Pirate (15 page)

A
t Sam's request, Selma called back using Skype. He wanted to see her and the others to judge for himself just how bad this news was. Archer seconded this idea and stood off to one side, out of view of the lens, so that he could observe without being seen. A moment later, Remi's tablet lit up. But instead of Selma, they saw Bree standing in front of the camera, her gaze moving downward, undoubtedly sighting Sam and Remi on the screen. A look of relief seemed to cross her features and she reached for the desktop, leaning forward slightly as she said, “Thank goodness. I was worried.”

“Worried?” Sam said, his tone cautious. How could he not be after hearing that Selma already knew about their failed operation? He eyed Selma and Lazlo, both standing behind Bree, their expressions neutral. Turning his attention back to Bree, he asked, “About what?”

“That something happened to you.”

“Bree,” Remi said. “What would make you think something happened?”

“Because of what occurred on your first dive. I think it was because of me.”

That wasn't the response Sam had been expecting. Denial, yes. But this? “Please explain.”

“I—I think my cousin may have been passing on information.”

Remi shifted next to him. “Larayne?”

“Yes. I didn't realize what was happening, at first. They'd threatened us both. They tied us up. She was a victim just like I was. At least that's what I thought. So when she asked about you, it never occurred to me that I would be putting you in danger by saying anything. I—” She tried to compose herself, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “I'm so sorry. I never would have said anything had I known.”

Sam studied her face. She seemed genuine, but he wasn't about to throw out caution and forgive her right away. “What made you think something was going on?” he asked.

“It was after I found out what—what had happened on your first dive. And then Larayne asking me afterward if I'd heard from you. It was . . .” She reached for something offscreen. A tissue apparently. “I—I started to get suspicious. So when Selma and Lazlo told me you were going to try to find this other piece of the cipher wheel, I lied to Larayne. I told her I didn't know where you were or what you were doing. I was worried.” Her smile faltered. “If anything had happened to you . . .”

She broke down completely, and Selma picked up the tablet, then moved across the room. In the background they saw Lazlo taking Bree into his arms as she sobbed against his shoulder.

“There you have it,” Selma said.

Sam turned toward Remi. “Thoughts?”

“I believe her.”

“Selma?” he asked.

“I suppose it's possible that she's the best actress in the world. But like Mrs. Fargo, I believe her. It makes sense. And you weren't there when she came to us. She was near inconsolable. It took this long just to get her calm enough to talk to you.”

“Great,” Sam said. “The one time we need her to pass on the information, she suddenly grows a conscience—”

“Or,” Remi said, giving him a dark look, “as Bree mentioned, she realized the danger she was putting us in.”

“Well, at least we know the source of the leak.”

“Unfortunately,” Selma said, “it doesn't net you Charles Avery or his men.”

“All in good time.”

Selma lowered her voice. “Assuming she
is
telling the truth, then we have to assume that Avery and his crew are trying to discover the identity of that ship. And now they have a good couple of days head start.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Playing catch-up.”

“We better get started, then,” Sam said. “It'd be nice to find out whatever the map leads to. Treasure, we hope.”

“Treasure? Tomb? Who knows? Whatever it is, someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure it was well hidden.” Selma paused, looking behind her at Lazlo and Bree before turning back toward the screen. “That should about cover it. In the meantime, I've booked you a hotel in South Beach. Think of it as
kick-starting that vacation you've been attempting to go on. That should give us time to do some further research and you and Mrs. Fargo some time to unwind after the last few days.”

“Much appreciated, Selma. Keep us informed.”

Sam ended the call and closed the cover on the tablet. “Not what I was expecting to hear.”

“That,” Archer said, “would explain why no one bit on our well-baited lure.” He looked over at Remi. “I don't suppose you did any sort of background before you hired her?”

“The usual basic sort of thing,” Remi said. “She was only working on fund-raising.”

“What,” Sam asked Archer, “would you recommend at this point?”

“A full background. Not just on her. I'd also look into her cousin, see what we can dig up there as well. If nothing else, it might verify Miss Marshall's story and you can at least rest easy.”

“Remi?” Sam asked.

“I'd like to clear her name, so yes.”

Archer nodded. “I'll get started on it, then.” He leaned forward and shook Remi's hand. “Good to see you again. Sorry the op was a bust.”

“Don't be.”

Sam stood. “I'll walk you out.”

At Archer's car, Sam said, “Remi has a real soft spot for that girl.”

“I gathered. I'll do a thorough job on both women. Don't worry.”

The following day as Sam was relaxing by the pool in South
Beach, Archer called with a preliminary report on the two background checks.

Remi was still swimming laps. Sam, stretched out on a chaise longue, watching her while he spoke with Archer on the phone, asked, “Anything we should be concerned about?”

“Your wife's instincts appear to be good. Nothing on Bree Marshall that stands out. Good credit, a solid work history, and, from what we could find on a first pass, she was close to her uncle.”

“Exactly how did you determine that last part?”

“Sent a couple of guys from my San Francisco office out to canvass the area around the bookstore. There's a neighbor who took in the cat after the owner's death. Says Bree was a regular visitor up there. Not so with the daughter, Larayne.”

“Perhaps because she lived on the East Coast?”

“Possibly, but my agent gathered that he was closer to his niece.”

“Which doesn't make the daughter guilty of anything.”

“No. But her financial health tells me she'd be more likely to take chances. Her husband's death left her in debt and her farm is in foreclosure.”

“Criminal history?” Sam asked as Remi stopped at the far end of the pool, looked over, saw him on the phone, then swam toward him.

“None.”

“What would you recommend?”

“That depends on how far you want to go with this and how much you want to spend.”

“Don't worry about expenses,” he said as Remi hoisted herself out of the pool, pearls of water raining down off her. An auburn-haired Aphrodite, one that he wanted to keep very safe. “Do whatever it takes to get the answers we need.”

“Very good. I'll put a couple of agents on her house to start. We'll see what she's up to, and if anyone else pops up. In the meantime, you might want to keep it business as usual—at least when it comes to any conversations between Bree and her cousin. I'd like to keep that channel open without giving away that we're aware of the leak. That way, we're not telegraphing that we're on to how Avery's crew learned where you were.”

“We'll take care of it. Anything else?”

“Just that I took the liberty of picking up copies of the police reports in San Francisco. No prints on the fake cops you found tossing your hotel room. But there was a match on a print from the man who robbed the bookstore. Jakob ‘Jak' Stanislav.”

“I take it he's well known in the system?”

“Definitely a vast criminal history. From a crime family suspected in a number of missing persons cases where the bodies have yet to be found.”

“Duly noted.”

“If I discover anything further, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.” He disconnected.

Remi reached for her towel and wrapped it about her, then sat next to him on the longue. “Who was that?”

“Archer. Bree appears to check out.”

“Hmm,” she said, her tone very smug.

“He's doing some further digging into Larayne. Seems she's having financial issues and is literally about to lose the farm.”

“But to set up her father?”

“People have done worse for less. The good news is that until Archer's done with his investigating and Selma's done with her research, we have
nothing
better to do than make headway on that vacation I promised you.”

“A lovely thought, Fargo, but we did promise to visit your mother this afternoon.”

His mother, Eunice, still going strong in her seventies, lived in Key West, where she ran a charter boat for snorkelers and deep-sea fishing. “Surely she'd understand.”

Remi arched a fine brow at him. “And
what
would you be telling her as the reason we had to cancel?”

Before he could think of something suitable, his phone rang for a second time that morning. It was Selma, and Sam placed it on speaker. “Sorry to interrupt your vacation, Mr. Fargo, but Lazlo thinks he knows how to find that cipher wheel.”

T
ell us what you have,” Sam said, then sat back as Selma talked about the history of the ship that sank near Snake Island.

“It was a part of a fleet that set sail from Jamaica. We were able to find some of the records of the other ships on the Internet but hit a dead end. We think you'll be able to find what you're looking for in Jamaica.”

“Jamaica?” Remi said. “I love Jamaica this time of year.”

“Unfortunately,” Selma replied, “you're headed to Kingston, not the beaches. Definitely some areas you want to avoid.”

“Kingston it is,” Sam said. “So what is it we're looking for, Selma?”

“Records that trace the ownership of the fleet. Where it originated prior to the stop in Jamaica. That should give us a fair idea about where to start looking for that second wheel—or, rather, the original one. Just be careful. If we found the
information this easily, chances are that Avery's men may very well be there chasing after the same lead.”

The ever-efficient Selma made sure everything was ready the moment their plane touched down at Norman Manley International. A rental car employee greeted them at the office after they cleared customs. “Welcome to Jamaica, Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” he said with a lilting accent. He gave them a broad smile, his teeth gleaming white against dark skin, as he held out a map, the rental papers, and car keys.

Sam eyed the map. “The car has GPS?”

“Of course. A very nice one, I assure you. The map makes a good fan on a hot day.”

“Thank you,” Sam replied, signing the paperwork.

The employee walked them out to show them the car, a blue BMW 528i sedan. Once the inspection was done, he asked, “Will there be anything else you will be needing this fine afternoon?”

“Recommendations on a good restaurant,” Sam replied. “We're headed to Kingston.”

“Good as in expensive. Or good as in good?”

“The latter.”

“I know just the place.” He took out a pen, wrote down the name of a restaurant along with the address. “A lot of dangerous areas in Kingston. This area is not where I would normally send tourists, but not because it is dangerous. The people are very nice. Not like the bad parts. When you get there, you ask for Melia and tell her that Kemar sent you. It will be the best meal you have in Jamaica. I promise.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, tucking the address in his pocket.

“I forgot to ask. Were you meeting friends here?”

“No,” Sam said, thinking the question odd. “Why?”

“Two men came by and asked if you had picked up your car.”

“And what did you tell them?” Sam asked.

“The same as I tell all our other customers. We do not release that information.”

“Any chance you know what they were driving?”

“Unfortunately, no. They came inside the building, and I was with another customer.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, giving Kemar a generous tip, before getting into the car.

“Great,” Remi said, buckling her seat belt. “We've only just arrived and we're already being stalked?”

“Only, this time, they'll receive a hot reception.” He patted the Smith & Wesson in the hidden Velcro holster of his fishing vest. “One way to look at it is, we're on the right track.”

“Unfortunately, it also means so are they.”

“At least we're forewarned,” he said.

Due to the island's British roots, the driver sat on the right, and, as always, it took Sam a few minutes to settle in to driving on the so-called wrong side of the road, especially when it came to the first few turns. As they left the airport, he kept watch in the rearview mirror. After a couple of miles a white SUV caught his eye. Everyone leaving the airport by the same route meant they were bound to see the same cars for a while. The SUV started to pass the vehicle behind Sam, then suddenly braked and darted back into its original position. The opposing lane ahead
of Sam was wide open, with a large gap in traffic that would easily have allowed safe passing.

Whether a tourist deciding against making a lane change or Avery's men trying to verify it was Sam and Remi in the car, he didn't know. They were too far back for him to see who was inside. “We may have company.”

“Already?” Remi glanced out her window into the side mirror. “Which car?”

“White SUV. They were trying to pass the car behind us, then changed their mind.”

“Trying to see if we were here?”

“Possibly.”

“Now what?”

“The scenic route to the restaurant to see if we're being followed.”

As soon as they reached town, Sam made a quick left and was glad to see the SUV continue straight. “Catch who was behind the wheel?” he asked.

“Tinted windows.”

He made another left, then pulled to the curb, parking about a half block down in front of a large truck that would, he hoped, block their view. He watched the intersection from his side mirror. When the SUV didn't appear within what Sam thought was a reasonable amount of time, he pulled out, keeping to side streets as they drove to the restaurant. As Kemar had warned, they were in a part of town where tourists seemed to be absent. They drove past shanties and corrugated-metal shacks on streets crowded with pedestrians who darted into the
roads certain that any vehicles would stop in time. Eventually the smaller buildings were replaced by larger structures. When they reached the right neighborhood, he drove past the restaurant, a bright purple building, tucked in between other businesses and restaurants, each painted a different color of the rainbow, some clashing garishly with whatever was built next to it. Distinctly Jamaica.

“Did we lose them?” Remi asked.

“Looks like it. Just in case, we'll park away from the restaurant. No sense making it easy for them.”

He drove around the corner, reasoning that there were a dozen or more restaurants in the area and someone would have to pop into a lot of doors to locate them. That at least would give them time to eat in peace.

The walk to the restaurant took about three minutes. If anything, it seemed even hotter now than it had when they left the rental lot. The high humidity level didn't help.

Remi wiped a sheen of perspiration from her forehead, then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, the sunlight bringing out the vibrant auburn color. “What are the chances this place is air-conditioned?”

“In this part of town? I'll be happy with a good working ceiling fan.” But when they entered the purple, stuccoed building, the lone ceiling fan didn't seem to move much air.

A woman greeted them as they entered. Tall, with short dark curls cropped close to her head, she picked up two menus from the counter.

As suggested, Sam asked for Melia.

“I am Melia.”

When he mentioned Kemar's name, it brought a smile to her face.

“Kemar?” she said in the same lilting accent. “A good man to send you here. Please, come this way. Our special guests sit on the patio. Much cooler, with the breeze that comes in from the ocean.”

Melia led them through the stifling dining room to a side door, then up a creaking, narrow staircase that led to a rooftop patio overlooking the street below. As promised, a cooling breeze swept in from the south.

She set out the two menus, both on the same side of the table facing out toward the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. “Much cooler beneath the umbrella.”

“Lovely,” Remi said, taking a seat.

Sam walked over to the edge of the second-story rooftop, eyeing the cars driving below. No sign of any white SUV or any suspicious-looking pedestrians milling about. Satisfied that they hadn't been followed, he returned to the table, grateful that they were far enough back where they wouldn't be seen by anyone walking on the street below.

Of course, that wouldn't stop Avery's men from doing a door-to-door search, should they happen to notice their rental car parked around the corner. Just in case, he took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Melia. Is it possible to warn us if anyone should come in and ask if we're here?”

She pushed his hand away. “That is far too much for such a small favor. Keep your money, and I will be glad to tell you should anyone come looking. Now, what is it you'd like to eat?”

Sam picked up the menu. “What do you recommend?”

Melia smiled. “On the menu or off? You tell me what it is you like and I will see it done.”

Exactly the sort of restaurant they preferred. In short order, they were dining on jerk chicken—smooth, moist, and served with a fiery Scotch bonnet pepper marinade.

Melia returned before they finished, her dark brows etched with worry. “You said to warn you should someone come asking?”

“Yes,” Sam said, his gaze moving to the doorway. “What happened?”

“It is as you said. A white man walked in, asking if we have seen a man who would be with a beautiful woman with red hair.” She smiled apologetically. “We told them no. You can see for yourself.” She motioned for Sam to approach the balustrade, pointing down to the street. “There on the corner?”

Sam looked out, saw a short, broad-shouldered man, his back to them, talking on a cell phone. Unlike everyone else in the vicinity, who seemed to be wearing shorts or khakis and short-sleeved shirts, this person wore dark slacks and a leather coat. Jak. The same thing he'd been wearing when he robbed Pickering's bookstore. A second man stepped out of a restaurant across the street, looked around, then made eye contact with Jak.

Sam stepped back out of view. “Any chance you have another way out of here?”

“The fire escape,” she said, pointing to the opposite side of the roof. “A ladder leading down into the alley.”

“Works for me,” Sam said. “Remi?”

“I'm in.”

He left several hundred dollars on the table, and Melia started to protest.

“Worth every penny,” Sam said. “Trust me.”

He walked toward the ladder, Remi right behind him. The alley looked clear. Even better, there were two large dumpsters, one on either side of the ladder, and he climbed over the edge, then waited for Remi. Once she was safely on the ladder, they started down. “Sorry about lunch,” he said as they descended.

“You realize that chicken was to die for?”

“But not worth dying for.”

“We'll simply have to go back.”

“Let's lose our tail before we start making plans.”

The ladder stopped about four feet off the ground. An easy jump for him. At the bottom, he waited for Remi—very much enjoying the view as she climbed down.

She noticed. “We're running for our lives and you're watching me?”

He grinned as he took her by the waist, helping her to drop the last few feet. “At least I'll die happy.”

They stepped from the relative cover of the dumpsters. Remi looked both directions. “Which way?”

Good question. If Avery's men just started their search from where they saw the rental car parked, they'd be heading to their left. “Right.”

At the end of the alley, he poked his head around the corner, then ducked back just as the white SUV turned onto that street. They'd be caught in seconds. On the other side of the alley, he saw several doors, the second one closed only with a screen, undoubtedly to let the breeze flow through the shop. “This way,” Sam said, running across the alley, hoping the screen door wasn't latched.