That would explain why, with the exception of a few windows on the South Wing, most of the house was dark. Sam surveyed the second floor. A faint light was coming from the fourth window over, making him think it was a very small lamp or the door to the room was open and the light was from beyond it.
He handed Remi the binoculars. “Take a look. You see the light coming from the one window? Second floor. Could that be it?”
Remi adjusted the focus. “I can’t be sure. It looks like the general location of the door where I saw the guy from the elevator go in. But there’s a lot of windows on that floor, Sam. And I was looking in from the opposite side.”
“One way to find out. Get a closer look myself.”
“And what good is that going to do?”
“It may not do any good. Then again, I might get lucky. I won’t know until I get up there.”
“Not without me.”
“Sorry, Remi. You’re n
ot dressed for the part.”
She lowered the binoculars, giving Sam a look of mild annoyance. “Give me two minutes and I will be.”
The truth was, he had a bad feeling about this place, and not just because of Luca’s attempt to swindle them. Maybe it was just the fact there was a lot of cash being brought in, but this broker was going to a lot of trouble to guard this auction, which would lend credence to the cars having less than stellar certificates of ownership. “Someone has to stay and keep watch.”
“Flip a coin. Winner stays here.”
Odds he could live with—as long as Remi lost. He took a coin from his pocket, tossed it, the dull brass gleaming in the moonlight as it spun. He caught it. “Your call,” he said.
“Heads.”
He opened his palm, dismayed to see that she’d won. Even so, in the time it took Remi to change her clothes, he changed his mind. She reached for the backpack and its coil of rope, but he picked it up before she could. They’d learned long ago to trust each other’s instincts, and clearly this was one of those times. “I have a bad feeling about this. I’m going instead.”
“Which is why I’m going with you,” she countered. “If something’s going to happen to you, I plan on being there.”
“Fine,” he said, slipping the straps of the backpack over his shoulders. “But if anything goes wrong, you’re heading back to the car and out of here.”
“Scout’s honor.”
52
Sam held tight to one end of the rope, tossing the coil up and over the branch of a sycamore, catching it before it hit the ground on the other side. He tugged on the length, the limb feeling solid supporting his weight, then looked over at Remi. “This is your chance to back out.”
“You’re wasting time, Fargo.”
He climbed up, using the other branches to balance himself as he edged his way along the limb, careful of the long, thick, pointed glass glittering below him like a deadly mosaic of colorful daggers.
Remi followed, retrieving the rope, and coiling it. When she reached him, he slung the coil over his shoulder and maneuvered through the tree until he was on the limb that ran parallel to the balcony. He judged the distance. There was at least five feet between the balustrade and the thickest part of the branch.
As long as he kept his balance, he could easily make it. That wasn’t the question. What worried him was if the stone balustrade was securely anchored to the balcony and would hold his weight. The thrust of his jump, followed by Remi’s, would not mix well if there was any dry rot or other degradation.
“Maybe I should go first,” Remi whispered.
They were at least twenty feet from the ground. If that balcony was going down, it wasn’t going to be with Remi. “It’ll be fine.” He hoped.
Remi reached out, grabbing his arm, as he was about to jump. “Company,” she whispered.
From the corner of his eye he saw two security guards in black uniforms rounding the corner, walking directly toward their tree. Had it not been for Remi, Sam might have been mid-jump before he saw them. Too late to step back out of sight, he waited where he was, hoping they wouldn’t look up. Unfortunately, the two men decided to stop beneath the tree, the taller of the guards pulling out a cigarette pack, offering one to the shorter man.
“Grazie,” the man said, accepting a cigarette and a light. He took a deep drag, while the other man held the lighter to his cigarette, his face glowing, as he puffed. But instead of moving on, the two stood there, talking softly, their smoke drifting upward, while Sam balanced on the branch, trying to look as treelike as was humanly possible, while gripping the branches above him. Remi, at least, was partially hidden behind him in the crook of the tree.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves, sending tree pollen and smoke swirling around him. Sam felt a sneeze coming on and tried to alleviate the tickle by scrunching his face and wiggling his nose. When that failed to work, he let go of one of the branches, slowly bringing his hand toward his face, pinching his nostrils. The tickle disappeared.