“Maybe I am.”
Simon took a breath, wondering how to play this. Like Harry Mason had said, he wasn’t her dad. He was her boss. A concerned boss, but that was as far as it went. “You coming in tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Look, Simon, it was my friend’s birthday last night. We were out at the pub. It was the first time I’ve been able to buy a round in a long time. It felt good to show off a bit. Anything wrong with that?”
“No, Lucy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But next time, do it over the weekend. And if you’re going to miss work, call in. Harry was worried sick about you.”
“Harry?” asked Lucy. “Bullocks!” And they both laughed. “How’s Paris?”
“Paris is Paris.”
“You promised to take me one day.”
“Just show up for work tomorrow. Goodbye, Lucy.”
Simon finished his sandwich and went back to the laptop. He concentrated on Delacroix’s emails. Again, he found nothing about the robbery. Nowhere was there a mention of a connection to Coluzzi—no emails and no texts. But Simon hadn’t expected to find anything. He figured Delacroix to be a smart operator. He knew better than to leave a digital trail of crumbs.
Simon continued on his hunt, nosing through Delacroix’s apps. He found the treasure buried in one named “Notes,” within a subfile with the prince’s name. The breadth of the information confirmed his impression that Delacroix enjoyed the prince’s full trust, and amplified his disgust at Delacroix’s subsequent betrayal of it. Among the information listed was the prince’s passport number, his date of birth, nine credit card numbers along with corresponding security codes, and multiple phone numbers with telecom companies.
“Something else for you?” asked the waiter.
Simon glanced up from the laptop. “Just the bill.”
His phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“I’ll be at Julien’s in fifteen minutes,” said Nikki Perez. “I can’t stay long.”
“I’ll be there.”
Simon slipped his laptop into his shoulder bag and stood, leaving a fifty-euro note on the table.
It was the waiter’s lucky day.
Chapter 24
So here’s the tough guy.”
Alexei Ren stood in front of Coluzzi, staring down at him. An hour had passed since the match ended. Coluzzi had passed the time doing shots of vodka, hoping they’d kill the pain in his ribs. They hadn’t, and now he was half in the bag. “Have a seat. Your boat.”
“You owe me two security men.”
“Is that what you call them?”
“One has a fractured wrist. The other won’t be walking for a few days.”
“Send me the bill.”
Ren studied him. “You know,” he said, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his sleeves, “I’m actually glad to see you.”
“Your boys let me know,” said Coluzzi. “Thrilled.”
“You remind me of how things used to be.”
“That right?”
