Sam stood up. “You can expect anything you like.”
He turned and walked away.
SAM WALKED across the street to the police station. Remi wrapped up her conversation with the superintendent with a warm handshake and a thank-you. The man gave Sam a nod and a smile, then strode away.
“Lovely man, Huru,” Remi said. “Told us to give his regards to Rube.”
“What did you tell him?” Sam asked, sitting down beside her.
“That we thought someone had tried to break into our house last night. He said to call him personally if we have any more trouble. How did your chat with the human skeleton go?”
“As can be expected. He claims he’s been working for some deep pockets who’ve been looking for the Ophelia for years. Problem is, he claims to know almost nothing about her pedigree.”
“He tried to wing it,” Remi said. “He thought he could bluff you.”
Anyone who spends even a modicum of time chasing shipwrecks finds themselves well versed in every facet of a vessel’s history. That Rivera feigned ignorance about the Ophelia told Sam and Remi that the ship was vitally important to Rivera and his employer.
“Did he mention the hidden engraving?”
“No. That could be telling. It’s another thing an experienced hunter would know. He didn’t mention it because he’s hoping we missed it.”
“Any hint as to what specifically they’re after?”
“He implied it was something in the Ophelia’s hold. Treasure of some kind. Even offered us a finder’s fee.”
“How very kind of him. Where does this leave us?”
“Rivera claimed he had salvage experience, which may or may not be true, but he also claimed his patrons have been actively looking for the Ophelia.”
In the world of treasure hunting, an active search is a specific beast that involves mounting expeditions—getting wet and dirty while laying out grids, doing magnetometer passes, picking through muck and slime. Not to mention the dry but no less daunting research work: interviewing relatives, scouting locations, and sitting in dusty old libraries looking for the slightest clue as to the target’s possible location.
“If Rivera’s been at it that long,” Remi said, “there’ll be public records, news stories, permits . . .”
“My thought exactly. We find those, we get a better idea of what Rivera and his people are really after.”
THEY SAT UNDER the shade trees outside the police station for ten minutes as Sam watched Rivera and his partner leave the cricket grounds parking lot, then overtly make a circuit around the police station. Sam and Remi gave them a parting wave on the last pass.
Once sure they weren’t returning, Sam and Remi walked east to an open-air market, where they gathered food and necessities and walked the labyrinthine alleys while watching for signs of pursuit. Finding none, they walked three blocks north to a rental-car agency. Their reservation, a 2007 Toyota Land Cruiser, was waiting for them. Forty minutes later they were back at their Uroa beach villa.
Sam’s phone trilled as they were walking up the driveway. Remi gestured for the bag of groceries he was carrying and continued into the villa. Sam checked the caller ID: Rube.
“Morning, Rube.”
“Early, early morning. How did your meeting go?”
“Fine. Huru told us to say hello.”
“A good man, Huru. Did you turn your guest over to him?”
“Not yet,” Sam replied, then recounted his conversation with Rivera. “We already called Selma. She’s working on shipwreck databases for the area. Tomorrow we’re going over to the university for a little homework.”
“Well, I know I already said this once, but be damned careful. I did some digging into Itzli Rivera. The military stuff you already know, but he was also in their defense department’s intelligence section. He retired about eight years ago and went private. Here’s the kicker: According to the chief of station in Mexico City, Rivera’s been arrested six times by the Policía Federal but never indicted.”
“What charges?”
“Burglary, bribery, blackmail, murder, kidnapping . . . And all related to national-level politics.”
“So he’s a hatchet man.”