Pirate (4 page)

“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 stepped 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.”

C
harles 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.”

N
o 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 two 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.”

“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 from 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?”