Pirate, Page 3

  “Are you okay?” she replied.

  “Fine . . .” He reached up, touched his head, his fingers covered in blood. “Looks like I came in second.”

  Remi set the gun on the desk, then pushed him into the chair she’d been sitting in moments before. Placing both hands on his cheeks, her skin warm, soft, she leaned down, searched his eyes, as if to ensure that he really was okay. “You’re always first in my book. Ambulance?”

  “Not necessary.”

  She nodded, took a closer look at his head, then turned toward the bookseller, who was using the desk to pull himself to his feet. “Mr. Pickering. Let me help you.”

  “I’m fine,” the old man said. “Where’s Mr. Wickham?”

  “Mr. Wickham?” Remi asked.

  “My cat. Wickham . . . ? Here, kitty, kitty . . .” A moment later, the Siamese wandered into the storeroom, and Pickering scooped it up.

  “Well, then,” Remi said, “everyone accounted for. Time to call the police.”

  Pickering eyed the phone as she put the receiver to her ear. “Is that necessary?” he asked.

  “Very,” she replied, pressing 911 on the keypad.

  The police arrived about five minutes later, sirens blaring, even though she told them the robber had left.

  One of the officers drew Sam aside to take his statement. When he’d finished, the officer asked Sam to show him where the gunman had been standing when his weapon discharged. Sam positioned himself next to the desk, then demonstrated the man’s movement as Remi bashed his hand with the lamp. The officer stood where Sam stood, looking around. “And where were you when you threw the knife?”

  “In the doorway.”

  “Stand there, please.”

  Sam did so.

  The officer walked over, placed his finger on the doorframe. “Here’s where the bullet hit.”

  Sam looked over, realized it was just a few inches from his head. “My lucky day.”

  “Mr. Fargo. While I commend your actions, in the future might I suggest you call the police?”

  “If this happens again, I’ll make sure to do that.”

  More often than not, he knew Remi would take the proactive approach.

  It was one of the many things he loved about her, he thought, glancing toward the front of the store. She had already given her statement and was waiting patiently by the door.

  A plainclothes investigator, Sergeant Fauth from the Robbery Detail, arrived and was questioning Mr. Pickering, who seemed distracted—understandable, considering his age and the circumstances. He opened the still-unlocked safe as the investigator asked, “Was anything else taken?”

  “No. Just the box with the book in it. There’s really nothing else of value in there. A few old coins. Spanish gold, but nothing that—well, nothing. The coins are still there.”

  “What sort of book was this?”

  Pickering shrugged. “Just a reproduction of an old book on pirates. The book itself is of little value. I have several on the floor. I can show you.” He walked out, retrieved one from the bookshelf, and set it on the desk.

  “The box it was kept in, then? Did that have any value?”

  “Not much. No.”

  “Why was it locked up, then?”

  “I suppose in hopes that if someone thinks something is valuable, he’ll ignore what really is?”

  “Mr. Pickering,” Sergeant Fauth said, looking at his notebook, then at the bookseller. “Any reason at all you can think of that this man targeted your store?”

  He wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow, his hand shaking slightly. The robbery had clearly taken its toll on him. “It may have something to do with a rumor that started about an original of this book being here. Why or who, I don’t know. But really, page for page, the book that was stolen is the same book as this copy. A reproduction only.” He patted the volume of The History of Pyrates and Privateers that he’d taken from the shelf.

  The sergeant thanked him, then tucked his notebook into the breast pocket of his suit coat. CSIs arrived to dust for prints and photos. Once that process had started, the investigator handed his business card to both men. “If anything comes up—questions, something you remember—you have my number.” He started to walk out, then turned toward Pickering. “Anyone you want me to call? Family member? Friend? Maybe come by, help you out?”

  “No one. I’ll be fine now.”

  He left, nodding at Remi on his way out the door.

  Sam glanced over at the CSIs, then at Mr. Pickering, concerned about his being here by himself. “Are you sure we can’t do anything for you?”

  “No. Thank you, Mr. Fargo. I think after they’re done here, I may just go upstairs and take a long nap.”

  Remi walked up to Pickering, giving him a hug. “I’m very sorry for what happened.”

  He took a deep breath and smiled at her. “I can’t thank you enough. Your bold action may have saved our lives.”

  Sam picked up Remi’s purse and handed it to her, wanting to speed their departure. “Ready?” he said, holding the door.

  “Definitely.”

  “Wait,” Mr. Pickering called out. “Your package. It would be a shame to have gone through all that and leave it behind.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the parcel from him, then handing it to Sam as soon as they were outside.

  “I take it this isn’t a cookbook?” Sam asked.

  “It’s not even the book I came for. It’s more a didn’t-want-to-go-home-empty-handed book. I think it’ll look nice on the table in your office.”

  “We’ll certainly appreciate the backstory.”

  They crossed the street, walking uphill toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. They’d been in tough scrapes before—and they would be again. And even though he had every confidence in his wife’s ability to take care of herself, he was never going to stop worrying about her.

  It was this last thought that caught him each and every time. He reached over, took her hand in his, and she leaned her head into his shoulder. “You okay?” Sam asked after a bit.

  “Me? Fine. I’m not the one bleeding.”

  “Superficial cut. It’s already stopped.”

  She looked over at him. “We’ll see when we’re back at the hotel.”

  “Did you notice those gold coins in Pickering’s safe?”

  “Odd, isn’t it? That the robber ignored the gold for a book in a box that he hadn’t even seen?”

  “A book that’s supposed to be nothing but a reproduction.”

  “Definitely odd,” she said as they turned onto Stockton Street by their hotel. “It was almost as if Mr. Pickering was downplaying the stolen book’s value. Which doesn’t make sense. I’d hate to have been shot over a reprint. Which brings me to my next point. What happened to that promised week of no one trying to kill us?”

  “You didn’t think I meant today, did you? Tomorrow. The week starts tomorrow.”

  “Well, then. Glad that’s cleared up.”

  Inside the lobby, they stopped at the concierge desk, where Remi asked the woman working there to mail the book to their home with the other item she’d purchased earlier that morning—a large ceramic rooster from an antique shop—a gift for their researcher, Selma Wondrash, who said she’d always wanted a rooster for her kitchen.

  “Insurance?” the woman asked. “Or special packing instructions?”

  “No,” Remi said. “It’s just a book. It’ll be fine.”

  “Same address as the rooster?”

  “The same.”

  “I’ll take care of it for you, Mrs. Fargo.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the door of their suite, Sam swiped the key card in the lock, then took a quick look inside before allowing Remi to enter. “Good to go,” he said, holding the door for her.

  She steppe
d into the room, and on a table in front of the sofa found a plate of sliced green apples, cheese, and a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé champagne on ice. He was pleased to see that someone from Guest Services had noticed they were later than expected and so refilled the ice bucket. The champagne was chilled to perfection, and the gift he’d arranged to have waiting there was next to the two fluted glasses. He handed the small, distinctively blue Tiffany box to Remi.

  “And I didn’t get you a thing.”

  “You got me a book.”

  “A copy, as it turns out.”

  He uncorked the champagne. “You’ll make up for it later.”

  “Maybe,” she said, untying the ribbon and lifting the lid to find a gold chain with a vintage-looking diamond-studded oval key charm. “The key to your heart?”

  “No key needed there.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not to my new front door.” She slipped the necklace over her head. “Imagine the cost to replace it every time we had to rekey.”

  “With all the security features we have recently added, diamond-studded keys would be the least of our expenses.” In fact, they’d spent a small fortune turning their house into a veritable fortress after it had nearly been destroyed during a massive home invasion. Peace of mind, he thought, handing her a glass. Then, raising his own, he said, “New promise. Starting tomorrow, nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us. Ah, yes . . . and my undivided attention.”

  “I’m holding you to your promise on that last part, Fargo.”

  “No one trying to kill us? Or my undivided attention?”

  “Both would be nice,” she said, touching her glass to his.

  “Indeed.”

  Remi was still asleep when Sam awoke the next morning. He quietly rose from the bed and ordered their breakfast from room service. By the time it arrived, Remi emerged from the bedroom, her lithe form wrapped in a cream silk robe, her long auburn hair still damp from the shower. She kissed him, then took a seat at the table.

  He poured her coffee and slid it across the table toward her, then resumed reading his paper. “Sleep well?”

  “I did,” she said, spooning fresh fruit into a small bowl of Greek yogurt. “Where are we off to today?”

  “And spoil the surprise? Not saying.” Sam turned the page of the Chronicle, scanning the articles, when his gaze caught on the headline Robbery Victim Dies from Apparent Heart Attack. “This changes things . . .”

  “What?”

  He lowered the paper and looked at her. “The bookseller, Gerald Pickering. He’s dead.”

  Three

  Charles Avery sat back in his seat, drinking coffee as he turned the page of the San Francisco Chronicle. In his late fifties, his dark hair salted with gray at the temples, he was—in his opinion—fit for a man of his age. Even so, he’d needed a second cup of coffee to get it together this morning, having flown in late last night on his jet from the East Coast to his San Francisco offices.

  When he read about the death of the bookseller Gerald Pickering, he smiled. The news wasn’t all that surprising. Not after yesterday’s events.

  Of course, all of that meant nothing if his men failed to recover the book and confirm it was the one he’d specifically been searching for.

  Good riddance, Pickering, he thought as the head of his security team, Colin Fisk, walked into the room carrying a large, polished wooden box. Finally. “You found it,” Avery said.

  “The bookstore, yes. The book, no.”

  Avery took a deep breath, containing his anger. “What do you mean no?”

  Fisk placed the box onto the table, lifting the lid, revealing a leather-bound volume. “Fake. We went back after the police left. Pickering said he sold it to another collector before my man got there.”

  “Did your man explain to him who I was?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what I’d do to him if he didn’t hand it over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you at least find out who he sold it to?”

  “I’m afraid he expired before we were able to obtain that info.”

  Avery lowered his coffee cup to the mahogany table, then forced himself to take yet another deep breath as he pinned his stare on Fisk, wondering if it had been a mistake to hire this team Fisk had suggested. They were supposed to be the best—and, in some respects, they were. They followed orders without question, and they’d certainly found Pickering easily enough, even after Avery’s own men had failed to do so. Was it possible that Pickering had guessed Avery’s intentions? Somehow known that the knowledge of the original book’s existence in his shop meant his days were numbered?

  For twenty years, Avery had been searching . . .

  How was it that he’d gotten so close only to miss?

  He lifted the book from the box, opening it to the first page.

  Clearly, it was taken from a first edition, maybe even the one stolen from his family more than two centuries before. How else could someone so accurately reproduce the maps and wording? What this mere copy didn’t have, and what he was sure he’d find in the volume Pickering had been hiding, was the key to deciphering the code on the maps printed within. What good is a map without a way to read the ciphered notations?

  “You’re sure you searched the place thoroughly?” Avery asked.

  “Positive. We do have one possible lead, though. The names of the two who were listed as a victim and witness in the original police report. I did some checking on them. Apparently they’re treasure hunters.”

  “Treasure hunters? Who’s financing their operation? Go after the money and stop them in their tracks.”

  “They finance themselves,” Fisk said. “And from what I’ve heard, others who have tried to go after them have failed. The Fargos aren’t your average husband-and-wife hobbyists out searching for a quick buck. They’re self-made multimillionaires who donate their proceeds to charity.”

  “Regular Robin Hoods? They should be easy to deal with.”

  “Highly trained Robin Hoods.”

  Avery reached for his coffee. “They haven’t come up against me yet, have they?”

  “No, sir. But forewarned is forearmed.”

  Four

  No luck?” Sam asked as Remi called Bree Marshall’s number again. They had just arrived by taxi at the new San Francisco Police Headquarters, at Mission Bay, after being contacted by Sergeant Fauth, who wanted to ask a few more questions.

  “Her phone must be off,” Remi replied, disconnecting. She didn’t bother leaving a voice mail. She’d left one last night after the robbery, and this morning as well, telling Bree to call them at the Ritz-Carlton or call her cell as soon as possible. The last thing she wanted was for her friend to learn what happened to her uncle from a phone message. “I feel so bad. Between the robbery and—now this . . .”

  “I’m sure she’ll call soon. Let’s see what the investigators have learned since yesterday.”

  “Hope it’s good news. We could use some.” The salt-tinged wind gusted at them, and she wrapped her jacket tight to ward off the chill. “What on earth am I going to tell her when she calls?”

  “Maybe she already knows and that’s why she’s not answering.”

  Sam held open the glass door, and the two walked inside the lobby to the left, where a few security guards waited to screen those entering.

  Once through security, they checked in with an officer who was sitting behind a glass window, Sam saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo to see Sergeant Fauth.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “He is. Regarding yesterday’s bookstore robbery.”

  She picked up the phone, repeated the information to whoever answered, then told Sam, “Sergeant Fauth’s not here. But his partner, Sergeant Trevino, will be right down.”

  A dark-haired man stepped off the elevator about t
wo minutes later, introducing himself. “Have to apologize for my partner’s absence. Something came up,” he said, escorting them to an interview room. “And, naturally, we’re sorry for making you come all the way down here. But after Gerald Pickering’s death, we’re upgrading the case to a homicide.”

  Sam held the chair for Remi, then took the seat beside her. “The paper led us to believe his death was possibly due to a heart attack.”

  “And it may very well have been. Of course, we won’t know until the findings of the autopsy are complete. But in our minds, the timing is suspect. We’re looking at all angles. Either way, the crime was violent, and we’d like to catch the suspect.” He opened his notebook, turned a page, saying, “I believe you told my partner yesterday that you were in Chinatown specifically to look for a book? Can you tell me why this particular shop?”

  “A personal recommendation,” Remi said. “I’d been searching for a specific book as a gift for my husband. I found out about it through Mr. Pickering’s niece, Bree Marshall.”

  “And how do you know her?”

  “She’s done some volunteer work for the Fargo Foundation.”

  “Family business?”

  “Family charitable organization,” she said. After Sam had left DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, to start his own business, he met and married Remi. With her encouragement, he invented the argon laser scanner, a device that at a distance could detect and identify mixed metals and alloys. There was an instant market. Four years later, they sold the Fargo Group to the highest bidder, securing the future for the rest of their lives. From there, they started the Fargo Foundation.

  “Bree Marshall,” she continued, “helped us on our last fund-raiser for a new branch at the La Jolla Library. She’s the one who mentioned that her uncle was trying to find a good home for an early-eighteenth-century book on pirates and maritime maps.”

  He looked up from his notes. “This would be the book we believe was stolen from the safe?”

  “I never actually saw the book taken from the safe. Only the box. But I was definitely under the impression she was referring to a first edition.”