It was a sunny Monday morning. The weekend had been uneventful. No crises, no calls to any airport hangars—just beautiful and all too short. Leigh parked her Porsche in her space and walked across the lot to the Century Building’s rear doors, which provided access to both the above-ground parking lot and the smokers’ picnic tables.
She was surprised to see Arthur sitting alone at one of the tables.
“I didn’t know you were a smoker,” she said to him.
“I’m not,” he replied. “I am just ...