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“A client.”
“Is that what we’re calling them nowadays? Clients? Exactly who is paying for whose service here?”
“What do you want, Alexandra?”
“There seems to be a chunk of money missing out of my household account. I’m wondering what it is I paid for.”
“Nothing you need worry about.”
“Does this have something to do with that map you’ve been chasing after? Because if it does, the money should be coming out of your account, not mine. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She got up from the couch and walked over to the liquor cabinet, examining the labels on the bottles, then reached past them for the brandy she kept for herself. She poured a finger of amber liquid into a crystal glass, swirled it and sipped, then walked over to the desk, running her hand along the spine of Pyrates and Privateers. “For a man who’s busy hiding assets due to our impending divorce, I think you’d be more worried about what you’re spending money on.”
Charles pushed his chair back, rose, then walked over to the liquor cabinet. He refused to let his wife bait him. The money from her account had been used for something entirely different. He needed access to ready cash for some other projects because Fisk was using the other accounts for this hunt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb, Charles. You think I haven’t known about this obsession of yours ever since the beginning? One, I’ve hired a forensic accountant. So any money you thought you could hide will be found in short order. I don’t intend to get fleeced in this divorce. Two, if this treasure really does exist and you find it using our money, that makes half of everything mine. Or did you forget we were married in California? Fifty-fifty, darling. Right down the middle.”
She held up her glass in a mock toast.
He poured his own and drank it down, then poured a second shot, before turning toward his wife. “The map would be an inheritance, something you’re not entitled to.”
“Inheritance?” She walked around the desk and opened the book, turning the pages. “If memory serves me correctly, this map or code or whatever it is you’re so keen on recovering was stolen centuries ago by your ancestors from the rightful owners. That is what you told me, isn’t it? Back when we still talked?” She looked up from the book, her blue eyes filled with venom. “Pirates, weren’t they? Your relatives? Apparently the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
He walked over, closed the book, and pulled it away from her. “It was stolen from my family.”
“Stolen or recovered? After all, wasn’t it your family who stole it to begin with? Or did I miss something in the retelling?”
“Is there some reason you’re here? Or is it just to torment me?”
“I see my skills have improved somewhat. I used to only annoy you.” She finished her glass, then left it on the desk and walked over to the couch and picked up her purse. “Just wondering about the missing money. And when it’s going to be replaced. I have expenses and I’d rather not drag this through court to get them paid.”
“Fine. I’ll have a deposit made in the morning.”
“I appreciate it.” She opened the door and peered out. “Looks like your, uh, client, left. Hope it wasn’t something I said to her on the way in.”
Charles resisted the urge to throw his glass at the door as she walked out. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Besides, she wasn’t worth the waste of good scotch.
Everything she had was because of him. Once, he had loved her. But now? She was just another woman climbing the social ladder. Everything was about impressing someone else—even that charity she’d recently started.
Like that Fargo woman. It didn’t matter he’d never met her. He knew she was just like his wife. Shallow, petty, and all about the money.
The thought angered him. If anything, it furthered his resolve to make sure he found the treasure. It belonged to him. Not his wife. Or anyone else. To him.
And he’d kill anyone who got in his way recovering it.
Twenty
Start with the good news,” Sam told Lazlo as he took a seat next to Remi.
“Your underwater photographs were top-notch,” Lazlo said. “We were able to enhance the features—well, actually, Pete and Wendy get the credit for that,” he said, referring to Selma’s research assistants, Pete Jeffcoat and Wendy Corden. “Photoshop or some such. Regardless, the artifacts you recovered allowed us to narrow down the countries of origin.”
“That’s great news.”
“Yes. Except that it’s countries, as in plural.”
Remi sighed. “Always something, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” Lazlo replied. “But there is a bright side. The lead seal belonged to an English textile company that was only in business between the years of 1691 through 1696. The yellow brick you found in the ballast is Dutch.”
