Pirate (3 page)

S
am finished his phone call with the hotel manager, who confirmed that the champagne on ice and gift for Remi had been delivered to their suite as ordered. Sam checked his watch, then glanced over at the bookstore, wondering what was taking Remi so long. Knowing her, she was probably having a lively discussion on some obscure topic with the bookseller and that customer who'd walked in shortly after. She'd been excited about the prospect of searching for this mystery book—something she was certain he'd want to add to his collection. But, really, how long could it take to find the thing and pay for it?

Time to urge Remi to shop a little faster or that champagne was bound to be room temperature by the time they made it back. He peered into the window, seeing no one, not even the cat who'd been perched on the books by the door. What he did see was Remi's purse sitting atop a wrapped parcel on the counter.

Not like her to leave her purse, he thought, and opened the door, the bells jingling as he stepped in. “Remi?”

The shop appeared empty.

“Remi?”

He eyed her unattended purse, then walked through the store, looking down each aisle, finally finding her standing in the doorway of what appeared to be an office or storage area at the back of the shop. “There you are.”

“You're supposed to wait outside. Remember?”

“Everything okay?”

“I found that cookbook I've been searching for. The owner's wrapping it up for me. Now, leave or you'll ruin your surprise.”

He stared for a second or two, unable to read anything on her face, her green eyes about as expressive as a poker player's. “I'll wait outside,” he said. “Don't be long.”

She smiled sweetly at him, never moving from the doorway. “I won't.”

He retraced his steps. The door bells jangled overhead as he opened, then shut, the door, remaining inside the store.

While Remi wasn't exactly a stranger in the kitchen, she often joked that
cook
was a noun, not a verb.

Come to think of it, he couldn't recall her
ever
buying a cookbook, much less searching for one. Definitely not while they were married.

She was in trouble.

Nice time to be without a gun.

Typically, he carried a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, but they were in San Francisco for fun and so he'd left it on their plane.

Now what? Call 911 and hope the police arrived in time?

Not about to risk his wife's life, he silenced the ringer on his
phone, set his hat on the counter, then quietly began opening drawers, searching for something a little more substantial than his small pocketknife to use as a weapon. He found a folding knife with a four-inch blade. He pulled it open, felt it lock. Decent weight, nicely balanced, point intact, probably used to open boxes, judging by the gumminess on the blade's edge. Now to get back to that room without being discovered.

He slid his hand into his wife's purse, found a small makeup bag, and took out a compact mirror. Flipping it open, he wiped the powder residue from the mirror with his pants, then edged his way down the aisle, making sure a row of bookshelves was between him and the door to that storeroom.

“You!” a deep voice shouted.

Sam froze.

“Forget the combination again and you die.”

“Forgive me.” Pickering, the bookseller, Sam figured, as he continued down the aisle. “I'm nervous.”

“Please,” Remi said. “There's no need to wave that gun around.”

“Shut up! You, old man. Get that safe open.”

“I—I'm trying.”

Sam forced himself to breathe evenly. His wife was in that room, and all he wanted to do was rush in there, save her. But his haste could mean her death. A folding knife against a gunman. It was moments like this he was glad for the weapons-and-security training he'd received during his years at DARPA.

When he reached the end of the aisle, he stopped, used the mirror to peer around the corner.

Light spilled from the doorway of the storeroom onto the gray linoleum floor. Sam kept to the edge, careful not to cast a shadow. Holding the mirror out, he angled it to get a visual into the room.

Relief at the sight of his auburn-haired wife, now seated by a cluttered desk, was short-lived as he angled the compact farther and saw the short, swarthy fellow holding a semiauto to the shopkeeper's back. The two men stood in front of a large floor safe, the shopkeeper turning the dial. If Sam approached from this position, it put Remi between him and the gunman.

He didn't like the odds. At the moment, he had no other choice.

C'mon, Remi. Turn. See me . . .

He rocked the tiny mirror back and forth so that the light caught her face. Unfortunately, she looked away, leaning toward the desk, as an audible click indicated the safe had unlocked. Pickering pulled open the door, revealing a smooth wooden box large enough to hold two bottles of wine.

The gunman stepped closer to it. “What's in the box?”

“An old book. Just an antique.”

“Put it on the desk.”

He complied, placing the box on the desk near Remi.

Sam grasped the handle-heavy knife by its blade, stepped into the doorway, aimed, and threw.

The timing couldn't have been worse.

At that very moment, Remi jumped from her chair and swung the brass desk lamp against the gunman's hand. Sam's knife struck the man's shoulder. A shot cracked the air as he twisted, his gun flying from his hand.

Sam rushed in. The gunman pushed Pickering onto Remi,
then grabbed the box. He slammed it into Sam's head as he ran past and out the door.

Sam wasn't sure if it was the jangling of bells as the front door opened or the blow to his head causing the ringing.

“Sam . . . ?”

It was a second before he realized his wife was speaking to him. “Everyone okay?” he asked.

“Are
you
okay?” she replied.

“Fine . . .” He reached up, touched his head, his fingers covered in blood. “Looks like I came in second.”

Remi set the gun on the desk, then pushed him into the chair she'd been sitting in moments before. Placing both hands on his cheeks, her skin warm, soft, she leaned down, searched his eyes, as if to ensure that he really was okay. “You're always first in my book. Ambulance?”

“Not necessary.”

She nodded, took a closer look at his head, then turned toward the bookseller, who was using the desk to pull himself to his feet. “Mr. Pickering. Let me help you.”

“I'm fine,” the old man said. “Where's Mr. Wickham?”

“Mr. Wickham?” Remi asked.

“My cat. Wickham . . . ? Here, kitty, kitty . . .” A moment later, the Siamese wandered into the storeroom, and Pickering scooped it up.

“Well, then,” Remi said, “everyone accounted for. Time to call the police.”

Pickering eyed the phone as she put the receiver to her ear. “Is that necessary?” he asked.

“Very,” she replied, pressing 911 on the keypad.

The police arrived about five minutes later, sirens blaring, even though she told them the robber had left.

One of the officers drew Sam aside to take his statement. When he'd finished, the officer asked Sam to show him where the gunman had been standing when his weapon discharged. Sam positioned himself next to the desk, then demonstrated the man's movement as Remi bashed his hand with the lamp. The officer stood where Sam stood, looking around. “And where were you when you threw the knife?”

“In the doorway.”

“Stand there, please.”

Sam did so.

The officer walked over, placed his finger on the doorframe. “Here's where the bullet hit.”

Sam looked over, realized it was just a few inches from his head. “My lucky day.”

“Mr. Fargo. While I commend your actions, in the future might I suggest you call the police?”

“If this happens again, I'll make sure to do that.”

More often than not, he knew Remi would take the proactive approach.

It was one of the many things he loved about her, he thought, glancing toward the front of the store. She had already given her statement and was waiting patiently by the door.

A plainclothes investigator, Sergeant Fauth from the Robbery Detail, arrived and was questioning Mr. Pickering, who seemed distracted—understandable, considering his age and the circumstances. He opened the still-unlocked safe as the investigator asked, “Was anything else taken?”

“No. Just the box with the book in it. There's really nothing else of value in there. A few old coins. Spanish gold, but nothing that—well, nothing. The coins are still there.”

“What sort of book was this?”

Pickering shrugged. “Just a reproduction of an old book on pirates. The book itself is of little value. I have several on the floor. I can show you.” He walked out, retrieved one from the bookshelf, and set it on the desk.

“The box it was kept in, then? Did that have any value?”

“Not much. No.”

“Why was it locked up, then?”

“I suppose in hopes that if someone thinks something is valuable, he'll ignore what really is?”

“Mr. Pickering,” Sergeant Fauth said, looking at his notebook, then at the bookseller. “Any reason at all you can think of that this man targeted your store?”

He wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow, his hand shaking slightly. The robbery had clearly taken its toll on him. “It may have something to do with a rumor that started about an original of this book being here. Why or who, I don't know. But really, page for page, the book that was stolen is the same book as this copy. A reproduction only.” He patted the volume of
The History of Pyrates and Privateers
that he'd taken from the shelf.

The sergeant thanked him, then tucked his notebook into the breast pocket of his suit coat. CSIs arrived to dust for prints and photos. Once that process had started, the investigator handed his business card to both men. “If anything comes up—questions, something you remember—you have my number.” He
started to walk out, then turned toward Pickering. “Anyone you want me to call? Family member? Friend? Maybe come by, help you out?”

“No one. I'll be fine now.”

He left, nodding at Remi on his way out the door.

Sam glanced over at the CSIs, then at Mr. Pickering, concerned about his being here by himself. “Are you sure we can't do anything for you?”

“No. Thank you, Mr. Fargo. I think after they're done here, I may just go upstairs and take a long nap.”

Remi walked up to Pickering, giving him a hug. “I'm very sorry for what happened.”

He took a deep breath and smiled at her. “I can't thank you enough. Your bold action may have saved our lives.”

Sam picked up Remi's purse and handed it to her, wanting to speed their departure. “Ready?” he said, holding the door.

“Definitely.”

“Wait,” Mr. Pickering called out. “Your package. It would be a shame to have gone through all that and leave it behind.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the parcel from him, then handing it to Sam as soon as they were outside.

“I take it this isn't a cookbook?” Sam asked.

“It's not even the book I came for. It's more a didn't-want-to-go-home-empty-handed book. I think it'll look nice on the table in your office.”

“We'll certainly appreciate the backstory.”

They crossed the street, walking uphill toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. They'd been in tough scrapes before—and they would be again. And even though he had every confidence in his
wife's ability to take care of herself, he was never going to stop worrying about her.

It was this last thought that caught him each and every time. He reached over, took her hand in his, and she leaned her head into his shoulder. “You okay?” Sam asked after a bit.

“Me? Fine. I'm not the one bleeding.”

“Superficial cut. It's already stopped.”

She looked over at him. “We'll see when we're back at the hotel.”

“Did you notice those gold coins in Pickering's safe?”

“Odd, isn't it? That the robber ignored the gold for a book in a box that he hadn't even seen?”

“A book that's supposed to be nothing but a reproduction.”

“Definitely odd,” she said as they turned onto Stockton Street by their hotel. “It was almost as if Mr. Pickering was downplaying the stolen book's value. Which doesn't make sense. I'd hate to have been shot over a reprint. Which brings me to my next point. What happened to that promised week of no one trying to kill us?”

“You didn't think I meant today, did you? Tomorrow. The week starts tomorrow.”

“Well, then. Glad
that's
cleared up.”

Inside the lobby, they stopped at the concierge desk, where Remi asked the woman working there to mail the book to their home with the other item she'd purchased earlier that morning—a large ceramic rooster from an antique shop—a gift for their researcher, Selma Wondrash, who said she'd always wanted a rooster for her kitchen.