“Guns?” Sergeant Fauth said.
He nodded. “I suppose I should have asked for ID, but . . .”
“Mr. . . . ?”
“Bryant.”
“Mr. Bryant,” Sergeant Fauth said. “Did either man say what they were looking for?”
“Yes. They wanted to know if the Fargos had said anything about a key. Maybe asked to put it in a safe. Finding one, hiding one. I—I don’t remember. Just—they definitely said they were looking for a key.”
“A key?”
“Yes. I thought maybe they were talking about the necklace Mrs. Fargo was wearing when she left this morning.”
Remi fingered the diamond-studded charm, asking Sam, “Something about this you’re not telling me?”
“An expensive trinket but a trinket nonetheless.”
She smiled at the sergeant, trying to keep her tone pleasant. “I think we can all agree that whatever these people think we have, we don’t. So if there’s nothing else . . . ? We were on our way to check out. Or, rather, we were supposed to be.”
He eyed their suitcases. “What I need to do is take a look at any surveillance video in the lobby. I expect Mr. Bryant can help me.”
Sam closed Remi’s suitcase and his own. “You have our cell numbers, should anything come up.” He ushered her out of there without waiting to hear the sergeant’s response. The manager started to follow, but Sam stopped him. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
“Of course.” He backed off, and Sam escorted Remi onto the elevator with their luggage.
The moment the door closed, she asked, “What day was this relaxing vacation supposed to start?”
“Did I say today? I meant tomorrow.”
“Hmm . . .”
“For the record, no one actually tried to kill us.”
“But they did have guns.” Remi eyed Sam. “And we left ours on the plane.”
“Is this a good time to point out that it was your idea to stop off at that bookstore?”
“Pretty sure it’s never going to be a good time to mention that.”
Five
Sam decided that their overnight trip to the Inn at Spanish Bay and dinner at Roy’s on the Monterey Peninsula would have to wait for another day. He contacted his flight crew and had them fly back to San Francisco from the airport in Monterey. Remi was too worried over not being able to get in touch with Bree. That, along with this morning’s events, had put a damper on Sam’s plans for the week. Within a few hours, they were at cruising altitude aboard their G650, relaxing to the soothing allegretto of Beethoven’s Seventh. Remi had received a text from Selma that the book arrived this morning in “fairly good shape,” and other than some minor damage to the inside cover, possibly from being jostled during shipping, there was nothing that stood out. No keys or anything else packed with it.
Even with Selma’s text, Remi seemed restless. Sam saw her check her phone, then return it to the table, a look of frustration on her face, no doubt hoping to hear from her friend. He wished he could ease her worry. He didn’t know Bree Marshall well, but Remi had worked quite closely with her these last few weeks and had grown fond of the young woman.
When they arrived at the San Diego Airport, they drove straight to Bree’s apartment in La Jolla. She lived on the second story in a complex about two miles inland. Palm trees lined the parking lot, the offshore breeze rustling the fronds above them. Sam and Remi climbed the stairs, Remi ringing the doorbell, waiting a few seconds, then trying again. When no one answered, Sam knocked sharply. The door behind them opened, and a blond-haired woman poked her head out. “No one’s home.”
“Any chance you know how to reach Bree?” Remi asked.
“You are . . . ?”
“Remi Fargo. My husband, Sam. We work—”
“That Foundation. I’ve heard her mention her job there,” she said, opening the door wider, eyeing both of them. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t some random strangers. She took off suddenly.”
“When?” Remi asked.