“I wish we were down here when they loaded it. It would’ve been nice to see who was behind the wheel.” Sam handed Remi her helmet, then glanced up in time to see the man in the red ball cap and dark glasses walking past. “There’s the other guy. He seems familiar.”
“I was thinking the same. Maybe the car’s his?”
But the man walked past, disembarking on foot with the other passengers.
“Guess not,” Sam said.
Remi put on her helmet, and climbed on the motorcycle behind Sam. He cruised down the ramp onto the pier, weaving around the long line of cars that were waiting to pick up or drop off passengers.
Although Sam could’ve parked in the lot adjacent to the pier and marina, he decided it might be best to put some space between them and the men from the ferry—just in case. He found a parking space in front of a busy souvenir shop. Leaving their helmets with the motorcycle, they walked down to the waterfront. While Remi asked for directions to Elia, the restaurant chosen by the professor, Sam moved out far enough to watch the people leavin
g the ferry. The blue rental car was locked in a logjam of taxis and other vehicles that had all converged at the pier, unfortunately too far away to see who was at the wheel.
The man in the red ball cap, he noticed, was well in front of the blue car, strolling through the parking lot, not seeming to be in a hurry at all.
Remi walked up, looking. “I suppose that means we were wrong about them?”
“So it would seem.” He glanced at her. “Did you find out where the restaurant is?”
“Elia is at the very end of the marina.” She pointed to their left.
Hand in hand, they walked along the stone-paved waterfront past a number of busy restaurants, all with tables set on the patios facing the harbor. Elia was the very last restaurant. A light breeze swept in off the water, fluttering the pale green tablecloths. No one seemed to be waiting for them.
“You’re sure we have the right time?” Remi asked.
Sam checked the email. “Elia. Two o’clock . . . According to Selma, Dr. Alexandris looks like a professor.”
“Did she really say that?” Remi surveyed the nearby patrons. “Exactly what does a professor look like, in her opinion?”
“She didn’t say. Sherlock Holmes? Tweed jacket and a pipe?”
“You’re sure you’re not thinking of Dr. Watson?”
“Watson doesn’t smoke a pipe, does he?”
“‘Ship’s tobacco,’ to be exact,” Remi said. “More importantly, what makes you think the professor is male?”
He nodded to their left at a man sitting at a corner table. Early fifties, his brown hair flecked with gray, his attention was on a newspaper as he nursed a glass of beer. “That’s got to be him.”
“Sam Fargo?” a woman called out from the opposite direction.
He and Remi turned to see a silvered-haired woman in her late sixties sitting at a table on the other side of the aisle. She stood, waving them over.
Remi cleared her throat, her green eyes gleaming. “You were saying . . . ?”
Sam guided her to the table. “Professor Alexandris?”
“You seem surprised,” the woman said.
“A bit,” he replied, ignoring Remi’s catlike smile as he pulled out her chair. He took a seat next to her. “There was a bit of confusion about your name.”
She smiled at a waiter who brought two plates to the table, one with bread and olive tapenade, the other with thick slices of white cheese covered with a red compote. She slid that one toward Sam and Remi. “Grilled Halloumi cheese with cherry salsa. I hope you’ll try it. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”
“Thank you,” Remi said.
“So,” she turned her attention to Sam. “I read the book, The Pirates of Poseidon. What is it you’re hoping to learn?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE