Pirate

Twenty-five

Charles Avery’s attorney, Winton Page, sat across from him, sliding documents over for his review, as the man detailed the figures on each. The hour was late, but Charles had been tied up all day and this was the first opportunity they’d had to meet. He wanted this divorce over and done with. “What’s the bottom line?”

“Bottom line,” Winton said. “You’re better off paying your wife what she wants. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.”

“I’ll be damned if I give her a penny of anything she’s asking for. I built this empire from the ground up. All she did was spend the money I made.”

“And she bore two of your children.”

“Who followed in her footsteps. Spoiled, predatory brats.”

“Which is what wills are for. Your wife is the more immediate problem.”

Problem was right. If there was some way he could do away with her and not bring any attention to himself, he would have done it by now. That was certainly an option down the line. For now, her nosing around his banking was the more pressing threat. “What about this forensic accountant she says she hired?”

“It’s one of those ‘It depends’ answers. If your wife somehow gained access to records you weren’t aware of, the possibility exists they might discover some of your hidden assets. In other words, it’s a gamble.”

One he was willing to make. He’d been careful over the years, and while he knew Alexandra was aware he’d been hiding assets, she didn’t know the half of it. In fact, she might not have even been aware of any recent activity had it not been for the Fargos’ untimely arrival in the middle of his search for the map. Their interference had caused him to make several rash decisions that led to a sudden shortage of liquid assets — hence the need to dig into his wife’s accounts.

He glanced at the clock, wondering why it was that Fisk had failed to call with an update on their Jamaica search. The information that was supposed to lead to the cipher wheel. He should have heard something by now, and so as Winton droned on about the legalities of what he was doing, his gaze kept turning to the phone.

Finally, it lit up. He grabbed the receiver, his secretary saying, “Your wife—”

The office door burst open. “—is here,” Alexandra said. “I don’t know why she bothers with the announcements. As if I need permission to walk into a building in which I’m half owner.”

“Half owner, my—”

“Tsk, tsk, dear. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.” She opened her purse, pulled out an envelope, then tossed the handbag on the couch. “Winton,” she said, walking up to him. “So good to see you diligently on the job. You did get the subpoena for the accounting records?”

“What subpoena?”

“Oh, silly me. This one.” She waved the envelope at him, then handed it over. “Of course, this is just a copy. I’m sure the process server will turn over the original. I’m just trying to be a good sport by giving you a heads-up.”

He opened it, then slid it across the desk toward Charles, who merely glanced at the document, not wanting to give Alexandra the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. “Is this becoming a nightly ritual of yours? Coming to my office to goad me? Or is your social calendar suddenly empty?”

“On the contrary, it’s actually fuller than ever, now that news of the divorce is out.” She put both hands on the desk and leaned in toward him, her smile icy. “Had I realized how much you hindered my social standing, I might have filed much earlier.”

“A shame you didn’t.”

She looked down at the papers on his desk, and he immediately turned them over so that she couldn’t read them. Instead, her gaze landed on the yellow scratch pad covered with notes, phone numbers, and figures from various phone calls he’d taken throughout the day. She reached over, turning it her direction. “Fargo?” she said, reading the name circled and underlined on the pad. “A new business acquisition in North Dakota? Something I should let my lawyer know about?”

He pulled the pad away from her and turned it upside down as well. “You’ve served your subpoena, now go.”

“Oh, I wasn’t here to serve that. It’s not legal if I do it. I just wanted to let you know that my lawyer’s asked for the accounts to be frozen. In case you’re wondering why your ATM card suddenly stops working.” This time, her smile positively dripped acid. She patted the notepad he still held, then turned and walked to the couch to retrieve her purse. “Do take care, Charles. Winton, always so good to see you.”

Charles, his teeth clenched, waited until the door shut after her. “Do you see what I’ve had to put up with all these years?”

“She’s only trying to goad you on.”

“Well, it’s working.” He got up, poured himself a drink, finally relaxing enough to think about what she said. “Can she do that? Freeze my money?”

“We’ll find out come morning when the banks open. But assuming her attorney could convince a judge you’ve been hiding assets, then yes she can. If I had to guess, this forensic accountant of hers suggested it. Trying to force your hand to see where your money is moving from.”

Charles carried his glass and the bottle of whiskey to his desk, then sat. “She wants to start a war? I’m willing to dig in for as long as it takes.”

“Or you could pay her what she’s asking and end it.”

“No.” Charles took a swig of his drink. It would be a cold day in hell before he allowed that, he thought.

His phone rang. It was Fisk. Finally.

“I have an update from Jamaica,” Fisk said. “You may not like what you hear, but, I assure you, it’ll work out.”

He clenched his glass in his hand. “Work out? Are you telling me you failed to get the documents?”

“About that… Turns out, the Fargos may have survived after all.”

Anger surged through him. “What the— How is it those two keep slipping through your fingers?”

“I told you, they aren’t your average couple. Sam Fargo has extensive training at DARPA and possibly even the CIA. The wife was a Boston College graduate…” Avery heard him shuffling papers as he checked his notes. “… with a master’s in anthropology and history with a focus on ancient trade routes.”

“Which explains her interest in treasure. What it doesn’t explain is how she escaped.”

“Unless you factor in that she’s extremely intelligent — and an expert marksman.”

“And what? Somebody handed her a gun on board the Golfinho? I don’t want to hear excuses for your failures. I pay you for confirmed results.”

“Mistakes were made. They’re being addressed.”

“I was under the impression that the crew you hired to take over the Golfinho was more than capable of dealing with a couple of spoiled jet-setters who keep sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

“As mentioned, they’ve been dealt with. In the meantime, we have a lead on the Fargos. My men were able to follow them from the car rental to Kingston. Unfortunately, the Fargos managed to evade them. But they won’t for long.”

“I thought you said that these men were capable of getting the job done.”

“They are.”

“Then how is it that these two meddlesome socialites have managed to elude them thus far? To me, that sounds as though your men are anything but capable.”

“I warned you the Fargos were resourceful.”

Charles slammed his glass to the desk, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “You told me that you could handle this. That your men could handle this.”

“They can. And they will.”

“They better. I want those documents and then the Fargos eliminated. Period. If you can’t trust them to get the job done, then handle it yourself. I want results, not incompetence.”

“Understood. We do have a plan. I’ll call you once the details are firmed up.”

Charles dropped the phone into the cradle, grabbed his glass, then took a long drink.

“I take it,” Winton said, “the news isn’t good?”

“How about you concentrate on keeping my wife from getting her hands on my fortune. I’ll worry about my extracurricular activities.”

“As long as you’re aware that any money you’re moving toward those activities might be discovered.”

“I’m well aware of the risks.”

Winton nodded, then stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see myself out.”

He left, and Charles poured himself another drink, his eye moving to the scratch pad. The Fargo name glared up at him. He ripped it from the pad, crumpled it, then tossed it to the ground. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what angered him more — the Fargos inserting themselves into his business or his wife trying to steal his fortune.

Death was too good for all of them.

Which made him wonder, did he really want Alexandra dead?

Actually, he did. She might be the mother of his children, but neither of them had anything to do with him. They were definitely their mother’s spawn. What he needed to do was make sure his wife was dealt with in the most expedient manner possible. The question was, how? How to make it look like her death had nothing to do with him?

First things first, he thought. Deal with the Fargos. An hour later, Fisk called him back.

“I have good news…”