“Surgery. They had him on an IV on the sidewalk. He was talking when they put him in the ambulance. He wasn’t talking when they took him out.”
“Lung?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Where’s the briefcase?” Wiley asked.
“Cambridge PD has it,” Eamon said.
“Was it open?”
“Closed.”
Wiley nodded. “I want to call my husband.”
Eamon smiled for one second and drew a handset out from inside his jacket. He passed it across the gap between the chairs. “Five minutes.”
Wiley took the phone with one hand and handed me my jacket with the other. He stood and looked down the corridor in both directions. He chose left, where there was an alcove with a window and an empty chair.
“Farrow, do you need anything?” Eamon asked.
“I need Patterson to make it through the next two hours.” I also wanted Dane, but that wasn’t a need—yet.
“Beyond that.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
Wiley stopped speaking. He didn’t hang up. He held the phone against his ear with his eyes closed and his free hand pressed flat against the top of his thigh.
Then he said something and hung up. He sat in the alcove chair for another half-minute before moving.
When he returned to us, Wiley handed Eamon the phone. “Thank you.” He sat beside me.
“He was my editor,” Wiley said.
“Heisyour editor,” I corrected.
My phone buzzed against my hip.
I checked the screen. It was Dane on the phone, not his comm.
“Two minutes,” I said.
“Take what you need,” Eamon said.
I walked to the same alcove where Wiley had taken his call. I kept him in my peripheral vision the entire time.
“Dane.”
“Where were you?”
“At the elevator. I saw the gun a split second before the shots and put Wiley under me.”
“Distance from the glass?”
“Twelve, fifteen feet.”
“So, Patterson—”