“Does he do that often?”
“I’m beginning to suspect it’s how he flirts.”
Wiley stopped walking for half a step.
“Farrow—“
“Don’t you start.”
“Does your history with Dane affect the job?” he asked.
“Everyone is suddenly very interested in my history with Dane.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No, you’re worse than the rest. You take notes.”
My phone buzzed again.
Eamon:Interim location cleared. Beacon Hill. Address follows. No direct route. Dane/Cabot being moved separately.
I read the address twice. It was a Beacon Hill private residence. It would be a good street with miserable parking.
“We have somewhere to go,” I said.
We headed north by a route I wouldn’t have chosen on any other day, which was precisely why I chose it. The streets we walked along bent around old property lines. We passed a man in a Bruins jacket telling someone on speakerphone that the whole defensive line had been garbage since October.
After two blocks, Wiley said, “Samuel teaches landscape architecture.”
I glanced at him. “Beauty with plants.”
“At Northeastern. He says cities tell you what they value by what they make easy.”
“What does Boston make easy?”
“Getting lost while convinced you know exactly where you are.”
I smiled. “That feels personal.”
“It is. He loves this city, but he also threatens to leave it every February.”
“As any sane person should.”
“He’ll want to come,” Wiley said.
“To the safehouse?”
“To wherever I am.”
We climbed toward Beacon Hill. The sidewalks changed to brick. Gas lamps burned behind glass. The houses stood close and dignified, with black shutters and polished brass.
My phone buzzed.
Fletcher:Five minutes out from destination with Cabot. Report status.
I checked the street ahead before answering.
Farrow:Wiley intact. Moving to address.