The valet took his keys. Another man in a dark suit opened the door to Maison Dupont. Nick saw Sam inside, to the left.
Nick chuckled to himself when he saw Sam's outfit, illustrating perfectly the inherent Italian-American love for fashion that flirts–sometimes overtly–with gaudiness. He was attired in one of his immaculate Armani suits paired with a purple Gucci shirt opened to the third button. Around his neck was a thick gold chain, and in his left hand he held his ever-present glass of single malt scotch.
Nick walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Sam," he said, and they shook hands. "Thanks for getting us reservations. I know it's impossible to get in here."
Sam shrugged. "No big deal."
"Not for someone with your connections."
Sam slanted his smile, taking a sip of scotch. "You could say that." He lifted up his drink. "Want one?"
"No, thanks. I'll wait."
"Suit yourself." Sam nodded and went to talk to the manager. As he spoke, his hands moved nonstop. Every inch of Prezziato embodied his Southern Italian heritage, including his demonstrative gestures. He also had dark, wavy hair, pitch-dark eyes, and tan skin to complete the look.
Nick wore a navy Brooks Brothers suit that was at least seven years old. His shirt was one Melissa had picked out. She had insisted it matched. Good enough for him.
Over cocktails and a leisurely lunch, they chatted about football, wine, and opera. Nick knew a lot about the first two subjects but very little about the third. Nick listened as Sam described the differences between Italian and German operas. Sam was smart and interesting, which counterbalanced his controlling side–usually.
"So which do you like better, German or Italian?"
Sam huffed out a breath and rested his glass of scotch on the table. With his eyes on the ceiling, he considered the question for a long moment. Finally, he twisted his lips into an expression that was half smile, half grimace. "Let me get back to you on that one."
"Difficult question?"
"More than you know." Sam lifted his napkin from his lap, folded it in thirds, then in thirds again. He placed it next to his plate with exactitude as if he was Picasso trying to determine his next brush stroke. "Anyway," he said, "on a different subject, Mr. H hinted that there was something pretty interesting about those files." Sam slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a flashdrive, handing it to Nick.
Nick secured it in his palm and raised his eyebrows, waiting for more information to be doled out. Whenever Sam knew something important, he made Nick pay for it, once with cash and a second time with every store of patience he had.
Sam coughed, sitting back in his chair. "Turns out that when he was hacking into their system, he noticed some familiar security features." Sam paused again, tapping his finger on the table in 4/4 time while Nick watched. In some kind of bizarre finale, he rapped his knuckles once against the table. The sound reverberated through the room and a few patrons looked around, startled. Sam leaned further back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head.
Nick concentrated on the triangular space created by Sam's arms. Focusing on the geometry of Sam's limbs became a mantra of tolerance. Time passed. Nick wasn't sure exactly how much.
"Their encoding system mimics the one the National Institutes of Health uses."
Nick's eyes broadened, then contracted. He thought of Warner. Then he noticed a tightness in Sam's lips. He held something back, Nick was certain. "There's more."
Sam glanced sharply to the left before he returned his gaze to Nick. "Yeah, there's more."
Nick prompted, "And?"
Sam took another sip of scotch. "Along with the files under regular encryption, which were most of them, there were some files encrypted with codes the NIH uses only for its highest security levels."
"Interesting," Nick said. And even more disturbing, he thought.
"Mr. H does his homework." Sam smiled without showing his teeth.
"He does." Nick clutched the flash drive in his hand, afraid to release his grip on it. He was already betting that Sidney's file was one of the ones under heavy encryption.
As Nick rushed back to his house after lunch, he surveyed the road for cops. There were none around, so he floored it.
Once back, he crashed through the door, throwing everything on the counter except for the flash drive. He headed directly to his office and shoved it into the port on his computer. As soon as everything uploaded, he started navigating through the files. Mr. H had created two folders: one with normally encrypted data and the other with high-security encryption.
Nick scanned the first folder, and as he suspected, nothing unusual came up. He cracked his neck and moused over to the folder containing the others. The arrow hovered above the icon with cold nonchalance, unaware of what it pointed to. Seconds crawled by as Nick stared at the monitor. He closed his eyes as he thought of Melissa. Then taking a slow inhale, as if preparing for a dive into deep water, he left-clicked. Black and white organized into letters and numbers on the screen.
The files were listed alphabetically. Within a few seconds, he found Sidney's. It hadn't been lost at all, just electronically hidden. Nick opened it up. Skimming through the data, he looked for a trail.
Looked like Sidney had been at the children's home for only a few days before being given to a foster family. The listing of that relocation was the last and only one on his record. It was at least possible Sidney's foster family had adopted him, even if that hadn't been noted.
Nick drew his notepad from his chest pocket, scribbled down the address, ejected the flashdrive from the port, turned off the computer, and pushed away from his desk. He grabbed his jacket as he rushed to the garage, starting his car with his remote along the way.