“Please, call me Sam.” They shook, Perlmutter’s grip strong and sure. “My wife, Remi.”
“The enchanting Mrs. Fargo.” The older man took her slender fingers in his, kissed the back of her hand, then led her into the house. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”
Once inside, Sam handed him the bottle. “And wine. I hope it will complement dinner.”
Perlmutter read the Rothschild label, his brows rising. “An excellent choice. This will pair nicely with the chateaubriand. A classic recipe, one of my favorites.” Waving them in, he led them through a maze of halls to a sitting room stuffed to the gills with books and papers. The far wall was lined with bookshelves filled with models, relics, and books. At one end was a fireplace with a perfectly banked fire and at the opposite a well-appointed bar. In front of the fire was a sofa and two end chairs, a Queen Anne chair and a gentleman’s club chair, all set around a coffee table large enough for appetizers and three champagne flutes. “Please, have a seat while I decant this lovely bottle of wine.”
Sam walked Remi to the Queen Anne chair, then seated himself.
At the bar, Perlmutter lit a candle and set a glass next to it. After removing the cork, he slowly poured a small amount into the glass, sniffed and took some wine into his mouth, savoring the taste. He raised the glass to the light and, looking through the deep ruby liquid, said, “What a full breadth of flavor, rich and ripe with beautiful tannins. And a long finish. After it has time to breathe it will be the perfect accompaniment to dinner. A beautiful choice. My deepest gratitude.”
He slowly poured the remainder of the bottle into a decanter, holding it over the candle, making sure no sediment would pass from the bottle. Then he reached below, opened the wine fridge, brought out a 2008 bottle of Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill brut champagne and joined Sam and Remi at the fire. Settling himself in the sofa he said, “While we wait for the dinner, please let’s talk about the reason you’re here. Rubin mentioned that this all began shortly after the two of you met at the Lighthouse Cafe in Hermosa Beach?” His blue eyes twinkled as he looked over at Sam. “Love at first sight, was it?”
“I’m still trying to deny it. But . . . there’s never been anyone like Remi. She’s had my heart from the beginning.”
“Sam, you could have fooled me.” Remi’s green eyes lit up as she smiled.
Sam cleared his throat. “You see. It wasn’t easy.”
“Hardly a fair assessment.”
“Totally fair assessment.”
“Do I sense differing views?” Perlmutter asked.
Remi laughed. “Let’s just say it wasn’t smooth sailing.”
“Well, it wasn’t typhoon fury.”
“Maybe just a few ten-foot swells.”
“A few?” Sam said. “Understatement of the year.”
Remi gave Perlmutter a sideways glance. “It’s a bit complicated.”
“As love is,” he replied. “But it sounds like you two still enjoy a few waves now and then.” This brought a laugh from Sam and Remi.
The champagne poured, Perlmutter continued. “So . . . a chance meeting at the Lighthouse somehow led to this Mediterranean caper, and the one treasure that the two of you never found?”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “It was the hoard of gold stolen from King Cyrus after he conquered King Croesus in 546 B.C. It kickstarted our love for adventure.”
“And for each other?”
Remi placed her hand over Sam’s. “I’d say it played a small part. And, while we didn’t find the fabled hoard, we did find proof it exists.”
“But that was what . . . ? Ten or more years ago?” Perlmutter’s brows furrowed. “Why now?”
“We’d recently been talking about the treasure and what we might have missed in our search,” Remi began.
“But, more importantly,” Sam continued, “the man who was obsessed with finding the treasure all those years ago was recently released from prison—far earlier than anyone expected. From what Rube has told us, the man’s spent over a decade in confinement consumed with hate and fixated on two things—those who he feels are directly responsible for landing him in prison, and where this treasure might be. I have a feeling that the first obsession might be Remi.”
“And you,” Remi added.
“The second is that anyone who gets in his way of finding the treasure will not be safe,” Sam said.
Perlmutter lowered his glass. “I know we could get straight to the point—search my memory banks and my library for the possible location of this fabled hoard—but I have to admit, I do love a good adventure. And Remi being so deeply involved, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell it? From the beginning?”
“That depends,” Sam said. “How much time do you have?”
Perlmutter smiled. “However long it takes.”
CHAPTER TWO
Hermosa Beach, California
Sam Fargo gripped the top corner of his bodyboard with his right hand, his left hand on the outside rail, and looked back at the massive wave approaching.
Timing was everything.
He gave a swift kick, his fins propelling him forward. At the crest, momentarily suspended, he teetered, then dropped almost straight down the shimmering wall. Head up, back arched, chest out, he dug the waterside edge of his board into the wave, riding across the smooth, glassy surface as the lip fell, creating a tunnel of blue and gray. In a rush, it was over. The white water crashed, the surge speeding him toward the shore crowded with onlookers who came to watch the expert surfers and bodyboarders riding the giant waves left over from a rare Category 3 hurricane a few days before.
Sam, having been out there all morning, was ready to call it a day. He reached the shallows, pulled off his fins, picked up his board, and waded up to the beach, walking across the wet sand to where his friend Blake Thomas sat. The two were polar opposites, size-wise and coloring. Sam, brown-eyed with light brown hair bleached by the sun, was tall with a lean muscular build. The dark-haired, blue-eyed Blake had a wrestler’s build, short and compact. They’d met their freshman year at Caltech when they were assigned adjoining dorm rooms, and had remained friends ever since.
Sam dropped his board on the sand, took a seat next to Blake, and picked up the lunch bag he’d packed earlier that morning. The offshore wind nearly ripped the paper from his hand as he reached in and pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Just like Mom used to make.”
Blake, eating a deli sandwich thick with roast beef, eyed the Spartan meal. “Ever thought if you got a real job, instead of working midnights, stocking shelves, you could afford real food?”
“But I wouldn’t have time to work on my project.” He bit into the soft wheat bread, chewed the stiff peanut butter, and washed it down with water from his thermos.
“Come to think of it, you can afford real food. You know, I don’t remember you being such a tightwad.”
“I have plans.”
“You and your plans. I remember, if Plan A doesn’t work, go to Plan B. You need to chill. Loosen up. Relax. If you backed off, you might actually have a life. Maybe even meet a girl.”
Sam smiled at Blake’s ribbing, then nodded at the Coast Guard cutter as it sped north across the water, lights flashing, siren blaring.
Blake glanced out. “Heard a surfer up in Malibu was killed yesterday.”
Sam had seen the news. A forty-year-old man had fallen from his surfboard. By the time anyone could get to him, he’d drowned. “Let’s hope whoever they’re after is okay.”
He watched the boat disappear past the pier, then finished his sandwich. As he got up to toss the bag into the trash, he saw a surfer paddling to catch what promised to be a monster wave. The swell turned into a wall of water, glistening in the sun as the man expertly hopped up onto his board, hands holding either side. He balanced then rose as the tip of the wave curled o
ver, creating a perfect barrel.
Blake stood next to Sam. “Where was that wave when we were out there?”
The surfer emerged from the tube, victorious for several seconds—until an avalanche of water collapsed on top of him.
The crowd on the beach gasped almost collectively as he disappeared from sight. His board shot up, straining against the leash connected to his leg, then jerked back into the water. A moment later, the man surfaced, only to disappear as another wave came crashing down. He didn’t rise a second time.
“Call for help!” Sam said as he grabbed his bodyboard and fins. At the water’s edge he put on his fins and wrapped the Velcro leash to his arm, and paddled out. With each wave that broke, Sam pressed the front of his board down, ducking his head, diving below the white water. A few surfers to the south tried to reach the fallen man, but the waves, breaking in a southeasterly pattern, made it near impossible.
By the time Sam paddled out there, the man was nowhere in sight. Worried he’d lost him for good, Sam noticed someone waving and shouting from the pier. He glanced up, saw a red-haired woman pointing to his right. He looked, saw the orange surfboard, then a blur of black from a wet suit in the froth just a few yards away. He swam over.
At first, there was nothing but the gray-green of the ocean below and the white storm above. Somehow in the midst of that, he caught a glimpse of the surfer being tossed about, the churning water propelling him downward then upward in a relentless struggle.
Sam darted forward, reached out, scooping his hand beneath the limp man’s arm, pulling him toward his bodyboard. There was a gash on the man’s temple, and his eyes stared at nothing. Sam put his mouth to the surfer’s, forcing air into his lungs. As he rose out of the water to take a second breath, the bright orange surfboard shot toward them like a spinning torpedo. Sam ducked, pulling the man with him, the surfboard skimming over the top of their heads.
He managed to hold tight to the surfer as the next wave crashed down and then the next. After each, he pulled the man’s head to him, blew into his lungs, all the while kicking his fins in a desperate attempt to stay surfaced and get closer to shore. His muscles burned, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold the man. When he looked up, he saw Blake and another bodyboarder swimming out to help.
Sam gave one last breath to the surfer as Blake pulled the unconscious man up onto his own board. Once they reached the shore, Blake and the other man dragged the surfer onto dry sand, Blake taking over the CPR. Sam, exhausted, dropped his board, then stood there, trying to catch his breath.
A few minutes later, the EMTs arrived and loaded the now semiconscious man onto a gurney.
“Nice job,” Blake said, clapping Sam on the back. “But one of these days, that Fargo luck’s going to wear off, and you’ll wish you’d had the sense to wait for help.”
Sam managed a tired smile. “In the meantime, he’s going to live.”
“You working tonight?”
“Night off.”
“We’re heading over to the Lighthouse. Have a few beers and watch the game.”
“Sure. I’ll see you there.” Assuming he could walk off the beach.
* * *
—
The strains of a jazz band drifted out as Sam pulled open the door of the Lighthouse Cafe. A popular nightclub, the bar was crowded, the lights dim. He spied Blake standing at the bar with a group watching a muted television, their cheers drowning out the jazz band.
Blake called over to Sam. “Better order now while you have a chance.”
Sam, about to tell him that he couldn’t stay, caught sight of the same woman he’d seen up on the pier that afternoon. Tall, slim, her wavy red hair swept back into a ponytail, she was dressed in a tailored blue-and-white linen shirt, navy capris, and white sandals. She stood in the doorway, looking around, her face lighting up with a smile as she waved at three other women sitting at a table across from the bar. Instead of joining them, she walked up to the bar not two feet from Sam.
The bartender asked her what she wanted to drink.
She picked up a wine list. “You don’t have any red wines from Spain, do you?” she said.
“Sorry. It’s California or bust.”
Her smile faded. “It would’ve made the perfect toast.”
“Remi!” one of her friends shouted from behind her. “We have wine!”
She glanced at the table, saw her friend holding up a bottle of chardonnay, then returned the menu to the bartender. “Thanks anyway.”
He nodded, and moved on to the next customer.
“Earth to Fargo. You realize the game’s on?” Blake, seeing the direction of Sam’s gaze, clapped him on the back. “Don’t even try. The women at that table are blue-blooded East Coasters. Way out of your league. It’ll take them about ten seconds to size you up, figure out you’re a California boy with a four-wheel Jeep, determine your credit limit, then spit you out. All the Fargo luck in the world won’t help you there. Heck. Their shoes cost more than you make in a week.”
“And you would know this how?”
“I used to date the blonde. Olivia Brady. It didn’t last, and I’d just closed a multimillion-dollar real estate deal.”
“Ever think it’s you, not the money?” Sam gave him a cocky grin.
“Word of advice, Fargo. You might want to avoid mentioning where you work—and it will come up. Trust me on this.”
“Noted,” Sam said. He moved to the end of the bar, picking up the wine menu, scanning the list of California reds, seeing the host of usuals from Napa, all with price tags to match and out of his new lifestyle. He skipped past them and saw a reasonably priced California Spanish wine from the northern San Joaquin Valley. He got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll take a bottle of the Bokisch Tempranillo and four glasses. Can you send it to the table where the redheaded woman is sitting?”
CHAPTER THREE
Sam watched as the waitress brought over the wine and glasses, setting them on the table.
“I think there’s some mistake,” the blond woman said. “We didn’t order any wine.” She pointed to the bottle of chardonnay.
“From the gentleman at the bar.”
All four women looked in Sam’s direction. One gave a cool smile, then shook her head. “Thank him for us, but we can’t accept.”
Sam, seeing the waitress reach for the bottle, walked over, saying, “I’m actually on my way out, but I heard you were celebrating. Four of you, four glasses, and a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. Enjoy.”
He started to turn away when the redhead caught his gaze, her green eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “You were at the beach today.”
The other women looked at him with renewed interest, the blonde saying, “You’re the one who saved that surfer. The hero.”
“Hero, no. Right place, right time? Yes.”
The brunette looked at her watch. “Speaking of time, we’re late.” She drained her wineglass, then pushed her chair back. The other two rose with her. She looked at her friend, who hadn’t moved. “Are you coming, Remi?”
Remi tapped the stem of her nearly full wineglass. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I finish this.”
The three hurried out, leaving them alone.
“Dinner reservations,” she explained, then nodded at one of the empty chairs. “You’re welcome to join me.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”
“I can miss the appetizers.” She lifted the bottle. “I’ve never heard of this winery.”
“The bartender assures me it’s very good.”
“And how do I know it’s not spiked and you’re some stalker?”
“I’ll take the first sip.” He poured a small amount into two glasses, sliding one across to her, then held his aloft. “To whatever it is you’re celebrating.”
They t
ouched rims. She waited for him to drink first, then followed suit. “That is good . . . Black cherry, dark chocolate . . . and a hint of cranberry.” She picked up the bottle. “Tempranillo grown in California. I see a wine tasting trip in my future.”
“What about your friends? Are you sure you don’t want to . . . ?”
“They’ve probably already forgotten about me. And leave such lovely wine?”
He set his glass on the table and held out his hand. “Sam Fargo.”
She took it in hers, shaking with a firm grip. “Remi Longstreet.”
“Nice to meet you, Remi.” He refilled their glasses. “So, what’s worth celebrating with a Spanish varietal?”
“You have to promise not to tell.”
“Cross my heart.”
Her smile lit up her entire face. “I’ve been looking into rumors that a Spanish galleon sank off Abalone Cove. This morning, I actually found a reference to the ship in the Rare Books and Special Collections Reading Room at Long Beach State. It’s all of two sentences, but considering it took me almost six months just to find that much, I’m ecstatic.”
“That definitely deserves a toast,” Sam said, lifting his glass once more. “So, what’s next? Exploratory diving to find it?”
“Eventually. But that’s only part of it. I’m leaving for Greece in two weeks. Fourni, to be exact.”
Wrath of Poseidon Page 3