Fitch was behind his desk. Whitmore — the well dressed man who had walked straight through forty minutes ago — was sitting across from him. Both of them looked up. “Mr. Boone.” Fitch’s voice was measured, the voice of a man who had defused situations like this before and found it mildly tedious. “This is not a good time —”
“I’ve been waiting two hours.” No heat. Just fact. “I was called in after my wife passed. I had a ten o’clock appointment. It is nearly noon.” Whitmore shifted in his chair. He looked at Elias, then at Fitch, then back at Elias. “It’s alright,” he said, with the easy grace of someone who could afford to be generous. “I don’t mind waiting. Please, go ahead.”