Chapter 29

The door opened again, five minutes later.

“He’ll see you,” the man said, stepping aside to let Beau enter. He led Beau to a door, knocked, then opened it when someone called out, “Come in.”

Beau did and the door closed behind him. Across from him, seated at a desk, was a man of indeterminate age—Beau figured somewhere between fifty and sixty from the lines etched on his face and the graying at his temples. He waved to a chair, saying when Beau sat, “Who are you, and how do you know LeRoy?”

“My name is Jonathan Styles, sir. I’m a friend of LeRoy’s.”

“In what sense?”

Beau replied, “I worked for him, several years ago.”

“Doing what?”

Beau pressed his fingertips together, staring at the man. “Before I answer, tell me who you are. I’m presuming you’re Mr. Whalen, but presumptions have been known to get a man killed.”

The man smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “An astute observation. Yes, I’m Doyle Whalen. Tell me, how is the old bastard?”