Tyler opened the door to his hotel suite to let Bette, Diane, and Tycho in.

”Tycho Gallette,” the younger man said, as he crossed the threshold, following the two women in, and introduced himself, daring to meet the stern-faced patrician elder man’s eyes. Tycho saw that he was only about an inch or so taller than Diane’s dad, a surprisingly tall, slim man who was dressed in well-tailored dark grey light wool slacks, a crisp, white long-sleeved monogrammed dress shirt, and buffed bespoke English-made shoes.

Tycho was glad he’d dressed in the custom-made Italian suit that had just been delivered to him earlier that week, changing his mind at the last minute, before he’d jumped into his car to drive to the restaurant in Luxembourg’s leading hotel.  To think he’d almost shown up in jeans tonight. Close call.

”Tyler Wyeth,” Tyler responded coolly, shaking the hand offered firmly.  He was pleased to note that the younger man’s palms were slightly calloused, and not soft and fleshy, as he’d expected. Then again, it may be because of sports he most likely plays, Tyler told himself, noting the younger man’s muscular build, athletic stance. Just Diane’s type. Or at least her type when she was in high school. Jeez. That’s all we need, right now. As if things weren’t complicated enough. 

With a sweep of his arm Tyler indicated a chair where Tycho could sit, as the younger man stepped further into the anteroom of the suite.

Soon after he’d quickly agreed with Diane that they’d bring Tycho up to his suite, so that they could listen to what Tycho had to say in a controlled environment, Tyler had affixed a small wireless microphone to the left ”wing” of the antique, high-backed winged chair. It was one of the scenarios he and Bette had planned for prior to arriving in Luxembourg, as they’d anticipated that, at some point, whether in Luxembourg or elsewhere, they’d most likely have to interview people who could have information that Bette could find useful. The sounds the microphone picked up were being transmitted to a computer in Tyler’s bedroom.

The wings were filled with brass studs outlining the edges of the winged back of the chair, and the microphone’s exterior melded perfectly in the detailing of the chair, looking like one of the decorative studs.