“Reed, open it,” I said. “Four inches.”
The door cracked four inches. I heard the courier’s voice, slightly winded and reciting the line he’d been given.
“Hand delivery for Wiley Priest. From theGlobe.Front desk said to bring it personally.”
I stepped forward. “ID?”
“Yeah, hold on.”
He pulled out aGlobelanyard. “Who signed out on it at the desk?” I asked.
“Donna. She always signs out the bike runs.”
Wiley nodded from the parlor. “Donna is the one who would do that.”
“Slide it through,” Reed said.
“Through the —“
“The gap. Slide it through.”
A thin manila envelope, business-letter size, came through the four-inch opening and dropped onto the hardwood. The kid pulled his hand back.
“Step back onto the sidewalk.”
“Do I —“
“Step back onto the sidewalk.”
Reed waited until the camera feed showed the kid down the steps and turning at the curb. Then he closed the door and threw the deadbolt.
I crouched beside the envelope.
Farrow stepped up to my shoulder. He’d already pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit by the door, and he handed me one without being asked. I pulled it on.
I lifted the envelope by one corner and weighed it in my palm.
It was light, but not light enough to be empty. The seal was smooth, either machine-applied or a gum strip.
I turned it over.
Wiley Priest.Typed label.
I looked up at Farrow. “Open it,” he said.
I pulled out a small blade I kept in my pocket and slit open the flap edge. There was a single page inside. I drew it out by the corner. It had one line, centered, in large sans-serif type.
Stop coordinating. The cost has been quoted.
I read it twice, stood, and brought it to Wiley in the parlor.
He read it and didn’t move. Cabot leaned forward and read it, too.
“They know I’m here, and they know I’m still working,” Wiley said.
“After Patterson,” Cabot said.
Farrow reached for the page and read it for the first time. “Quoted,“ he said quietly. “Notpaid. Quoted.A decision made about something planned.”