.

Before I could dial Arthur Vance, a dark blue town car rolled into the empty space next to my driver’s door.

Bradley Collins climbed out of the passenger seat.

He smoothed the front of his double-breasted suit jacket, came around the hood of his car, and rapped his heavy silver fountain pen three times on my window.

I lowered the window two inches.

“You should have taken the two hundred thousand dollars when your mother put it in front of you on the porch,” Collins said.