34
The hospital was quiet, late on a Sunday night. Luther found Grant and Agent D’Antonio in the hallway outside the old Sheriff’s room. “How’s he doing?”
“Good, I think,” Grant said. “Yesterday’s surgery went well. I didn’t get a chance to speak with him today, but I just peeked in and Iris said he’s recovering.”
“Do you need a minute?” Luther asked, glaring at D’Antonio. He dared the man to say they didn’t have time, even though he knew they really didn’t. Dislike wasn’t rational.
Grant shook his head and motioned in the other direction. “Let’s meet down there.”
Luther felt entirely too much like a spy, or more accurately a member of a doomed conspiracy, as Grant led them to an empty patient room. But it had to be done. Recently someone—perhaps multiple someones—had been a little to
