Dickie? You’ve got your CBE and your soccer team. I can’t imagine what brings you to my neck of the woods. Don’t you turn to stone if you get too far from Belgravia?”
“How about a drink to start?”
“Look around you. This is an auto shop, not Claridge’s.”
“You’re telling me. I know a good cleaning service. Have this place sorted out in a day. Happy to foot the bill.”
“I like it the way it is,” said Simon. “If you want a drink, I’m sure there’s one in your car. Doesn’t your Roller run on single malt instead of gasoline?”
“I’m a gin man, as you know. Boodles, if you’d like to make a note for my next visit.”
“I’d forgotten, Dickie. You can bet that I didn’t forget everything else.”
“May I sit?”
Simon took a seat behind his desk and motioned his unannounced guest toward the couch. With distaste, Dickie Blackmon moved the files and magazines and bric-a-brac until he had space to sit. The two men looked at each other. It was a duel. The weaker man spoke first. Finally, Dickie Blackmon cleared his throat. “I’ve heard around town that you’re some kind of problem solver. Find people. Find money. Root out a crook here, a thief there. Bottom line: you’re a man who gets things done. And discreetly. Quiet as a church mouse.”
Simon tapped his armrest, noticing that his knuckles were bloodied. So much for discretion. “I’m sure you know plenty of people like me,” he said, taking care to keep his hand out of sight.
“Like you, yes, but not you. You’re family. Well, almost.”
Simon couldn’t help but smile. Dickie Blackmon must be up some kind of creek to suggest he was family. Not after all he’d done to prevent Simon from being just that.
“Spill, Dickie. I’m as wet and ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I see the time away from the bank has done wonders for your social skills.”
“Just you wait.”
Dickie leaned forward, his blue eyes like lasers. “Listen here, Riske. Serious business. It’s about my daughter, Delphine.”
Ten years after the fact, the mention of her name made Simon forget about everything else. “Is she in trouble?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s her husband.”
“Rafa?”
“Señor Rafael Andrés Henrique de Bourbon. One and the same. Seems my son-in-law has been arrested by the Thai police and thrown into the klink on charges of blackmail, extortion, and theft, with assault and attempted injury to a police officer thrown in for good measure.”
Dickie Blackmon went on to explain about Rafa’s latest venture, a boutique hotel on Ko Phi Phi that was slated to open this weekend. The Villa Delphine, and yes, Dickie had put a few dollars into the thing himself. After a string of failures, Rafa looked like he’d managed to turn things around. The hotel was booked for six months. It had received a glorious write-up in the international press. All he had to do was open the doors for business. Then the police arrived. “They’re talking a twenty-year sentence.”
“Blackmail and extortion? Against who? Why?”
“Details are sealed in the complaint. Seems it has to do with his old shop in Switzerland. Geneva, I think. PetroSaud. Know it?”
Simon shook his head. He’d lost touch with Rafa when he’d left the bank, though, of course, that wasn’t the real reason. “Blackmail? The Rafa I knew didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body.”
“People change,” said Blackmon. “Look at you.”
Was that a compliment? Simon didn’t think so. “And Delphine?”
“She’s beside herself. I have her tucked away at the Oriental in Bangkok. The police dragged Rafael to the most notorious jail in the city.”
Simon set his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled. Dickie Blackmon hadn’t driven all the way from his home north of the river to give him news about a woman Simon hadn’t spoken to in ten years and the man who’d once been his closest friend, no matter what kind of trouble they were in.
“So how can I help?”
“Can’t put one past you, can I?” Blackmon stood, rolling his shoulders. “I’m working a deal to get him out. If I can secure his release—and believe me, that’s a big ‘if’—I need you there…on site…to be my eyes and ears.”
“A deal?”
“Just a question of getting to the right man. It’s Thailand. Rule of law written in pencil, not ink. Short of murder, everything’s negotiable. Maybe that too.”
“I’ve never been to the Far East. I don’t know anything about Thailand.”
“I don’t need you to do the talking. Already have a lawyer to do that. I want you