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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.
