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Remi whispered to Sam. “I don’t see Sergeant Fauth.”
The man near the bar moved toward them, his gaze narrowed and menacing. “This is official police business. You’ll need to leave.”
Sam stepped in front of Remi, shielding her. “That’s not going to happen. I’d like to see some ID,” he demanded. “And a copy of the warrant.”
“Here’s your warrant.” He pulled out a sheaf of folded papers from his breast pocket as he and his partner advanced toward them.
The detective shoved the papers into Sam, pushing him into the entryway table. Sam grabbed the man’s shoulder, then swung him around, slamming him into the wall. They struggled in the doorway. Suddenly, his partner jumped into the fray, coming at Sam from behind. Sam rammed his fist into the first guy’s jaw, then spun around, kicking the second guy, who went flying into the manager, knocking them both to the ground. Remi jumped back, looked around for a weapon, grabbing a vase from a nearby table. She lifted it, ready to strike. The second guy saw her, took one look at Sam and his partner, then scrambled from the room.
Sam grappled with the first detective. The man swung. Sam blocked the blow with his left arm, brought his right fist into the guy’s gut. The detective dropped to his knees, saw Sam coming at him again, then dove through the door after his partner. Sam started after them but thought better of it, returning and locking the door instead. He eyed Remi holding the vase. “That for me or for them?”
“I hadn’t decided yet.”
She gave a slight nod toward the manager on the floor.
Sam reached down, helping him to his feet. “You okay?”
“More startled than anything.” He brushed at his clothing. “This is an outrage. I assure you, we’ll contact the Police Department and register a complaint.”
“Trust me,” Sam said, “they weren’t cops.”
“But I saw the warrant.”
Sam picked up the so-called warrant from the ground, looking at the papers. “Forged. There’s no signed affidavit. Probably pulled off the Internet from some old case.” He handed them to Remi.
She quickly looked them over. “What do you think they were searching for?”
“Whatever it was they hoped to find in Mr. Pickering’s safe, would be my guess.”
A quick call to the police verified that the two men were not, in fact, law enforcement, and within minutes uniformed officers flooded the area in hopes of finding the suspects.
The missing Sergeant Fauth arrived shortly thereafter, apologizing for not being at that morning’s interview, having only just returned fro
m the morgue. Apparently he was there for Pickering’s autopsy. “You have no idea what they were looking for?” he asked Remi and Sam.
“None,” Sam replied. “Honestly, we wrongly assumed you and your partner had set up this interview in order to come up here and search.”
“Illegal searches aside, I’d like to think we’d have done a better job with a fake warrant. More than likely they were watching your hotel, waiting for you to leave. Which means that whatever they were trying to get from Mr. Pickering, they think you now have.”
Remi, who was going through her suitcase checking to see if anything was missing, said, “Whatever it was couldn’t have been all that big. They were searching in the lining of my suitcase. And the small zipper compartments. The book I bought would not have fit there.”
“Where is this book?”
“Assuming the concierge did as asked, it’ll be arriving on my front porch anytime this afternoon.”
“Is there anyone who can check it when it arrives?”
“Our researcher, Selma. I’ll give her a call.”
“Appreciate it.”
Remi took her cell phone from her purse, then called Selma’s office number. There was no answer, and she left a voice mail.
She disconnected as Sergeant Fauth said, “So let me get this straight. You get back from the PD, walk into the hotel, and the Guest Services manager says the police are here searching?”
“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—”
