I walked down rue Sade, the narrow alley where my father had lived as a child, toward the Place Nationale and strolled as far as Le Michelangelo—known to locals as Mamo, after its owner—one of the restaurants that defined the city. There were a few free tables on the terrace, so I sat down and ordered the local specialty, a citron pressé with pastis and basil.

2.

I have never had an office. Ever since elementary school, I have loved working in bright, open spaces—my parents’ kitchen, the reading rooms of public libraries, the cafés in the Latin Quarter. In New York, I did my writing in Starbucks, in hotel bars, in parks and restaurants. I felt that I could think more clearly amid the bustle; I was swept along by the conversations and the hum of life. I laid Stéphane Pianelli’s book on the table of the restaurant and, while waiting for my aperitif, checked my phone for voice mail. There was an irritable message from my mother, who did not bother with small talk: “Zélie tells me you’re here for the fiftieth anniversary of Saint-Ex. What were you thinking, Thomas? You didn’t even tell me you’re in France. Come over for dinner tonight. We’ve invited the Pellegrinos. They’d love to see you.” I typed a curt response: I’ll call later, Mom. I downloaded the iPhone app for Nice-Matin and bought the issues from April 9 to April 15.

I skimmed through them and quickly found the article I was looking for—Stéphane Pianelli’s piece on how students had found a sports bag stuffed with cash in an old locker. There was little new in the article and I was disappointed that there were no photographs of the sports bag, only an aerial view of the school campus and a photo of the rusty locker, but it did say that “a number of students shared pictures of the money on social media before being told by police to delete them so as not to obstruct the investigation.”

I thought for a moment. There would be some trace online somewhere, but I was not clever enough to find it without wasting time. The Antibes offices of Nice-Matin were only a few steps away, next to the bus station on the Place Nationale. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to call Pianelli.

“Hey, Stéphane, it’s Thomas.”

“Can’t live without me, can you?”

“I’m down on the terrace at Mamo and I thought if you were in the area, I could buy you lunch. We could split a shoulder of lamb.”

“You put in the order and I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished with this piece.”

“What’s it about?”

“The retirement and leisure exhibition at the conference center. Not something that’s likely to win me Journalist of the Year, I’ll grant you.”