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He lowered the paper and looked at her. “The bookseller, Gerald Pickering. He’s dead.”
Three
Charles Avery sat back in his seat, drinking coffee as he turned the page of the San Francisco Chronicle. In his late fifties, his dark hair salted with gray at the temples, he was—in his opinion—fit for a man of his age. Even so, he’d needed a second cup of coffee to get it together this morning, having flown in late last night on his jet from the East Coast to his San Francisco offices.
When he read about the death of the bookseller Gerald Pickering, he smiled. The news wasn’t all that surprising. Not after yesterday’s events.
Of course, all of that meant nothing if his men failed to recover the book and confirm it was the one he’d specifically been searching for.
Good riddance, Pickering, he thought as the head of his security team, Colin Fisk, walked into the room carrying a large, polished wooden box. Finally. “You found it,” Avery said.
“The bookstore, yes. The book, no.”
Avery took a deep breath, containing his anger. “What do you mean no?”
Fisk placed the box onto the table, lifting the lid, revealing a leather-bound volume. “Fake. We went back after the police left. Pickering said he sold it to another collector before my man got there.”
“Did your man explain to him who I was?”
“Yes.”
“And what I’d do to him if he didn’t hand it over?”
“Yes.”
“Did you at least find out who he sold it to?”
“I’m afraid he expired before we were able to obtain that info.”
Avery lowered his coffee cup to the mahogany table, then forced himself to take yet another deep breath as he pinned his stare on Fisk, wondering if it had been a mistake to hire this team Fisk had suggested. They were supposed to be the best—and, in some respects, they were. They followed orders without question, and they’d certainly found Pickering easily enough, even after Avery’s own men had failed to do so. Was it possible that Pickering had guessed Avery’s intentions? Somehow known that the knowledge of the original book’s existence in his shop meant his days were numbered?
For twenty years, Avery had been searching . . .
How was it that he’d gotten so close only to miss?
He lifted the book from the box, opening it to the first page.
Clearly, it was taken from a first edition, maybe even the one stolen from his family more than two centuries before. How else could someone so accurately reproduce the maps and wording? What this mere copy didn’t have, and what he was sure he’d find in the volume Pickering had been hiding, was the key to deciphering the code on the maps printed within. What good is a map without a way to read the ciphered notations?
“You’re sure you searched the place thoroughly?” Avery asked.
“Positive. We do have one possible lead, though. The names of the two who were listed as a victim and witness in the original police report. I did some checking on them. Apparently they’re treasure hunters.”
“Treasure hunters? Who’s financing their operation? Go after the money and stop them in their tracks.”
“They finance themselves,” Fisk said. “And from what I’ve heard, others who have tried to go after them have failed. The Fargos aren’t your average husband-and-wife hobbyists out searching for a quick buck. They’re self-made multimillionaires who donate their proceeds to charity.”
“Regular Robin Hoods? They should be easy to deal with.”
“Highly trained Robin Hoods.”
Avery reached for his coffee. “They haven’t come up against me yet, have they?”
“No, sir. But forewarned is forearmed.”
Four
No luck?” Sam asked as Remi called Bree Marshall’s number again. They had just arrived by taxi at the new San Francisco Police Headquarters, at Mission Bay, after being contacted by Sergeant Fauth, who wanted to ask a few more questions.
