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“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 t
wo 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.”
