Our tiny conference room brims with caffeine. In addition to the coffee I’ve brewed in the percolator, Malcolm’s tea scents the air with its exotic blend of saffron and spices.
“It’s different today,” I say to him, blinking my eyes against the steam.
He holds his index finger and thumb together. “Just a pinch of cardamom.”
Nigel sits at the end of the conference table, which is really nothing more than someone’s discarded dining room set. On either side of his laptop sits a cup—one of tea and one of coffee. He takes a sip from each, alternating precisely, never playing favorites.
“I’ve traced the patterns of the thefts,” Nigel says after a sip of tea. “About three days after Katy went on a call, alone, without you”—he points to Malcolm—“something went missing.”
“Which is why they didn
