Dewitt Knight tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the Bugatti. The leather was smooth under his fingertips, but his patience was wearing thin. In his ear, Carter Vance was droning on about market volatility and Asian futures.
Dewitt killed the engine. The roar of the W16 engine died instantly, leaving only the hum of the garage ventilation system.
"Are you listening to me, Dewitt?" Carter asked.
Dewitt didn't answer. He was staring through his windshield.
Directly in front of his reserved spot, a stretch Lincoln was parked crookedly. It was taking up two spaces. But it wasn't the parking job that bothered him.
The car was shaking.
It was a rhythmic, violent motion. The shocks squeaked. A dull thudding sound echoed off the concrete walls of the VIP garage.
Dewitt frowned. This was a private garage. It was supposed to be sterile. Orderly.
He watched as the rear window of the Lincoln remained open by several inches. A hand shot out. It was pale. Slender. The fingers were clawing at the empty air.
On the ring finger, a flash of brilliant, unmistakable pink glinted in the harsh overhead lights.
Dewitt felt a familiar flicker of distaste. He'd seen rings like that before, ostentatious and desperate, usually on the fingers of women who traded dignity for a line of credit at Cartier.
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Carter, I'm hanging up," Dewitt said.
"Is everything alright?"
"Just some trash that needs to be taken out. Two animals are mating in my parking spot."
The hand in the window suddenly went rigid. Then it convulsed. It went limp, draping over the edge of the glass like a dead thing.
Dewitt felt a prick of irritation. It didn't look like passion. It looked like desperation.
A sound drifted through the crack in the window. It wasn't a moan. It was a sob. A high, broken sound that scraped against Dewitt's nerves.
He pulled the earpiece out and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He hated this. He hated the messiness of other people's lives bleeding into his.
The car rocked again. The hand slipped from the window frame.
Dewitt slammed his hand onto the horn.
The sound was deafening. It bounced off the low ceiling and amplified.
The Lincoln stopped moving instantly.
Dewitt leaned back in his seat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He inhaled deeply and watched the Lincoln through the haze of smoke.
He waited.
It took ten seconds. The rear door of the Lincoln opened.
A man stumbled out. He was tucking his shirt into his trousers. His face was flushed red. His hair was a mess.
Dewitt recognized him immediately. Barnett Orr. The producer. A man who thought money could buy class.
Barnett squinted into the headlights of the Bugatti. When he saw the license plate, the color drained from his face. He knew whose spot he had taken.
Dewitt didn't look at Barnett. His eyes were fixed on the open door of the Lincoln. The interior was dark. The woman hadn't come out.
"Get out," Dewitt said to the windshield.
Barnett started walking toward the Bugatti, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He was smiling, but it looked like a grimace.
Dewitt watched the dark opening of the car door. He waited for the gold digger to emerge. He wanted to see the woman who would sell herself in a parking garage for a producer credit.
