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fee to your tab.”
“Noted,” he said. “What about the rest of it?”
“Most everything’s going according to plan.”
“Most?”
“The nephew, unfortunately.”
“Him again.” Somehow they’d miscalculated Oliver Payton having such a sentimental attachment to the farmers who’d lose their lands if the Payton estates were sold. With every step forward Colton’s men had made, Oliver had somehow found a way to save everything. Still, the one thing that had started this, the Gray Ghost and its secret, was very close to being Oren’s. Assuming they could keep Oliver from getting in the way. “What’s he done this time?”
“Took his uncle to California, no doubt looking for a buyer for the Gray Ghost. The good news is, while they were gone, we were able to take care of a few matters.”
“Did he find a buyer?”
“We’re not sure. Beyond the initial phone call to someone named Libby in Key West, nothing was done electronically.”
The news startled him. “He’s not aware we’re tracking his movements?”
“Oliver? I seriously doubt it. I’m sure he’s certain it’s just a spate of bad luck involving his uncle. Memory issues, I should imagine.”
“How’d he manage to get two tickets to California? I thought the money was gone.”
“Reward points from an account we weren’t aware of. Trust me, we won’t make that mistake again,” he said, reaching over to pick up Oren’s empty coffee cup and saucer. “You done with this?”
“Quite,” he said, hiding his annoyance as Colton removed the cup, took the saucer, and rested his burning cigarette on it.
Smoke swirling up, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and read some text he’d received. “It seems we have the names of those he spoke with in Pebble Beach . . . Sam and Remi Fargo.”
“And who are they?”
“Not sure yet.” Colton scanned the text. “It’s possible they realized they were being followed. Oliver running into the Fargos was a complication we didn’t expect . . .” He read for a bit longer, shrugged. “Very minor.”
Something in Colton’s tone told him that he was downplaying the information. “Forward everything you have on these Fargos to me.”
He nodded, pressed a button on his phone, returned the device to his pocket, and stood. “They’re searching the names now. I’ll send a full report to you as soon as we have it.”
About thirty minutes after Colton left, Oren’s computer dinged with an incoming email. He opened it, read the dossier on Sam and Remi Fargo. Sam Fargo graduated summa cum laude with an engineering degree from Caltech, was trained in weapons and hand-to-hand combat while employed at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. After leaving DARPA, he met and married his wife, Remi Longstreet. She, apparently, hailed from the East Coast, a graduate of Boston College, with a master’s in anthropology and history, with a focus on ancient trade routes. The two started the Fargo Group, which they eventually sold for millions, now devoting their time to running the Fargo Foundation, which, apparently, was all about charity work. By the time he finished reading the entire dossier, including the fact that both held valid concealed-carry permits, he wasn’t so sure that either Sam or Remi Fargo were as minor a problem as Colton had suggested.
Not that he was worried. He read the last line in Colton’s email: The timing of the Payton visit to the Fargos is suspicious. If they interfere, we’ll take care of it.
Oren opened his file folder and took another look at the black ravens. So fitting, he thought.
The bringers of death.
6
Sam drove the rental car while Remi navigated the country roads outside of Manchester, using the map on her phone, finally seeing the manor house in the distance, thinking it looked very regal.
“Must have been something in its heyday,” Sam said, as they cruised up the cobblestone drive. “A place as old as this must cost a fortune in upkeep.”
“Imagine what it must be like to lose everything.” Remi took it all in, sighing. “How does anyone survive that? I’m not sure I could.”
“As resourceful as you are? You’d find a way,” he said, parking the car.
A frail woman in her late sixties, her gray hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, stood at the open door, waiting for them, as they walked up. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, I hope your trip was pleasant.”
“Very,” Sam said. “You must be Mrs. Beckett.”
