The bed was turned down from the night before. She took the chocolate truffle off the pillow and popped it into her mouth, then toured the room, taking off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. She stopped at the window and peeled back the velvet drapes. “Morning already,” she said.
Simon looked at her thinking she suddenly looked soft and vulnerable. He fought back his desire. “Time to go to work.”
He placed the StingRay monitor on the desk, inserted a power cord, then attached a USB cable to his laptop. “It takes a minute,” he said, “for the program to open and transfer the data.”
“Give you time to tell me what’s what.”
“I’ll let you start. You’re the detective.”
“Always playing a game, aren’t you?” Nikki was kneeling by the minibar. “Want anything?”
“Orange juice.”
She grabbed a bottle for him and two minis of Grey Goose. She cracked the orange juice and handed him the bottle before pouring the vodka into a highball glass.
“Little early for a drink,” he said.
“Nightcap,” she said, downing the contents.
“Now who’s playing the game?”
Nikki made a coy face and put down the glass. “All right, then, Mr. Riske. Here’s what I think. You come waltzing into Paris the day after the most publicized robbery in ten years, claiming to be after a secret letter with magical powers. You waste my time asking about three criminals when, in fact, you’re only interested in one, Tino Coluzzi, a childhood friend, no less, who only last week was getting a crew together. Now it turns out you’re staying at the same hotel as the man who was robbed, Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud. Finally, you’re based out of London, which as far as I know is second home to half the Middle East.” She’d recited her argument matter-of-factly and without rancor, her eyes never leaving him. “So what do I think? I think Prince Abdul Aziz hired you to get his money back and you believe Tino Coluzzi has it.”
Simon turned his chair so it faced her. “Not bad. I’d have come to the same conclusion.”
“But?”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Stop lying. There is no letter. You’re here for the money. Fess up.”
“Okay,” said Simon, admiring her restraint, knowing he’d be going through the roof if someone had yanked his chain as badly as he’d yanked hers. “Enough bullshit. You saved my life. You earned the truth. But it stays between you and me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t tell Marc Dumont.”
“But he has to—”
“Hear me out.” Simon stood, hands lifted in conciliation. “I am here about the robbery, and, yes, that’s why I’m staying at the hotel. I needed to see how things work around here. But I’m not here for the money. I don’t work for Prince Abdul Aziz. There really is a letter. I can only tell you the rest if you promise not to go to your bosses.”
“I can’t do that. Just because I broke some of the rules doesn’t mean I’m disloyal or a bad cop.”
“I’m not asking you to be disloyal and I think you’re a great cop. I’m asking you to be patient.”
Nikki sat down on the bed. “I’m listening.”
“Tino Coluzzi is the man you’re after. The man everyone is after. He’s the one who hijacked the prince’s motorcade.”
“How do you know that?”
Simon sat down beside her. “It’s like this,” he said, and for ten minutes gave her the identical briefing Neill had given him two days before, leaving nothing out. “So that’s it. Neill believes that Coluzzi found the letter, realized its significance, and is sitting on it until he can decide how to use it. It’s my job to get it back before he does.”
“Must be some letter.”
“Must be.”
Nikki considered this. She reclined on the bed, resting on an elbow. “What about you? How did you ever join La Brise when you were just eighteen? Are you American or are you French? And what the hell happened to you? I can’t tell if you got hit by a hand grenade, fell into a tree shredder, or took a swim with a school of piranhas.”
