AT 3:28 P.M., MICHAEL CLIMBED out of his Land Rover in front of the offices Aleister Crowe kept on Bell Street. He locked the vehicle and headed for the two-story stone building that had been a pub up until nearly fifty years ago, at which time the Crowe family purchased and renovated it.
Before Michael reached the building’s entrance, Crowe’s dark green Jaguar XFR slid to a smooth stop at the curb. The window dropped just enough to reveal Crowe’s face. “We’ll talk in the car.”
For a split second, Michael didn’t know if he was comfortable being alone with Crowe. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d seen Crowe kill a man as easily as opening a bag of crisps, and with about as much emotion. They’d been pursued by men trying to kill them because of Michael and Molly’s investigation into a train robbery, but still…
Crowe impatiently tapped his black-leather-clad fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t have all day, Mr. Graham.” He never even turned to face Michael.
Without a word, Michael opened the passenger door and sat in the seat adjacent to Crowe. Lockwood Nightingale was sitting in the back and didn’t look happy.
“Buckle up, Mr. Graham.” By the time he gave the warning, Crowe was already under way. He drove too fast through Blackpool’s twisty, winding streets.
“Where are we going?” Michael secured his seat belt but still didn’t feel safe.
Crowe said nothing as he shifted smoothly, taking the corners with Grand Prix skill. The Jaguar performed like an Olympic athlete.
Pedestrians flashed by outside Michael’s window, but Crowe didn’t get too close to any of them. It helped that the walkers and bicyclists got out of the way when the Jaguar roared in their direction.
“You wanted to talk to me.” Crowe took the final turn and powered out of Blackpool. The marina stretched along the coast to their right, but that swiftly vanished, as well.
“The mystery of Charles Crowe’s treasure, whether fact or fiction, has gotten too large for Blackpool.” Michael shifted slightly in the seat so he could keep an eye on both Crowe and Nightingale.
“It’s a story. Nothing more. The tale never got out of hand till you and your wife started mucking about.”
“I disagree. The Seaclipse lay out in the harbor, awaiting discovery. It was simply a matter of time before someone found it.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because no one knew that Charles Crowe’s fortune was gained from the illegal sale of slaves until the ship was uncovered. So was that just another secret of the aloof Crowe family? You people felt justified hiding what Charles Crowe did.”
“Watch yourself, Michael.” Crowe’s voice was razor-sharp with warning. “Tread lightly when you’re talking about my family.”
Nightingale spoke up from the backseat. “Where did you get your information, Mr. Graham?”
“Is that important?”
“It is if your so-called ‘evidence’ was stolen from Mr. Crowe’s home. It could be considered personal property.”
Michael looked over the seat at the solicitor. “That’s not the issue here.”
“I disagree. If your source was Rohan Wallace, then it is definitely the issue, as—given his history—he likely stole it from Mr. Crowe’s home. We’ll start with charges of an invasion of privacy, trespassing and build from there.”
“Lockwood.” Crowe spoke quietly, his tone flat and cold.
Nightingale looked supremely irritated. “Aleister, I can’t begin to tell you how important this is. You’ve seen how many phone calls I’ve fielded since that article appeared. It’s only going to get worse as more media outlets pick it up.”
“I didn’t ask you to answer those calls.”
“Ignoring them isn’t going to make them go away. These people—very important people—are going to blame you if this story goes national. God forbid, international.”
“It’s probably already too late for that,” Michael said.
“Do you see what I’m talking about, Aleister? This is exactly the kind of problem I’ve been warning you against.”
“So far the story’s only appeared in the Blackpool Journal, even with the internet. How did these ‘other people’ find out about the email I sent him?” Michael asked.
Crowe waved a dismissive hand. “People I do business with or against routinely spy on me. They look for dirt they can use against me. You’re very naive if you didn’t realize that might happen when you sent me an unencrypted email.”
Michael thought maybe he had been naive. Aleister Crowe was a player in the financial fields. Or perhaps he’d subconsciously wanted Aleister Crowe to get caught out.
Nightingale glared at Michael. “These are people that care about their reputations. They’re the kind that will squash you like a bug.”
“This isn’t just about reputations, and doing anything to me isn’t going to help them now.” Michael switched his attention back to Crowe and ignored the solicitor.
Crowe drove smoothly, eyes on the road. “True enough. So what do you want to talk about?”
“Have you heard of a man named Leland Dar row?”
“I read the papers.” Crowe smiled thinly. “Some say that he’s a criminal mastermind. Villainy for hire.”
“He’s involved in this now.”
Crowe glanced at Michael, then looked back at the road. “What do you mean?”
Michael was sure that Paddington wouldn’t be happy with him telling Crowe what he knew of the situation. The inspector had been playing the matter close to his vest. But in for a penny…“The man that was gunned down in front of Merciful Angels worked for Darrow.”
“You’re certain about this?”
“Quite. I helped Paddington dot the i’s and cross the t’s on that particular bit of information.”
“Getting to be a regular detective, aren’t you?” The sarcasm was as swift and biting as a wasp sting.
“Not even. The man at Merciful Angels was probably inside Crowe’s Nest with Rohan Wallace that night.”
“I didn’t see anyone else there.”
“The dead bloke—Timothy Harper—isn’t the kind of man you’d see while he was on the job.”
“Please.” Nightingale was practically frothing at the mouth in the rear seat. “Do not get sucked into this, Aleister. I’m begging you. There’s a lot of damage control we still have to do. We have to deny everything Graham has said. We have to ferret out his sources and condemn them for the shams they are.”
“They’re not shams,” Michael objected.
“Oh, really? Do you have a document from that time that ties all these speculations into one neat bundle?”
“I’m not prepared to discuss that today.”
“You’re going to have to do it soon.”
Crowe interrupted. “Tell me about Leland Dar row.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why would he be interested in me?”
“Your ancestor’s treasure. Same as a lot of people.”
Crowe shook his head. “Darrow is a player, from all accounts. He would only be involved for a sure payday. Despite the animosity between us, Michael, believe me when I say that whatever Charles Crowe had was long ago spent or lost forever. It just doesn’t make any sense that Darrow would be interested.”
Michael believed Crowe. He’d said the same thing when he’d talked to Paddington about Darrow. “Then, if Darrow is involved, there has to be another reason. Since he had a man inside Crowe’s Nest, the answer must lie there.”
“Or, at least, Darrow believes it does.” Crowe tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Aleister, come on. Please don’t tell me you’re buying into this tommyrot.” Nightingale stared daggers at Michael. “It’s just a fancy. A story he’s made up to throw you off balance.”
“I didn’t make up the dead man at Merciful Angels, and I didn’t make up the criminal record he has that ties him to Darrow.” Michael focused on Crowe. “I wanted you to know about Darrow. In case there was a problem.”
Nightingale cursed. “So now you want to make Aleister paranoid about some mythical criminal bogeyman? Preposterous.”
“I did all of this for a reason.” Michael spoke plainly. “I didn’t do it specifically to harm you.”
“You knew Aleister would get caught in the fallout.”
“Yes. I have been, too. But we were already there. It’s been like watching an accident take place in slow motion. With this much attention on Charles Crowe and that treasure, maybe the truth of the matter will set us all free.”
“What truth?” Nightingale leaned forward in the seat. “What truth is that exactly, Mr. Graham? That Charles Crowe was a slave trader and a cutthroat? That hasn’t been proven. Try saying that in a court of law and I’ll tear you to shreds. Truth doesn’t matter nearly so much as evidence.”
Crowe flicked his black eyes to the rearview mirror. “Lockwood, have a care if you value your friendship with me.”
“I meant no disrespect, Aleister, but what this man is saying is balderdash. This is a smear campaign. Graham’s starting with you, but he’s going after bigger game. He’s going to grab headlines for himself and make himself out to be some sort of hero, while you and your family’s friends take a beating in the public eye.”
Michael ignored him. “Think about Darrow. He’s the one you should be concerned about. And there’s Stefan Draghici. He approached Molly and me a couple days ago.”
Crowe smiled faintly. “What did that oaf want with you?”
“To become partners in the search for your ancestor’s treasure.”
“Draghici’s quite fanciful, isn’t he?”
Michael thought about Draghici. “He is, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He’s getting desperate.”
THEY HAD MOLLY BOXED BEFORE she saw them.
She was using the keypad to unlock her car doors, still talking on the phone to one of the remodeling agents, then the men were on her.
One of them stripped her phone from her while the other screwed a metallic object against the base of her skull.
“What you feel there, Mrs. Graham, is a mighty big pistol. I pull this trigger, your head’s gonna empty in a rush. If you scream or struggle, I’m going to pull the trigger. You hear me?”
“Yes.” Molly forced herself to keep breathing and stay calm. All around her, the marina was in full motion. Pedestrians were everywhere, and none of them were looking at her. No one saw.
“I don’t need you to talk. Just nod your head. Do you understand?”
Molly nodded.
“Walk with me and my mate back toward the street.”
Feeling her knees weaken, Molly forced herself to move. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
A cargo van with blank metal sides trundled along the street and stopped in front of her. When the side door rasped open, sliding along worn tracks, Stefan Draghici appeared, sitting on a small metal chair. He smiled when he saw her.
“Hello, Mrs. Graham.”
Molly didn’t speak.
Draghici gestured, and the two men beside Molly forced her into the van.
“It’s a shame it’s come to this, but I tried to be civil with your husband. He got all high-and-mighty with me.” Draghici sighed as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Then there was this news today. Got everybody all stirred up. Any chance of slipping away with that treasure in the quiet of the night just evaporated. So now I’m having to resort to a more direct method of getting what I want.”
The men forced Molly to sit on the floor as the van got under way. When she glanced into the rear of the cargo area, she spotted Lydia Crowe. Mascara-streaked tear tracks ran down her face.
“Ah, yes. Miss Crowe will be with us. I also offered to work something out with her brother regarding the treasure. He wasn’t in an amenable mood. Pulled a gun on me is what he did. So I decided to give up on the treasure and find another way to make this a profitable trip for me. Between the ransom your husband pays for you and the one Aleister Crowe pays for his little sister, I’ll bet I come out of this a wealthy man. What do you think, Mrs. Graham?”
“That you’re vile and disgusting.”
To her surprise, Draghici laughed. “Perhaps so, but soon I’ll be a much richer, as well.”
TROUBLED AND ANXIOUS, Michael sat in the quiet of his office and stared at the three-dimensional model of the clever puzzle Charles Crowe had designed.
The answers were there somewhere. He was sure of it. The frustration that they were practically within his grasp chafed at him unmercifully.
His mobile rang and showed Molly’s picture. She was smiling at him, beautiful as ever. As he picked up the mobile, he noticed the time. She should have been home long before this, and he hadn’t even noticed. That was definitely the sign of a bad husband.
“Hello, love.”
“Michael.”
At her frightened voice, he was instantly attentive. He sat forward in his chair, heart thumping. “Molly?”
“I’m all right, Michael. I feel like I’m in Xardon all over again, but I’m all right.”
Xardon? As keyed up as he was, it took Michael a moment to remember that Xardon had been one of the adventure sites he’d created for “Makaum’s Gauntlet,” a fantasy pirate role-playing game. That had been one of Molly’s favorites. But why had she brought it up?
“That’s enough, missy.” Draghici’s rough voice was instantly recognizable.
Full-blown panic hit Michael.
“Mr. Graham.”
“Yes.”
“I know you’re an intelligent man. Just a few days ago you stood on my boat and told me so in as many words. Now I’m prepared to tell you a few things.”
Michael closed his eyes and forced himself to focus. Molly was alive. That was all that mattered right now. She was alive. He was going to find a way to keep her that way.
“Do you hear me, Mr. Graham?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not speaking much.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Draghici chuckled. “Don’t feel so high-and-mighty now, do you?”
Michael felt more afraid than he ever had in his life. His heart thundered so loud he could scarcely hear. “No.”
“Good. See, I can invent games, too. And this is how we’re going to play this one. If you tell anyone that I have your wife, anyone at all, you’ll never see her again. You’re going to wire two million dollars to an account I’m going to give you in the morning and you can have your wife back in one piece.”
Michael didn’t believe the man, but he didn’t argue. It was just after eight o’clock now. He had about twelve hours to work with. Miracles could happen in that much time. “All right.”
“I’ll call you in the morning with the account number.” The phone went dead.
Immediately, Michael pressed the speed-dial function and tried to call back. The mobile went directly to the answering service.
Don’t panic. Breathe. Molly left you something. Why would she mention Xardon? He closed his eyes and remembered the game. Xardon had been a pirate empire along the coast. There, in the tunnels of the Windhollow Caves, the Blood Sails pirates had hidden their booty and taken refuge from their enemies.
Then Michael thought of the caves along Blackpool’s coast and recalled the slave holding pens that had been mentioned in Nanny Myrie’s ancestor’s journal. He pulled up the PDF of the text on his computer and searched for mention of the pens.
According to the journal entries, the slaves had been kept underground beneath a cliff that overlooked shallows lined with sharp and jagged rocks. He consulted the topographical map he’d marked up, locating the opening where the slaves had been with grim certainty.
Satisfied he knew where Molly’s “Xardon” was, he went to alert Iris and Irwin. What he was going to do, he was going to do alone, but he needed to have a backup.
He wasn’t going to let Molly languish in Draghici’s hands. He considered calling Paddington and telling the inspector of her kidnapping, but he immediately dismissed that. Michael felt certain that Draghici would follow through on his promise to kill Molly.
Even if Draghici didn’t catch on to the fact that Paddington had been informed, Michael was afraid that Molly would be hurt in any police action to rescue her. If Draghici was where Michael believed he was, there were too many ways for the gypsy to escape, and Draghici probably knew most of them.
In order to get Molly out of harm’s way, Michael knew he was going to have to push the gypsy leader into changing his plans. And the only way to do that was to step into the man’s trap himself. If no one was left to pay the ransom, Draghici would have to take them into town to get the transfer done.
It was the best plan Michael could come up with on short notice, and he didn’t want Molly to be in the clutches of those men by herself any longer than necessary.
The only other way was to somehow find Charles Crowe’s elusive treasure for Draghici.
But before he threw himself into the fire, as well, he was going to tell two people about his mad plan to save Molly. Then, if something went wrong, Iris Dunstead and Irwin Jaeger could hopefully alert Paddington.