Pirate, Page 4

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Mostly the way she talked about how her uncle would be so pleased to find someone who would appreciate it for its historical value.”

  Sergeant Trevino eyed them, his pen poised over his notebook. “I understand you’re professional treasure hunters?”

  “We are,” Sam said. “With the proceeds going to charity through the Fargo Foundation.”

  “I’ll admit to knowing very little about rare books. But, seeing as how it was a book of pirates and maps, is it possible that someone stole this book because they thought it would lead them to some long-forgotten pirate treasure?”

  Remi laughed. “I suppose anything’s possible. Honestly, though, had it not been for Mr. Pickering’s niece saying he had a first edition for sale and us being in the area around the same time, I doubt I would have sought it out.”

  “Assuming the stolen book was a first edition, how much are we talking?”

  “Depending on the condition . . .” Remi had researched the book when she’d first considered buying it for Sam. “I’ve seen copies for sale from several hundred dollars to a couple thousand. It’s not a particularly valuable book because it was popular in its day. There are still a lot of first editions out there. For us, it was more sentimental,” she said, placing her hand on Sam’s.

  “Exactly,” Sam said. “We enjoy maritime history.”

  Sergeant Trevino closed his notebook. “That’s about all I have for now. Unless either of you can think of anything we might’ve overlooked?”

  “Not at the moment,” Sam replied.

  And Remi added, “We’ll call if we think of anything else.”

  “Thanks again for coming all the way out here.”

  He escorted them back to the lobby.

  Remi, about to follow Sam out the door, asked, “What’s going to happen to Mr. Wickham?”

  Sergeant Trevino’s brows went up.

  “The bookseller’s cat.”

  “Right. I believe Pickering’s next-door neighbor came by to pick it up. He’ll be well cared for until we hear from Pickering’s niece or his daughter and find out what she wants to do with it.”

  “Have you been in touch with either of them?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I think his daughter lives on the East Coast. As for his niece, we have the number you provided. We’ll try to reach her through that.” He thanked them again, then headed back toward the elevator.

  Back at the hotel, Sam handed his keys to the valet. “Not quite the relaxing diversion I’d hoped San Francisco would be.”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s my fault for suggesting we go to the bookstore to begin with. I thought the book would add to the nautical theme of your new office.”

  “I’ll enjoy the reproduction as much, if not more. Especially with its checkered past.”

  “And where is it we’re off to?” she asked as they walked into the lobby.

  “First to get our luggage. Then a drive down the coast to Monterey.”

  “Dinner and key lime pie at Roy’s?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, they were met by the on-duty manager, his face etched with concern. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I can’t tell you how very sorry I am. And if there’s anything I can do, I—nothing like this has ever happened before. At least not as long as I’ve worked here.”

  “What’s never happened before?” Sam asked.

  “The police. They came with a warrant to search through your things.”

  “A warrant?” Remi asked, certain she’d misunderstood. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine anything they might’ve done that would result in a police investigation.

  “We tried to call you, but it went straight to voice mail.”

  They’d both turned off the ringers on their cell phones while being interviewed by Sergeant Trevino.

  Sam asked, “You have a copy of the warrant?”

  “A copy?”

  “The police are required to leave a copy of the warrant.”

  “Perhaps you could ask them yourself. They’re up in your room now.”

  “Good idea,” he said. He and Remi started toward the elevator, the manager trailing behind them. “No wonder Sergeant Fauth wasn’t there this morning,” Sam said to Remi. “He was busy searching our rooms while his partner kept us distracted at the police station, asking superficial questions about the robbery.”

  “Search for what?” Remi asked as Sam jabbed at the up button. “We were just as much a victim as poor Mr. Pickering. And, really, they could simply have asked. Far less embarrassing that way.” She turned a brittle smile on the manager, who seemed to be listening to every word. In truth, she was surprised Sam hadn’t asked the manager to wait behind, but then realized if the police were searching their room—something she found hard to believe, never mind extremely humiliating—having a witness was probably not a bad thing.

  The manager inserted his key into the elevator, allowing it access to the concierge level. When it opened onto their floor, and the manager let them into their suite, Remi saw two men in dark suits, both wearing latex gloves, one going through her suitcase on the bed, his hand in the lining feeling about for whatever he thought might be hidden there. The other was opening the cabinets by the bar.

  Remi whispered to Sam. “I don’t see Sergeant Fauth.”

  The man near the bar moved toward them, his gaze narrowed and menacing. “This is official police business. You’ll need to leave.”

  Sam stepped in front of Remi, shielding her. “That’s not going to happen. I’d like to see some ID,” he demanded. “And a copy of the warrant.”

  “Here’s your warrant.” He pulled out a sheaf of folded papers from his breast pocket as he and his partner advanced toward them.

  The detective shoved the papers into Sam, pushing him into the entryway table. Sam grabbed the man’s shoulder, then swung him around, slamming him into the wall. They struggled in the doorway. Suddenly, his partner jumped into the fray, coming at Sam from behind. Sam rammed his fist into the first guy’s jaw, then spun around, kicking the second guy, who went flying into the manager, knocking them both to the ground. Remi jumped back, looked around for a weapon, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. She lifted it, ready to strike. The second guy saw her, took one look at Sam and his partner, then scrambled from the room.

  Sam grappled with the first detective. The man swung. Sam blocked the blow with his left arm, brought his right fist into the guy’s gut. The detective dropped to his knees, saw Sam coming at him again, then dove through the door after his partner. Sam started after them but thought better of it, returning and locking the door instead. He eyed Remi holding the vase. “That for me or for them?”

  “I hadn’t decided yet.”

  She gave a slight nod toward the manager on the floor.

  Sam reached down, helping him to his feet. “You okay?”

  “More startled than anything.” He brushed at his clothing. “This is an outrage. I assure you, we’ll contact the Police Department and register a complaint.”

  “Trust me,” Sam said, “they weren’t cops.”

  “But I saw the warrant.”

  Sam picked up the so-called warrant from the ground, looking at the papers. “Forged. There’s no signed affidavit. Probably pulled off the Internet from some old case.” He handed them to Remi.

  She quickly looked them over. “What do you think they were searching for?”

  “Whatever it was they hoped to find in Mr. Pickering’s safe, would be my guess.”

  A quick call to the police verified that the two men were not, in fact, law enforcement, and within minutes uniformed officers flooded the area in hopes of finding the suspects.

  The missing Sergeant Fauth arrived shortly thereafter, apologizing for not being at that morning’s interview, having only just returned fro
m the morgue. Apparently he was there for Pickering’s autopsy. “You have no idea what they were looking for?” he asked Remi and Sam.

  “None,” Sam replied. “Honestly, we wrongly assumed you and your partner had set up this interview in order to come up here and search.”

  “Illegal searches aside, I’d like to think we’d have done a better job with a fake warrant. More than likely they were watching your hotel, waiting for you to leave. Which means that whatever they were trying to get from Mr. Pickering, they think you now have.”

  Remi, who was going through her suitcase checking to see if anything was missing, said, “Whatever it was couldn’t have been all that big. They were searching in the lining of my suitcase. And the small zipper compartments. The book I bought would not have fit there.”

  “Where is this book?”

  “Assuming the concierge did as asked, it’ll be arriving on my front porch anytime this afternoon.”

  “Is there anyone who can check it when it arrives?”

  “Our researcher, Selma. I’ll give her a call.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Remi took her cell phone from her purse, then called Selma’s office number. There was no answer, and she left a voice mail.

  She disconnected as Sergeant Fauth said, “So let me get this straight. You get back from the PD, walk into the hotel, and the Guest Services manager says the police are here searching?”

  “That’s right,” Sam replied. “He was watching for us the moment we walked in the door.”

  The manager, still shaken, nodded in agreement. “I tried calling the Fargos as soon as they served me with the warrant. I wasn’t able to get through. And, well, what was I supposed to do? Between the official-looking papers and their guns, I—”

  “Guns?” Sergeant Fauth said.

  He nodded. “I suppose I should have asked for ID, but . . .”

  “Mr. . . . ?”

  “Bryant.”

  “Mr. Bryant,” Sergeant Fauth said. “Did either man say what they were looking for?”

  “Yes. They wanted to know if the Fargos had said anything about a key. Maybe asked to put it in a safe. Finding one, hiding one. I—I don’t remember. Just—they definitely said they were looking for a key.”

  “A key?”

  “Yes. I thought maybe they were talking about the necklace Mrs. Fargo was wearing when she left this morning.”

  Remi fingered the diamond-studded charm, asking Sam, “Something about this you’re not telling me?”

  “An expensive trinket but a trinket nonetheless.”

  She smiled at the sergeant, trying to keep her tone pleasant. “I think we can all agree that whatever these people think we have, we don’t. So if there’s nothing else . . . ? We were on our way to check out. Or, rather, we were supposed to be.”

  He eyed their suitcases. “What I need to do is take a look at any surveillance video in the lobby. I expect Mr. Bryant can help me.”

  Sam closed Remi’s suitcase and his own. “You have our cell numbers, should anything come up.” He ushered her out of there without waiting to hear the sergeant’s response. The manager started to follow, but Sam stopped him. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “Of course.” He backed off, and Sam escorted Remi onto the elevator with their luggage.

  The moment the door closed, she asked, “What day was this relaxing vacation supposed to start?”

  “Did I say today? I meant tomorrow.”

  “Hmm . . .”

  “For the record, no one actually tried to kill us.”

  “But they did have guns.” Remi eyed Sam. “And we left ours on the plane.”

  “Is this a good time to point out that it was your idea to stop off at that bookstore?”

  “Pretty sure it’s never going to be a good time to mention that.”

  Five

  Sam decided that their overnight trip to the Inn at Spanish Bay and dinner at Roy’s on the Monterey Peninsula would have to wait for another day. He contacted his flight crew and had them fly back to San Francisco from the airport in Monterey. Remi was too worried over not being able to get in touch with Bree. That, along with this morning’s events, had put a damper on Sam’s plans for the week. Within a few hours, they were at cruising altitude aboard their G650, relaxing to the soothing allegretto of Beethoven’s Seventh. Remi had received a text from Selma that the book arrived this morning in “fairly good shape,” and other than some minor damage to the inside cover, possibly from being jostled during shipping, there was nothing that stood out. No keys or anything else packed with it.

  Even with Selma’s text, Remi seemed restless. Sam saw her check her phone, then return it to the table, a look of frustration on her face, no doubt hoping to hear from her friend. He wished he could ease her worry. He didn’t know Bree Marshall well, but Remi had worked quite closely with her these last few weeks and had grown fond of the young woman.

  When they arrived at the San Diego Airport, they drove straight to Bree’s apartment in La Jolla. She lived on the second story in a complex about two miles inland. Palm trees lined the parking lot, the offshore breeze rustling the fronds above them. Sam and Remi climbed the stairs, Remi ringing the doorbell, waiting a few seconds, then trying again. When no one answered, Sam knocked sharply. The door behind them opened, and a blond-haired woman poked her head out. “No one’s home.”

  “Any chance you know how to reach Bree?” Remi asked.

  “You are . . . ?”

  “Remi Fargo. My husband, Sam. We work—”

  “That Foundation. I’ve heard her mention her job there,” she said, opening the door wider, eyeing both of them. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t some random strangers. She took off suddenly.”

  “When?” Remi asked.

  “Late last night. I was just getting home, and she was running down the stairs, saying something about her uncle. Going to see him, I think.”

  Sam pulled out his wallet, took a business card from it, and handed it to her. “If you hear from her, ask her to give us a call? It’s very important.”

  “Of course. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  In the car, Sam glanced over at his wife. “She’s probably already in San Francisco.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I just hate to think how awful this must be for her.”

  “She has our number. She’ll call. In the meantime, let’s go home, check in with Selma, and take a look at this book Mr. Pickering wrapped up for you.”

  They lived just a few miles away in the hills of La Jolla’s Goldfish Point, overlooking the ocean. The moment they stepped inside from the garage, their massive German shepherd, Zoltán, bounded down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking on the tumbled-marble tile floor as he skidded to a stop in front of Remi and Sam.

  Remi kneeled down, scratching him behind his ears as he pressed himself closer to her. She’d acquired the dog in Hungary when they were searching for Attila the Hun’s tomb, and the two had bonded so well, she brought Zoltán home. There was one slight drawback. Zoltán knew only Hungarian commands. Fortunately, their researcher Selma, a former Hungarian citizen—still retaining a slight accent—set about teaching the dog English commands to go along with the Hungarian. Zoltán was, Selma liked to say, the only Eastern European bilingual dog in the neighborhood.

  “Good boy,” Remi told the dog. “Let’s get you a treat.”

  Treat was one of the first English words he picked up, and his tail thumped on hearing it. Remi gave him one last scratch, then walked toward the kitchen, the dog heeling by her side. He sat in front of the cupboard where the dog biscuits were kept, his eyes solely on Remi.

  Selma walked into the kitchen a moment later, dressed in black yoga pants and her usual tie-dyed shirt, this one teal blue and hot pink. Her close-cropped brown hair seemed spikier than usual, and t
he reading glasses she usually wore on a chain around her neck had been replaced with wide-framed sunglasses.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome home.”

  And here Sam had thought he’d convinced her that they were on a first-name basis. “Back to formalities?” he asked. “What happened to calling us Sam and Remi?”

  “I tried it, Mr. Fargo. But I work for you. This makes me happy.”

  “Then it makes us happy,” Remi said.

  Selma eyed Remi, who was feeding a second biscuit to Zoltán. “You’re going to make that dog fat, Mrs. Fargo.”

  “He’s as fit as ever.”

  “Only because I walk him twice as far when you’re home feeding him all those treats. Someone has to look after that poor dog’s health.” Selma opened the cupboard near the hallway and pulled out the leash. Zoltán heard the jingle and rushed over, almost too excited to sit as she leaned down and hooked the leash to his collar. “We’ll be at the beach if anyone’s looking for us.”

  “The book?” Remi asked Selma. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

  “Not right off. But Lazlo was impressed,” she said, referring to Lazlo Kemp. They’d taken him on to help Selma with some of the research, during the time he needed to recuperate from an injury that occurred while they were searching for Quetzalcoatl’s tomb in Mexico. Both were surprised when the man had become smitten with Selma, whose husband, a test pilot, had died over a decade ago. What they weren’t sure about was exactly how Selma felt about Lazlo and so they were content to simply let the relationship run its course. Assuming it had a course to run.

  Remi returned the dog biscuit box to the cupboard, asking Selma, “And what was Lazlo’s take on it?”

  “That he didn’t know enough about the book to say what, if anything, was worth killing over. It’s not his specialty. But he’s arranged for you to meet with Ian Hopkins so that he can see the book. According to Lazlo, he’s the nearest expert on the subject available on such a short notice. Unfortunately, Hopkins is in Phoenix, Arizona. Retired professor.”