“Do you trust him?” he asked.
“Eamon?”
“Fletcher.”
The elevator descended. I watched the numbers change. “That’s direct.”
“It’s my job to get to the point.”
I looked over at Wiley. “Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is it that simple?”
“No.”
“But your answer is yes.”
“My answer is yes.”
Wiley refused to let things sit. “And you didn’t know he was going to be here.”
“No.”
“That seems less than ideal.”
“Most things are.”
“Will it affect your work?”
“Not if we don’t let it,” I said.
The elevator doors opened onto the service corridor. It was a wide passage with industrial lighting, built to handle the world behind the pretty lobby façade.
I stepped out first, checking both ways. It was clear.
We walked by a laundry room with the door propped open and two staff members speaking quietly in Spanish. One looked up at us as we passed.
As I pushed the exterior door open, the harbor wind hit hard. It came around the side of the hotel with teeth. Atlantic Avenue ran beyond the service exit, traffic moving and braking in uneven waves.
I held Wiley inside the door for two seconds longer than he liked.
“Now?” he asked.
“Now.”
We stepped out.
“Where are we going?” Wiley asked.
“Away from here.”
“That isn’t a destination.”
“We’re following orders.”
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and matched my pace as we cut west. He was slightly off my shoulder.
“So, you’re serious about this,” he said.