Pirate (19 page)

A
lexandra Avery and her hired PI, Kipp Rogers, watched across the street, waiting until they saw her husband's car pull up to the front of his office building. About time, she thought, as he stepped out the door with his latest so-called client on his arm into the waiting car.

Kipp snapped a few photos. “Quite the looker, that one.”

“They always are.” How it was that Charles could date someone the same age as his daughter was beyond her. Then again, he'd never been close to his children, always preferring to leave them in the care of nannies when young, then boarding school when they were older. Alexandra always made a point to visit on weekends and talk on the phone. Charles embraced the distance, saying it built character.

And he wondered why it was they never spoke to him.

His loss, not hers.

“Better get to it,” Kipp said once the car drove off, then turned the corner.

She nodded. “I'll call when I get into his office.”

“I'll be here.”

She crossed the street and walked into the building. If Charles had the faintest idea of what she was about to do, he'd have her forcibly removed from the building. As it was, she'd made enough innocuous visits this last week to put them all off guard.

Everyone had come to think of her as an interfering, obnoxious, soon-to-be ex—which she was. In this instance, however, she had a perfectly good reason. Although she couldn't put her finger on it, she knew her husband was up to something beyond his usual buying and stripping companies. Sure, he'd made his fortune from the practice, but the last decade or so she'd noticed he did it not only to stroke his ego but because he enjoyed seeing the lives destroyed after these onetime-thriving businesses were shredded to ruins.

It wasn't that she was much better than he—after all, she married him for his money way back when. It was more that she'd grown somewhat of a conscience since then. Maybe because she'd seen what this lifestyle had done to her own children.

It would be nice to think that was her only motive, the children, but she knew better. There was also the threat of being completely cut off from the fortune he'd built during the time they were married—which is why she hired Kipp in addition to her legal team.

Fair was fair, and as long as she had a breath in her body, she was not about to let Charles get away with what rightfully belonged to her.

The challenge was making sure she still had a breath in her body, because the way he'd been acting lately, she wouldn't put it past him to find some way to get rid of her just so he could keep his empire intact.

The first step, however, was finding proof that he was hiding something, and she knew without a doubt if anything was to be found it would be in his office.

She walked through the lobby, smiling at the security guard working the desk. He looked up, saw her, saying, “Your husband just left, Mrs. Avery.”

“He didn't drop off my cell phone at the desk, did he?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I think I might have left it in his office. I'm just going to run up and have a look around. I might be a while. I have a few phone calls to make.”

He gave a polite nod, then went back to monitoring his screens.

That should keep him from wondering why she wasn't coming right back down, she thought, taking the elevator to the penthouse.

Charles's secretary was gone, and the lobby in front of his office empty. Perfect. His door, however, was locked, and she dug out a set of keys, duplicates for about every important room he felt needed to be secured from her.

If only he knew . . .

She found the key, unlocked the door, then slipped inside, only then wondering if he had any cameras set up.

Not that it mattered. Last she heard, prosecuting half an owner for theft was near impossible.

She set to work, going through his desk drawers first. The man was anal, everything neat, in its place. Doubting he'd keep something he didn't want seen in so obvious a location, she sat back in his desk chair and looked around. The only thing that caught her eye was that map book he'd been so obsessed about. It sat on a table in the corner of his office, and she walked over, opened it, taking a closer look.

What was it about this thing that had him so fired up? Nothing that she could see. It looked just like the reproduction sitting in their library. She turned the pages, aware of how brittle they were in comparison to the copy at home. Her attention waning, she was just about to close it when she realized that someone had taken a pencil and drawn small circles in various spots around the intricate border design of . . .

Were those letters?

That's exactly what they were. Archaic-looking letters that seemed more decorative, since they didn't spell out any real words.

So why circle them?

She leaned in closer, about to take a better look, when her cell phone rang.

She walked over to the couch and dug it out of her purse, saw it was Kipp. “Glad you didn't call when I was downstairs,” she said.

“Your ringer's not off?”

“Who thinks of that stuff?”

“You should, if you're sneaking around in your husband's office. You were supposed to call me when you got up there.”

“If you were up here doing what I'm paying you for, I wouldn't need to worry about that.”

“Right. Because no one would suspect a total stranger digging through your husband's office. Who better to know what belongs and what doesn't than you? So what've you found?”

“Nothing yet. Except that pirate book that he claims was stolen from some ancient relative of his.”

“The original book?”

“Yeah. Interesting thing, though,” she said, returning to the table and eyeing the yellowed pages. “Someone went to the trouble of circling letters all over it. Like a code.”

“Might explain his obsession. Take photos while you're there. I'll check into it. Have you looked at his computer yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Hurry up. You've already been there too long as it is.”

“You did see the number on his arm when he left? I doubt he'll be coming back anytime soon.”

“Not worth chancing. Get moving.”

She took her cell phone, snapped pictures of each page of the book, her instincts telling her that whatever Charles was up to, it had something to do with this.

Photos done, she opened up his laptop, typed in the password he used for nearly everything—Pirate—then scanned the folders.

Nothing on there stood out.

She leaned back in his chair, looking around the office, certain she was missing something . . .

Her gaze strayed to the notepad. He'd ripped off the top sheet, but she recalled the town Fargo written across it and she entered
that in the search bar, wondering what his interest in North Dakota was.

But it wasn't the state that popped up in his Internet search history.

Fargo Group, Sam Fargo, Remi Fargo.

What the . . . ?

A little more digging and she realized his fascination with this couple.

They were treasure hunters.

She glanced at the map book just as her phone started ringing. Kipp, of course. “You're never going to believe this,” she said. “I know what he's after.”

“You need to get out of there. He's on his way up.”

T
he digital copy of the manifest was exactly what Selma had been hoping for and she got to work researching the fleet of ships that had set sail from Jamaica right after Sam and Remi emailed the pages they'd found in Port Royal. She called them back the next morning with what she'd learned.

“Good news, I hope,” Sam said.

“Mostly,” Selma replied. “I was able to link the vessel that sank off Snake Island to the theft of cargo from Captain Bridgeman during his time in Jamaica. More important, connecting that name to the sunken ship fills in a lot of the blanks. Especially now that we know the cipher wheel sank with it.”

“How so?” Sam asked.

“Bridgeman was an alias for the pirate Henry Every.”

“Every?” Remi asked. “Is it coincidental that Every and Avery sound similar?”

“No,” Selma said. “It may have started off as a misspelling,
but they're used interchangeably throughout most of the documentation I've located about Every's history. Henry Every, or Avery, is none other than Captain Henry Bridgeman. Started off as a slaver, then apparently turned pirate. Not much difference between the two, in my opinion.”

“So what happened to him?” Sam asked.

“Disappeared. Last seen in the Bahamas, supposedly set sail for England, to live and die in obscurity. He was very much a wanted man at that point. The interesting thing is that until you found those missing pages, there were no official records showing that Bridgeman or the
Fancy
had ever sailed into Jamaica. Clearly, that's part of what Avery was trying to hide from you.”

“What else was he trying to hide?”

“Two things. One, this wasn't the first time Every attacked the
Mirabel
. Two, the identity of the English investors who had an interest in the
Mirabel
.”

“Investors. As in, more than one owner?”

“There could still be one owner. But multiple investors could mean that the ship was under the control of others. What we do know from the testimony of this crew member is that this item—we're assuming it was the cipher wheel—was taken during Every's first contact with the
Mirabel
off the coast of Spain a few years before. He specifically sought out this ship, which could mean that he knew the wheel was there. He also spared the ship, and the lives of the captain and crew, instead of scuttling it or bringing it into his fleet of pirate ships.”

“He wanted out of there fast,” Sam said. “The second contact was in Jamaica?”

“The
Mirabel
followed him there. According to the testimony, something of extreme value was stolen from Every in Jamaica. The
Mirabel
fled, we assume with the cipher wheel. He pursued in the
Fancy
to Snake Island. The rest, as you know, is history. Once the
Mirabel
sank, the wheel was lost to him—which may be why he suddenly gave up piracy.”

“If,” Sam said, “there's no record of his being seen after that point, is it possible that he captured the
Mirabel
but went down with the ship when it struck the rocks?”

“A logical assumption,” Selma replied. “Except for the map detailing
where
to find the cipher wheel off Snake Island. It seems to me that Every made sure to document where the wheel was located in case he was ever able to get back to recover it. Unfortunately for him, his Bridgeman alias had been discovered by this time, and the Royal Navy had joined in with the East India Company in their pursuit of him. Probably prevented him from getting back to Snake Island. Some historians show him returning to England and dying a pauper, forced to live in obscurity without access to his treasure. Lazlo believes he returned to England and spent what was left of his treasure in search of the original cipher wheel.”

“We're sure,” Remi said, “that he never recovered the original wheel? Or that it even exists?”

“Definitely,” Selma replied. “One, Charles Avery wouldn't be after it if he had—and he seems to know his family history. Two, Lazlo's research confirms that the original exists. Every-Bridgeman either died or was captured before he could go after it. Unfortunately, he failed to record
where
it was or
who
was in
possession—assuming he had this knowledge to begin with. Either way, Charles Avery has the shipping manifest information. He's no doubt hot on the trail.”

Sam reached over, spreading out their copy of the digitized transcripts they'd gathered from the maritime museum, looking them over. There were just a few pages of the court testimony they'd read in the Kingston Archives. “So, right now, we're still looking at who he originally stole the cipher wheel from?”

“We have it narrowed down, we think, to a couple of the
Mirabel
investors. Both happen to be in England, which makes it convenient. So that's where you're headed next.”

Sam looked at Remi. “What do you say to a trip to the British Isles?”

“I love Great Britain this time of year.”

Late the next afternoon, they touched down at the London City Airport, and the next morning they were up early. Selma had given them two names and addresses. One was for a Grace Herbert, just outside of Bristol, the other for Harry McGregor, farther north near Nottingham. Unfortunately, Selma couldn't narrow the odds any further, and so Sam flipped a coin while they waited for their car at the valet stand. “Heads, Herbert. Tails, McGregor,” he called as he caught the coin and covered it with his hand.

“Heads,” Remi said. “I have a good feeling about Bristol.”

“If we don't find what we're looking for there, it's a long drive up to Nottingham.”

“Call it women's intuition. Heads, Bristol.”

Sam peeked at the coin. Tails. He pocketed it, then smiled at Remi. “Why leave something to chance. I trust your intuition.”

“Tails, was it?”

“It was.” When the car arrived, Sam looked at Remi. “You drive, and I'll navigate?”

“Ha! And trust that you'll pay attention to the map?”

“Have I ever gotten us lost?”

“There was that time in—”

“Never mind.” He tipped the valet, then took the keys. Eventually they left London behind, the houses growing fewer, farms beginning to dot the landscape. A light mist came down, and Sam switched on the windshield wipers. It stayed that way for the next two hours.

Remi sighed at the green, rolling hills. “Beautiful out here.”

“If you like the damp.”

She glanced over at him. “You'd prefer the hot humidity of Jamaica over this?”

“I was thinking more of the warm breezes of La Jolla.”

“All in good time.” She eyed the directions on her phone. “About ten miles farther. Right turn at the next intersection.”

They continued down a two-lane paved road that wound through pastures and farmland. Eventually they found the dirt road that led to the Herbert farmhouse and saw it in the distance. White smoke swirled up from the chimney of a large cottage with several outbuildings behind it. Geese honked as they drove up to the house, and the chickens scattered, then returned to pecking the ground, looking for grubs.

Sam parked, and they got out, crossed the gravel drive to the front door, and knocked. A woman in her late fifties answered,
her short brown hair graying at the temples, her gray eyes serious as she took them in. “You must be the Fargos?”

“We are,” Sam said. “Mrs. Herbert?”

“Actually, Herbert-Miller. But call me Grace. Come in, please. I have a kettle on, if you'd care for some tea?”

“Please,” Remi said.

She led them into the parlor, and Sam had to duck to walk through the low doorway. As soon as they were settled, Grace returned a few minutes later with a silver tray carrying a porcelain tea service. Sam, still tired from the transatlantic flight, would have preferred a robust cup of coffee, as he accepted the tea, declined the offer of milk or sugar, and sat back in his chair, listening as Mrs. Herbert-Miller discussed her surprise at inheriting the collection of artifacts.

“The call came out of the blue,” she said, stirring the sugar into her cup. “A solicitor from London, no less. Wanting to know if I was Grace Herbert of the Milford Herberts.” She set the spoon onto the saucer, lifted the teacup, and took a sip. “Naturally, we put up the property for sale. I can't imagine living in an old, drafty castle, although Milford is a lovely place—or so I've heard. I don't think I could convince my husband to move even if I wanted to.”

“It's a beautiful area,” Remi said. “I passed through there once a long time ago.”

Sam, wanting to move things along at a far quicker pace, said, “Was there anything . . . historically significant in what you saw? Besides the castle, of course.”

“To be sure, I couldn't say. It's all being dealt with. I inherited the castle, and my cousin in Nottingham, Harry McGregor,
inherited a small estate up there. It's possible he knows of something, though, like me, he sent everything that seemed historic to the museum. They were very interested, even though Sir Edmund Herbert, it turns out, was an illegitimate son.” She lifted a plate of cookies. “Biscuit?”

Remi declined. Sam took one. “Thank you.”

She returned the plate to the center of the table. “The only proof I have that my cousin and I are actually related is an old family bible that was among the items given to me. If I've read the lineage correctly, he and I are the second cousins of the last-known male heir.”

“These historical items,” Sam said. “Is there some sort of list of what they are?”

“There is. Would you like to see it?”

“We would.”

She rose from the table, crossed the room, and picked up a manila envelope from a secretary in the corner that was cluttered with bills and paperwork for the farm. She pulled a sheaf of papers from the envelope and handed it to Sam as she took a seat. “Not that you can tell much. It's all up for auction, and I believe they're going to have photos of everything. I don't yet have them.”

Remi leaned over, glanced at the papers as Sam looked them over. “That's quite the list,” Remi said.

“Imagine someone like me putting a harpsichord in this parlor. Or a suit of armor. Even if I had room. Better to sell it and provide for the farm. I did keep a few items, however.”

“Oh?” Remi said.

“This tea set, for one. It's quite lovely.”

Remi ran her finger over the delicate edge of her saucer. “It is.”

“There were also a few paintings.” She pointed toward two small pastoral landscapes on the wall hung on either side of a coat of arms. “They didn't seem too outlandish for a simple farmhouse. The family crest, however. Vanity, plain and simple. It's not every day you find out you're distantly related to the illegitimate son of some lord, even if that son's father
was
only a minor land baron. And then just below it on the wall is the leather shield that dates back to Sir Herbert's time. I kept it mainly because that engraving of the Celtic knot in the center is so pretty.”

Remi lowered her teacup to the table. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

“Help yourself.”

Remi wandered over as Sam turned the page, noting there were several cartons of miscellaneous items listed. “These boxes,” he said. “Any idea what was in them?”

“Just odds and ends. A lot of papers, books, and one box looked like someone had dismantled a suit of armor into it. The appraiser thought some of it might be historically significant. Which is why my cousin and I decided to lend the entire collection to the British Museum in London. Whether or not anything there is of any real value, I couldn't say . . . More tea?” she said, noting that Sam's cup was nearly empty.

“No thank you.”

She refilled her own cup. “Not that we're rich. We just have no need of anything. We'd rather see the artifacts go to the museum than end up in private collections. They're having some gala fund-raiser there this coming weekend and they wanted to include it in their display.”