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“Late last night. I was just getting home, and she was running down the stairs, saying something about her uncle. Going to see him, I think.”
Sam pulled out his wallet, took a business card from it, and handed it to her. “If you hear from her, ask her to give us a call? It’s very important.”
“Of course. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
In the car, Sam glanced over at his wife. “She’s probably already in San Francisco.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I just hate to think how awful this must be for her.”
“She has our number. She’ll call. In the meantime, let’s go home, check in with Selma, and take a look at this book Mr. Pickering wrapped up for you.”
They lived just a few miles away in the hills of La Jolla’s Goldfish Point, overlooking the ocean. The moment they stepped inside from the garage, their massive German shepherd, Zoltán, bounded down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking on the tumbled-marble tile floor as he skidded to a stop in front of Remi and Sam.
Remi kneeled down, scratching him behind his ears as he pressed himself closer to her. She’d acquired the dog in Hungary when they were searching for Attila the Hun’s tomb, and the two had bonded so well, she brought Zoltán home. There was one slight drawback. Zoltán knew only Hungarian commands. Fortunately, their researcher Selma, a former Hungarian citizen—still retaining a slight accent—set about teaching the dog English commands to go along with the Hungarian. Zoltán was, Selma liked to say, the only Eastern European bilingual dog in the neighborhood.
“Good boy,” Remi told the dog. “Let’s get you a treat.”
Treat was one of the first English words he picked up, and his tail thumped on hearing it. Remi gave him one last scratch, then walked toward the kitchen, the dog heeling by her side. He sat in front of the cupboard where the dog biscuits were kept, his eyes solely on Remi.
Selma walked into the kitchen a moment later, dressed in black yoga pants and her usual tie-dyed shirt, this one teal blue and hot pink. Her close-cropped brown hair seemed spikier than usual, and t
he reading glasses she usually wore on a chain around her neck had been replaced with wide-framed sunglasses.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. Welcome home.”
And here Sam had thought he’d convinced her that they were on a first-name basis. “Back to formalities?” he asked. “What happened to calling us Sam and Remi?”
“I tried it, Mr. Fargo. But I work for you. This makes me happy.”
“Then it makes us happy,” Remi said.
Selma eyed Remi, who was feeding a second biscuit to Zoltán. “You’re going to make that dog fat, Mrs. Fargo.”
“He’s as fit as ever.”
“Only because I walk him twice as far when you’re home feeding him all those treats. Someone has to look after that poor dog’s health.” Selma opened the cupboard near the hallway and pulled out the leash. Zoltán heard the jingle and rushed over, almost too excited to sit as she leaned down and hooked the leash to his collar. “We’ll be at the beach if anyone’s looking for us.”
“The book?” Remi asked Selma. “You didn’t notice anything unusual?”
“Not right off. But Lazlo was impressed,” she said, referring to Lazlo Kemp. They’d taken him on to help Selma with some of the research, during the time he needed to recuperate from an injury that occurred while they were searching for Quetzalcoatl’s tomb in Mexico. Both were surprised when the man had become smitten with Selma, whose husband, a test pilot, had died over a decade ago. What they weren’t sure about was exactly how Selma felt about Lazlo and so they were content to simply let the relationship run its course. Assuming it had a course to run.
Remi returned the dog biscuit box to the cupboard, asking Selma, “And what was Lazlo’s take on it?”
“That he didn’t know enough about the book to say what, if anything, was worth killing over. It’s not his specialty. But he’s arranged for you to meet with Ian Hopkins so that he can see the book. According to Lazlo, he’s the nearest expert on the subject available on such a short notice. Unfortunately, Hopkins is in Phoenix, Arizona. Retired professor.”
“No worries,” Remi said. “I love Arizona in the autumn.” She turned toward Sam. “This isn’t going to interrupt your plans too much, is it?”
“The beauty of my plans is their flexibility.”
“You don’t have any, do you?”
“Playing it by ear, Remi. So where is this mysterious book?” he asked Selma.
“Locked in your safe.”
“I’ll go have a look.”
“Bring it up,” Remi said. “We can look at it together.”