CHAPTER EIGHT
Remi sat on a park bench with Daniel eating a horrible American invention—hotdogs. She found the bread too white and too spongey, and the wiener tasted like it was made of carcinogens mixed with plastic. How could Americans eat these things? Daniel had already eaten two, slathered in ketchup, mustard, and relish, and he was considering going back to the little cart on the street corner for a third.
Eating like a pig didn’t stop him from doing his job, however. He was on the phone to the FBI asking about Azad Sahakian, the art dealer Mitchell had named. The agent waited a couple of minutes as they looked him up on the crime database.
“Yeah? Uh-huh?” Daniel said, nodding. Remi watched him, curious. “Really? OK, send over the files. Thanks.”
He hung up and turned to her. “Ju
