I came to the conclusion she would make a top-level professional poker player.

“How about I finish breakfast and you do what you have to do?” she said, adding, “And remember, I speak Romandy—Swiss French—German and Italian if you need an interpreter.”

“Show-off,” I said.

“Not really,” she said. “Just goes to show what people can achieve in a country that has an actual education system.”

“God,” Lucy said, squinting at a laptop screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I want to be you when I’m in my thirties, Tats.”

“Barely in my thirties, young lady.” Tatina laughed.

“Okay, Sherlock,” Lucy said, flopping back on my sofa. “Cross your fingers and clench your butt cheeks. Ready when you are.”

It’s always best to enjoy a hearty breakfast with loved ones before talking to a contract killer.

“Next time August comes to Oslo, you should come, too, Lucy,” Tatina said.

The thought of chaperoning Lucy had me grinding my teeth for a moment.

“They got natives there?” Lucy said with a mouthful of huevos rancheros.

“The Sami,” Tatina said. “Very beautiful and proud people.”

Breakfast gave me time to think through what exactly to say to an assassin. It was quite possible he was dead, a victim of his own profession. If that was the case, I’d find another way to protect Bronson’s daughter. Of course, if he did answer, I doubted any conversation I might have with him would begin with “Hey, you got a minute, old pal? Yeah, hey, let me run something past you . . .”

After an hour or so, I said it was time to make the call.

“What exactly do you know about this man?” Tatina said.

“He’s a hit man, maybe in his late fifties, early sixties.” I felt my mouth go dry, and I may have audibly gulped. “Smart. Erudite. Efficient. And for some reason he took a shine to me.”

“Maybe he recognizes the good in you that he once saw in himself,” Tatina said.

“And maybe he sees a talented killer who can talk shop.”

“Either way,” Tatina said, giving me a light kiss on my lips, “think only of the girl you’re trying to help.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

I called the number on the card.

“Clock’s running,” Lucy whispered, her eyes fluttering over her two laptop screens.

After a few seconds, a woman’s voice came through: “La Corsican. Comment puis-je vous aider?”

“Hi. Hello,” I said. “Do you speak English?”

“Oui,” the woman said brightly. “Yes.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “Great. Thank you. I met a man in Detroit, Michigan, a couple years ago. He gave me your card. Said if I ever needed any cleaning done—”

“Back trace started,” Lucy whispered.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said. “This is a—how do you call it?—shop for sweets.”

“Ten seconds,” Lucy whispered.

“I apologize,” I said. “That was his occupation. Cleaning.”

“Six—”