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He left, and Charles poured himself another drink, his eye moving to the scratch pad. The Fargo name glared up at him. He ripped it from the pad, crumpled it, then tossed it to the ground. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what angered him more—the Fargos inserting themselves into his business or his wife trying to steal his fortune.
Death was too good for all of them.
Which made him wonder, did he really want Alexandra dead?
Actually, he did. She might be the mother of his children, but neither of them had anything to do with him. They were definitely their mother’s spawn. What he needed to do was make sure his wife was dealt with in the most expedient manner possible. The question was, how? How to make it look like her death had nothing to do with him?
First things first, he thought. Deal with the Fargos. An hour later, Fisk called him back.
“I have good news . . .”
Twenty-six
Sam and Remi rose early the next morning and drove to the archives, making sure they were there the moment the doors opened for business. Sam left Remi at the front entrance, deciding he wanted to take a quick look around before following her in.
She entered the building, checked the directory, and found the Records Department, noting a flurry of activity in the halls as employees hurried about, clearly too busy to take notice of her. A woman in bright yellow, wearing a turquoise scarf tied around her dark hair, dropped a thick stack of manila folders on the counter, then started to walk away.
“Excuse me,” Remi said. “Do you work in Records?”
The woman looked up. “Yes. Have you not been helped?”
Remi smiled at her. “Not yet.”
“My apologies. The unexpected storm damage caught us by surprise. Alarms going off all night, water getting in. As you can guess, we’re all quite busy. But what can I do for you?”
“We were hoping to have a look at some old shipping manifests.”
“We?”
“My husband. When he gets here.”
She reached below the counter and pulled out a form. “Researchers, are you?”
“Yes.”
“If you can fill out the information, I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.”
By the time Remi filled out the form, Sam had joined her.
“Looks clear out there,” he said. “How’s it going in here?”
“Slow. Storm damage apparently.”
“At least the air conditioner works. All that rainwater from last night is turning the island into a sauna.”
When the woman returned, she looked over the paper. “Shipping manifests, you say?”
“Yes,” Remi said. “I don’t suppose you know if anyone else has been here asking about this particular time period?”
“No. You’re the first,” she said, then led them to the archives, pointing out the row where they’d need to start their search. “Everything’s by year. I’d say it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate, but sometimes things get misfiled.”
“Thanks,” Remi said, hoping that wasn’t the case. There were hundreds of volumes, which meant if something was misfiled, it would be difficult to find.
Sam moved to the far end of the row, Remi started at the beginning, and they worked their way toward each other. Eventually they met in the middle, Sam saying, “Come here often?”
“It’s a good thing that’s not the pickup line you used when we first met at the Lighthouse.”