“I’m as in the dark as you. That’s why we’re meeting.”
We hit the stairwell again on the way down. The side door emptied onto a Financial District side street where a black SUV idled at the curb with its parking lights on. I checked the plate against the one sent at eight-forty. It was a match.
The driver was a Guardians contractor I’d worked with twice before. He didn’t speak. He unlocked the rear and waited for me to put Cabot inside.
Cabot slid across to the far seat without being told. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Rowes Wharf. Boston Harbor Hotel. Eamon rented a suite.”
“For a meeting?”
“Yes.”
The SUV pulled away from the curb and worked east through the Financial District. State Street was sluggish at this hour, full of luxury cars and couriers. Pedestrians walked faster than the traffic.
“You don’t rent a hotel suite for a routine briefing,” Cabot said.
“No.”
The harbor came into view through the windshield as we crossed Atlantic. Colorless, low-angled November light flattened the boats in the distance. A tanker was clearing the channel, riding high, on its way out. The water looked like cold liquid iron.
We pulled under the Rowes Wharf arch. The driver stopped at a side entrance I’d used twice for principals I couldn’t walk through a lobby.
I got out first. Then I opened Cabot’s door.
“Stay on my left.”
The service corridor was wide and brightly lit. The man at the door, wearing a black suit and earpiece, walked us to a service elevator and keyed in the proper floor without a word. He didn’t get in with us. He stepped back into the corridor and watched the doors close.
Eighteen floors. Cabot stood against the back wall, eyes on the floor indicator. He didn’t speak.
The elevator opened onto a quiet hallway. A single housekeeping cart stood at the far end, abandoned mid-run.
We walked to suite eighteen-twelve at the end of the hall. I knocked once, low. The door opened from the inside before I could knock a second time.
A man I didn’t know held the door for us and stepped back. He closed the door behind us and resumed his position against the foyer wall with his hands loose at his sides.
The suite opened into a sitting room. Cold harbor light shone through tall windows. A round conference table filled the center of the space. It had four chairs and a pitcher of water.
Two people had already arrived. Wiley Priest sat at the table. I recognized him from the photo on theGlobewebsite.
His bodyguard stood beside him.
It was Farrow. The same man who’d been in my bed three weeks ago.
He’d placed himself precisely, standing wide, with his body angled so he could watch both the door and the man at the table. He saw me come in, and his expression did one specific thing: a small acknowledgment that landed somewhere betweenhelloandwe’re going to have to talk about this,and then he composed himself for Cabot.
Farrow wore dark jeans and a black henley pulled tight across his chest, sleeves shoved to the elbows. He’d draped a charcoal leather field jacket over the chair beside him, burnt-orange lining showing where the fold fell open. His boots showed slight wear with brick-red laces, double-knotted.
His blond hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen it; the dark roots were no longer visible. He wore it cropped close on the sides, longer on top.
I pulled my gaze away and took in the rest of the room.
Wiley was at least thirty pounds lighter than the byline photo. The weight loss exposed his facial bone structure and cast veins on the back of his hands in sharp relief.
Cabot spoke first. “Stanley Cabot.”
Wiley blinked himself out of whatever was running in his head and stood. “Wiley Priest.” He extended his hand.