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Sam and Remi watched the receding car for a few seconds. Then Remi murmured, “Is anyone in the King family normal?”
Forty-five minutes later they were settled into their suite and enjoying their coffee.
After spending the afternoon lying around the pool relaxing, they returned to their suite for cocktails. Sam ordered a Sapphire Bombay Gin Gibson, and Remi asked for a Ketel One Cosmopolitan. They finished reading the dossier Zhilan had given them at the Palembang Airport. While on the surface it seemed thorough, they found little of substance on which they could start their hunt.
“I have to admit,” Remi said, “the combination of Zhilan Hsu’s and Charlie King’s genes produced . . . interesting results.”
“That’s very diplomatic of you, Remi, but let’s be honest: Russell and Marjorie are scary. Combine their appearance with their over-the-top friendliness and you’ve got a pair of Hollywood-born serial killers. Did you see specific traces of Zhilan in them?”
“No, and I’m half hoping there aren’t. If she’s their mother, that means she was probably eighteen or nineteen when she had them.”
“Which would’ve put King in his mid-forties at the time.”
“Did you notice the lack of Texas accents? I think I caught a trace of Ivy League in some of their vowels.”
“So Daddy shipped them out of Texas and off to college. What I want to know is, how did they know what flight we were on?”
“Charlie King flexing his muscles? Showing us he’s well connected?”
“Probably. That might also explain why he didn’t tell us to expect the Wonder Twins. As powerful as King is, he probably fancies himself a master at keeping people off guard.”
“I’m not fond of having them shadow us everywhere.”
“Neither am I, but let’s play along tomorrow and see what they know about Frank’s activities. I have a sneaking suspicion the King family knows a lot more than they’re letting on.”
“Agreed,” Remi replied. “It all adds up to one thing, Sam: King is trying to play the puppet master. The question is, why? Because he’s a control freak or because he’s hiding something?”
The door chimes rang. As he moved to the door to retrieve an envelope that had just been slid under it, Sam said, “Ah, confirmation of our dinner reservations.”
“Really?”
“Well, only if you can be ready to leave in thirty minutes,” replied Sam.
“Love to, and where are we going?”
“Bhanchka and Ghan,” responded Sam.
“How did you remember?”
“How can you forget such memorable food, the ambience, and Nepalese cuisine in Nepal!”
Twenty-five minutes later Remi had changed into Akris slacks and a top, with a matching jacket thrown over her arm. And Sam, freshly shaved, wearing a blue Robert Graham shirt and dark gray slacks, ushered her out the door.
Remi was only marginally surprised to awaken at four a.m. to find her husband not in bed but rather in an armchair in the suite’s sitting area. When something was badgering Sam Fargo’s subconscious, he rarely could sleep. She found him under the soft glow of a lamp reading the dossier Zhilan had given them. Using her hip, Remi gently shoved aside the manila folder. Then she settled into his lap and wrapped her long La Perla silk robe tightly around her.
“I think I found the culprit,” he said.
“Show me.”
He flipped through a series of paper-clipped pages. “The daily e-mail reports that Frank was sending King. They start the day he arrived here and end the morning he disappeared. Do you notice anything different about the last three e-mails?”
Remi scanned them. “No.”
“He signed each one ‘Frank.’ Look at the ones prior.”
Remi did so. She pursed her lips. “Simply signed ‘FA.’”
“That’s how he signed e-mails to me too.”
