She’d worked her whole shift at La Banque—she had to maintain the appearance of normalcy—and should have been exhausted after so many hours on her feet, but all she felt was exhilaration and the sense that she’d made concrete progress by bugging the Scottish gangster. Now she only needed to find out where he’d gone. But Mason was in control of the information gathered by the toothpick bug. With any luck, he’d deem the information worth sharing, and she’d know the Scotsman’s whereabouts before the night was over. She reached the platform just as a white train screamed into the tunnel, pushing a welcome gust of air through the stagnant station. She spotted an empty car two from the back. She entered it and sat down on a smooth leather seat where she could see the doors, as a matter of habit. Stations passed without a single passenger boarding her lonely section. Then, three stops from her home, someone stepped into her car. A man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and bright blue eyes, he wore dark slacks, a wool overcoat, and a stern expression.
