Pirate (5 page)

“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.”

S
am 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 the 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.”

“No worries,” Remi said. “I love Arizona in the autumn.” She turned toward Sam. “This isn't going to interrupt your plans too much, is it?”

“The beauty of my plans is their flexibility.”

“You don't have any, do you?”

“Playing it by ear, Remi. So where is this mysterious book?” he asked Selma.

“Locked in your safe.”

“I'll go have a look.”

“Bring it up,” Remi said. “We can look at it together.”

He retrieved the book, still in its FedEx box. He wasn't sure why Selma bothered locking it up except, perhaps, because it was connected to the robbery and then the death of Mr. Pickering, the bookseller.

When he returned with the package, Remi was looking out the window—apparently at Selma as she and Zoltán walked down the drive. “Now that she's in the sun, I do believe her hair matches her shirt. Pink and blue streaks.”

He glanced out the window and saw Remi was right. A very subtle highlighting that hadn't been there before. “Not like the old Selma to fuss over her appearance. You think—?”

“Lazlo?” Remi finished.

They watched her until she and the dog disappeared from sight. Returning his attention to the book, he slipped it from the FedEx box onto the kitchen table, then unwrapped the brown paper, exposing the leather cover with the gold-tooled title. He could see why Remi had been drawn to it. “This is quite the find.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sparkling water. “They went to a lot of trouble to make it look like an antique. They're printed in China to keep the cost down.”

“Mr. Pickering said this was a copy?”

She poured two glasses. “One of several. Why?”

He looked over at her, saying, “You might want to rethink that.”

“I'm thirsty.”

“I mean, around the book.” He stood aside so that she could see. “No way is this some made in China copy, Remi. It's the real deal.”

R
emi stared for several seconds, noticing the worn leather binding, the gold-tooled markings, gilded pages, and the inked typeset lettering that could never be mistaken for modern-day laser print. “This is not the same book he showed me.”

“Then how did you end up with it?”

“I don't know. I only paid forty-nine dollars plus tax. I—” Remi reached out and touched it, then pulled her hand back. “We should be wearing gloves.”

“Back up there, Remi. What do you mean you only paid forty-nine dollars for this? Or did you forget a few zeroes before that decimal point?”

“No. But when that gunman walked in, Mr. Pickering grabbed the reproduction from me and said he'd wrap it up. The book he took from me was
not
this one.”

“Do you think he switched it with the book from the safe?”

“He must have. He must have known that man's intent when he saw him walk into the store.” She glanced down at the volume on the table, still unable to believe what she was seeing. “We should probably let the police know about this.”

“Undoubtedly. But if we do that, they're going to want to see it. And, right now, I'd like to know what's so important about this particular volume.”

“So we take it to the expert in Phoenix first?”

“Definitely. Then we inform the police.”

They flew to Phoenix the following morning, meeting with Professor Ian Hopkins, whose studies focused on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English literature. He also repaired antique books, a hobby he'd taken up after his retirement, and was working on one when they walked in. He looked at them over the rims of his dark-framed glasses. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”

“We are,” Sam replied. “But call us Sam and Remi.”

“Ian,” he said, standing. He reached out and shook hands with them both. “So. My friend Lazlo tells me you have a decent copy of
The History of Pyrates and Privateers
.”

Remi pulled the carefully wrapped book from her tote and set it on the counter. “We weren't aware that it was supposed to be particularly valuable, but it seems someone believes it is.”

“Let's have a look.” He donned white gloves, then examined the book, turning it over in his hands. “Full leather binding and spine in good shape. The gold-tooled geometric pattern on front and back still visible . . . Gilding on the page edges apparent, not worn . . .” He set the book on the table, then opened the cover.
“This,” he said, running his gloved hand on the front endpaper, illustrated with a map, then flipping the book over and opening the back of the cover, also illustrated with a map, “is where the value lies in copies of this particular book. The endpapers have been removed from most of the copies I've seen. You'll notice that the maps aren't the same? The front differs from the back? No one realized that for quite some time.”

“Why,” Remi asked, “would someone remove them?”

“I believe they're copies of actual pirate maps that are described in the book. But since the same maps appear in the endpapers of later editions, including current reproductions, it's more likely that someone thought the older illustrated endpapers would make a nice framed decoration. That's the speculation from the author of an article on the recent endpaper theft from a copy contained at the British Library last year. A rather daring burglary, considering the cameras and such.” He touched the edge of the back map along the bottom of the cover and the endpaper lifted slightly. “Not that they would have been all that difficult to remove. You can see the glue is no longer holding on to this copy.”

Sam figured that was the minor damage Selma and Lazlo had mentioned. “With the endpapers intact,” Sam said, “would that increase the value so much that someone would be willing to kill over it?”

The professor looked over at Sam, a bit surprised. “Not in my opinion. There are certainly far more valuable books out there. That being said, this is an excellent copy. I suppose it's possible someone would want it to add to a collection.”

“How much?” Remi asked. “Assuming you were a collector and wanted this?”

“Assuming the rest of the book is in pristine condition and nothing is missing . . . four, five thousand.”

“That's it?” Sam asked.

“It's not a particularly rare book. Just old, and with a subject matter that makes it highly appealing to the maritime collector and anyone interested in pirates. So, yes. No more than five thousand, I'd think. And that's due to the endpapers being intact.”

“Still,” Remi said, her brows arching, “that's a pretty penny, considering I paid less than fifty dollars for it. Unfortunately, I think we need to turn this volume over to the police.”

“For what reason?” he asked her. “If you paid for it, legally it's yours.”

She explained how the book came into her possession.

Professor Hopkins ran his gloved fingers along the leather cover. “Quite the interesting history for this little volume.”

“Exactly,” Remi said. “Which makes me wonder if we're not overlooking something.”

“We are,” Sam replied. “The two thugs in our hotel room who were asking if we'd found a key of some sort.”

The professor glanced up from the page he'd been examining. “A key? For what?”

“That,” Sam said, “is part of what we're hoping you might discover. Is there something different about this book in comparison to the others? Invisible writing? Pages that might differ from other copies?”

“I'd be glad to take a closer look for you. Examine it under different lighting. Photograph each page so that you can make the comparisons later. Of course, there is a fee. And one other appraisal ahead of yours.”

Sam pulled out his wallet. “And what's your standard fee?”

“One twenty-five an hour. With only the one small volume, I don't expect it will take much over an hour, maybe two at the most.”

Sam took five hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Would that cover moving it to the head of the line?”

“I'll give my client a call and let him know his appraisal will be late.”

“We'd appreciate it.” Sam looked at his watch, saw it was half past eleven, and asked Remi, “Lunch while we're waiting?”

“Definitely,” she said. Then to Professor Hopkins, “Any recommendations?”

“There's an excellent Italian restaurant a couple of miles from here. Marcellino Ristorante. Highly recommended. In fact, if you prefer, I can bring the book to you there when I finish looking it over. The client I have to visit is actually very near there.”

“Perfect,” Remi said. “We'll see you then.”

The restaurant was located in an open-air plaza that backed up to the waterfront in Old Town Scottsdale. Sam opened the wrought-iron gate for Remi and then the glass door. The sound—and scent—of sizzling garlic and fresh herbs wafted toward them as a charming woman introduced herself as Sima, warmly welcomed them and led them to their seats, wishing them a
“Buon appetito.”

There were two empty tables near the window overlooking the patio. She sat them at the table to the right, since the one in the corner on the left held a small placard stating it was
Reserved
for Authors and Muses
. After looking at the menu, Remi started with
insalata caprese
of fresh mozzarella, garden tomatoes, red pepper, and basil, followed by
cozze in bianco
—mussels sautéed in white wine. Sam opted for the
carpaccio
, with raw ahi tuna on a bed of arugula, and grilled salmon, and, for the table, a bottle of sparkling white wine, Falanghina Nudo Eroico.

When the wine was served, Remi lifted her glass to Sam's. “Here's to hoping Professor Hopkins finds this mysterious key.”

“Agreed.”

They had just finished their meal when Chef Marcellino approached their table, greeting them, his Italian accent very evident. “You have met my beautiful wife,” he said as he nodded to Sima. “I hope you enjoyed your lunch. And perhaps saved room for dessert?”

“The food,” Remi said, “was wonderful. Dessert . . . ?” She looked over at Sam.

“I'm always a sucker for sharing tiramisu with a beautiful woman.”

“Well, then,” she said, turning toward Chef Marcellino, “I believe we'll be sharing an order.”

“At once,” he replied with a slight bow, his dark eyes sparkling. He returned shortly with the tiramisu, telling them to enjoy it.

Remi took the first bite, deciding it was the perfect balance of espresso-soaked savoiardi, creamy marscarpone, and a dusting of unsweetened cocoa. “This is the next-best thing to being in Italy.”

“It can't possibly be as good as the tiramisu we had in Rome last month at Domus Magnanimi.” He slipped the spoonful into
his mouth, closed his eyes as though tasting a fine wine. After a moment, he said, “Then again, maybe we should have ordered two servings.”

Remi was about to take a second bite when she saw Professor Hopkins enter the restaurant, the wrapped book tucked under his arm. He looked around, saw them, and walked over. “My apologies for interrupting your lunch.”

“Sit, please,” Sam said. “We're actually done, but couldn't resist trying the tiramisu.”

“Exquisite here, isn't it?” He pulled out a chair and sat.

“Very. So . . .” Sam eyed the package that the professor had set on the table in front of them. “Did you find anything?”

“At first, nothing. The volume is in amazing shape. Of course I examined each page, looking at it under oblique lighting, black lights, various wavelengths. Nothing on any of the pages that would make me think of this key. That's what you said they were looking for?”

Remi and Sam nodded.

“I have a friend with a metal detector and he stopped by and placed it over the book, my thought being that perhaps if there were some key hidden in the binding, we might detect it that way. Nothing. And then it occurred to me that perhaps we weren't talking about a metal key at all. It is a book on pirates and their maps. Why not a key to the map?”

Remi said, “Makes perfect sense.”

“So I went back over each page. And, as you asked, photographed each for direct comparison to another copy. Unfortunately, I don't have a copy on hand. I thought you might compare them yourself later using the digital copy I made for you. You
might find something written in this edition that doesn't appear in the others. Especially the pages that have maps on them. I also examined the ink to see if something had been added later . . .” He patted the box, taking a deep breath. “But, back to the key search. Once I realized what was right in front of me, I couldn't believe it hadn't occurred to me sooner.” He looked first at Remi, then Sam, saying nothing.

Remi wanted to reach out and shake him. “Exactly
what
hadn't occurred to you sooner?”

“The reason why the endpapers were missing from all the other volumes. I know what they were looking for.”