“A little embarrassment showed on Corday’s face and he looked down, examining his scuffed loafers. “Nicki, we should talk. There are things I need to tell you. I have some important information to give you. Let’s have a drink. I’ll buy, eh?”

“Before I could answer, Corday slid between slow walkers and glided along the street, showing his fading athletic grace. He was heading toward an elegant sidewalk cafe frequented by wealthy businessmen and their lovers. A dark green awning flaunted the cafe’s prestigious name in gold script letters. This particular sidewalk cafe was once the hangout of a penniless Ernest Hemingway, before he was a published author. But today Hemingway’s favorite cafe is a chic, sophisticated bistro.

“Corday normally took me to a cheap neighborhood bar for drinks, a place with stained tablecloths, stale nuts and warm tap beer. Pierre choosing an expensive bistro made me suspicious. I assumed he must have bad news to give me, somehow linked to Vernier making me lead investigator on the warehouse arson.

“I caught up with Corday at the cafe’s front door. The usual cynical Pierre was gone, replaced by someone I’d never met before. I was startled by how sad and detached he looked.

“Corday paused near the cafe’s mascot, a carved wooden figure, and rubbed the statue’s tummy. He commented sadly, “For luck.” Pierre gave me a hard stare. “You should rub his belly too, Nicki. You need all the luck you can get.”

“Corday acted like he was leading me into a strange new world I’d never seen. I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like it.”