Pirate

Port Royal, a quiet fishing village once known as the wickedest city on earth, was originally colonized by the Spanish. Captured by the English in 1655, the heavily fortified town became one of the wealthiest trade centers in the world due to its notorious association with pirates and buccaneers. And it might have remained so had it not been obliterated by a massive earthquake in 1692, which sank more than half the town into the sea, its remains now underwater and buried by three centuries of silt and sand.

One of the few structures that remained standing was Fort Charles, which now housed the maritime museum. Sam and Remi paid their fee, then entered the brick fortress, the salt-tinged offshore wind whipping at them. Dozens of cast-iron cannons lined the arched battlements, at one time used to protect the city. The grounds were nearly deserted, and their footsteps echoed across the vast courtyard as they walked toward the old naval hospital that housed the museum.

Inside were display cases of pewter and dishes, showing items from everyday life, as well as fine jade carvings from China, giving evidence to the wealth that had graced Port Royal.

“Look at this, Sam.” Remi pointed to a photograph of a pocket watch, the time showing eleven forty-three, recovered from the water and supposedly stopped the moment the earthquake struck.

“Amazing find. Imagine what else is still down there.”

“If only we can get the Jamaican government to grant us permission to dive.”

“One thing at a time, Remi. Starting with finding someone who can help us.”

Help found them. Two women walked into the room from a side door, the taller stopping to greet them. “Good morning. Welcome to the Maritime Museum.”

“Good morning,” Remi said. “We were hoping you might help us with some research.”

The woman smiled.

“We were told you might have copies of old ship manifests. Particularly one from 1694 to 1696.”

“No. So sorry. Have you tried the Archives in Kingston?”

“Unfortunately, the book was damaged. Someone mentioned that you might have copies.”

“I don’t know of any. Again, I am so sorry.”

They thanked her as she left.

“Good try,” Sam said. “Maybe Selma’s dug up something by now.”

Empty words. They both knew it. Selma would’ve called if she’d found anything.

“Silver lining,” Sam said.

“Is there?”

“We can take that vacation now.”

She gave a sigh, then smiled, disappointment evident in her eyes. “Let’s go home.”

As they started out, the second woman walked up to them, her voice low but pleasant. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you were looking for old ship manifests?”

“We are,” Sam replied.

“The Archives Department in Kingston was going to make them all digital, but the budget ran out. Lucky for us, we actually scanned a few before the money disappeared. One of the directors hoped to make some reproductions for the museum. Unfortunately, it’s only the copies right after the big quake.”

Remi looked hopeful. “After the quake? What years?”

“Sixteen ninety-three to sixteen ninety-six.”

“Please,” Remi said. “We’d love to have a look.”

Twenty-nine

Alexandra Avery and her hired PI, Kipp Rogers, watched across the street, waiting until they saw her husband’s car pull up to the front of his office building. About time, she thought, as he stepped out the door with his latest so-called client on his arm into the waiting car.

Kipp snapped a few photos. “Quite the looker, that one.”

“They always are.” How it was that Charles could date someone the same age as his daughter was beyond her. Then again, he’d never been close to his children, always preferring to leave them in the care of nannies when young, then boarding school when they were older. Alexandra always made a point to visit on weekends and talk on the phone. Charles embraced the distance, saying it built character.

And he wondered why it was they never spoke to him.

His loss, not hers.

“Better get to it,” Kipp said once the car drove off, then turned the corner.

She nodded. “I’ll call when I get into his office.”

“I’ll be here.”

She crossed the street and walked into the building. If Charles had the faintest idea of what she was about to do, he’d have her forcibly removed from the building. As it was, she’d made enough innocuous visits this last week to put them all off guard.

Everyone had come to think of her as an interfering, obnoxious, soon-to-be ex — which she was. In this instance, however, she had a perfectly good reason. Although she couldn’t put her finger on it, she knew her husband was up to something beyond his usual buying and stripping companies. Sure, he’d made his fortune from the practice, but the last decade or so she’d noticed he did it not only to stroke his ego but because he enjoyed seeing the lives destroyed after these onetime-thriving businesses were shredded to ruins.