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“Perhaps it was left by the lady who was— Ah, Monsieur Rossi.” He held up a finger and started speaking French, a language Oren did not understand. He did, however, recognize his own name in that conversation, and assumed Marchand was informing him of his demand to see the car. That, he wasn’t worried about. This phone, however . . . left by a woman . . . “What woman?” he demanded.
Marchand hesitated in his conversation with Rossi. “Pardon?”
“You said a woman left the phone. Who was she?”
“The lady was here to inquire about shipping services. She must have left the phone there when she was admiring the view.”
Oren looked out the window, saw what, in his mind, was only a pedestrian view of the river between the buildings. Not something worthy enough to forget a phone. He gripped the device, suspicion fueling his already mounting anger over the delay in getting back the Gray Ghost. That Fargo woman had infiltrated Rossi’s villa the night of the auction. No doubt she was here, trying to learn the location of the Ghost. “Let me talk to Rossi.”
“Monsieur Oren would like to speak with you,” Marchand said into the phone. He pressed a button on the receiver. “You’re on speaker.”
Oren approached the desk. “When you were here in the office earlier today, did you mention the location of the warehouse?”
“Why do you ask?” Rossi said.
“I believe Remi Fargo was here. She left behind a mobile phone. If I had to guess, in order to listen to the conversation in your manager’s office.”
“Marchand,” Rossi’s sharp voice cut in. “Please explain what he’s talking about?”
“A lady was here earlier, looking for shipping management. Monsieur Oren seemed concerned with her presence.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
“If you recall, I did. I was not, however, aware I should be suspicious of anyone inquiring services. We do run a legitimate business here.”
There was a stretch of silence on the other end of the line. Oren pictured Rossi seething at the thought that he’d been victimized by the Fargos yet again. Finally, Rossi spoke. “The very idea that they managed to get the location from me or my manager is absurd.”
“Not absurd,” Oren said. “So I ask once again. Did you mention the location of the warehouse?”
“The most they would’ve heard is that we were en route to the warehouse. No address given. And since I’ve just arrived at the warehouse and have seen the car with my own eyes, I’m quite certain your fears are unmerited.”
As much as Oren wanted to believe him, he’d already had enough experience to know the Fargos could easily slip past the most secure barriers. “Do not underestimate them. Or are you forgetting who it was who robbed you at the villa?”
“Not likely. I particularly remember the video of you riding the elevator with the woman.”
Tempted to point out that it was Rossi’s lack of proper security that had allowed the Fargos to breach his walls in the first place, Oren brushed aside the barb. Trading insults was not in either of their best interests right now. Recovering the car was his first priority. “Keep an eye out for the Fargos. Make sure that you haven’t been followed. I’m on my way there now.”
71
Sam and Remi ducked behind a row of parked cars in a lot down the street from a busy warehouse, Sam watching through his binoculars as Rossi stood on one of the loading docks, talking on his phone. After several minutes, he ended the call and returned inside, pushing open a glass door of the warehouse’s office. Sam had a clear view and he quickly scanned the grounds. A forklift on the dock backed up with a full pallet of cartons, beeping as it maneuvered toward one of the trucks. Beyond the open bay doors were row upon row of boxed goods, on pallets and on shelves. To the right, adjacent to the property and secured behind a razor-topped chain-link fence, was a yard filled with metal shipping containers stacked two high.
“You think it’s in one of those containers?” Remi asked.
“I doubt it’s out there. Something that valuable, they’re keeping inside under lock and key.”
“I knew this was too easy.”
In truth, it had been. There were enough taxis leaving the station that Sam and Remi wouldn’t stand out, and they easily followed Rossi’s cab, until it turned into the industrial area. Sam directed his driver to continue past, then double back. “One thing in our favor,” Sam said, lowering his binoculars. “We still have time before they ship it out. Oren’s not here, yet.”
“What
are you two doing?”
An unarmed security guard in a light blue shirt with patches on the sleeve stepped out of the building behind them. Tall, slim, white hair and beard. The expression in his green eyes was wary as he approached.
“I’ve got this,” Remi whispered. She stood, smiled sweetly at the man. In French, her accent impeccable, she said, “We’re private detectives. Hired by the wife of the warehouse owner across the street. Messy divorce, and he’s refusing to pay child support because he insists he’s losing money. She’s certain he’s hiding profits.”
The man’s look of wariness suddenly changed to one of understanding, as he regarded her and Sam. “That might explain some of the unusual activities we’ve seen. One of my guards reported a truck being unloaded there late one night. I remember thinking it odd, when I read his report.”