Pirate by Clive Clusser and Robin Burcell

Pirate

By Clive Cussler and Robin Burcell

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 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.

xx

When they arrived at the San Diego Airport, the 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.”

Going on a treasure hunt. X marks the spot. Photo ob Bahamas by Elena.

“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.

“Late last night. I was just getting home, and she was running down the stairs, saying something about her uncle. Going to see him, I think.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, took a business card from it, and handed it to her. “If you hear from her, ask her to give us a call?” It's very important.”

“Of course. Sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

In the car, Sam glanced over at his wife. “She's probably already in San Francisco.”

“I'm sure you're right. I just hate to think how awful this must be for her.”

“She has our number. She'll call. In the meantime, let's go home, check in with Selma, and take a look at this book Mr. Pickering wrapped up for you.”

They lived just a few miles away in the hills of La Jolla's Goldfish Point, overlooking the ocean. The moment they stepped inside from the garage, their massive German shepherd Zoltan, the only Eastern European bilingual dog in the neighborhood (he knew only Hungarian commands), bounded down the hallway toward them, his nails clicking on the tumbled-marble tile floor as he skidded to a stop in from of Remi and Sam.