Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

THIRTY-THREE

Laura Jordan poured a cup of coffee, sipped, glanced out her kitchen window and almost dropped the coffee cup. It was Saturday morning, 7:37, three days since she uploaded the video of her husband finding the diamond and talking on camera about the Civil War contract between England and the Confederacy.

And now a half dozen local and network TV news trucks were parking on the quiet residential road in front of her home, technicians fine-tuning the huge satellite dishes atop the trucks, reporters sipping coffee from paper cups, adjusting earpieces, looking at notepads. “Oh my God,” Laura whispered, clutching her worn terry cloth robe and peeking between the kitchen curtains.

There was a loud knock at her front door. She felt her heart jump, the taste of the coffee acrid and bitter in her mouth. She paced the floor for a second, trying to compose herself. Be calm…just face it. She had told Sean O’Brien that she could do it. And now the day had arrived. The news media were knocking at her door. She glanced at a family picture on the dining room wall of Jack, Paula and herself at the beach, kneeling – a sand castle in front of them.

The knock returned. Louder. Little Paula walked slowly into the kitchen, face creased from sleep. She held a stuffed giraffe to her chest, her pink pajamas with yellow ducks wrinkled and uneven from another night of tossing and turning in her bed. “Mommy, somebody’s at the door.”

“I know sweetheart. I’ll answer it. You go wash your face, and I’ll make you some pancakes.”

Paula smiled, turned and went toward the bathroom. Laura set the coffee cup on her kitchen counter, tied the robe tighter around her waist and walked down her foyer to the front door. She opened it, the morning sun cresting the tree line, shining in her face. She counted seven reporters and at least that many camera operators. They looked like a mob, some professionally dressed, the others in T-shirts and faded jeans. A tall reporter introduced himself, saying he was with CNN and added, “Mrs. Jordan, we don’t mean to intrude, however your number is unlisted. The video of your deceased husband is raising enormous speculation and questions. A few minutes ago, the video has been viewed 127-million times. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Laura attempted a smile as camera flashes popped. She said, “I don’t mind speaking with you, but give me a little time. I need to fix my daughter breakfast. And it wouldn’t hurt if I showered.”

The tall reporter smiled. “Absolutely. We understand and we appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be here, as unobtrusive as possible, when you’re ready.”

Laura nodded, looked over his shoulder and saw two more news trucks arrive. She watched as neighbors drifted onto the street, many dressed in pajamas and robes. “Just give me some time. I will answer your questions best I can.” She closed and locked the door, her heart hammering in her chest.

In the kitchen, she searched for her phone, finding it under one of Paula’s coloring books. Laura scrolled through the menu, searching for Sean O’Brien’s number, her hand trembling. She bit her lower lip and made the call. “Sean, it’s Laura. There are news media – reporters literally standing in my front yard. I counted seven of those big satellite trucks. They’re from all over, the cable networks, too. They want to interview me. They just showed up out of the blue.”

“They’re there because the video is well over a hundred-million views. It’s creating controversy. More importantly, Laura, it’ll generate demand for a thorough investigation into Jack’s death. The state’s attorney will make it a priority.”

“I know…I just didn’t expect to open my door and see all those TV cameras pointed at my face. I’ve never done a news conference.”

“Just answer their questions succinctly. Don’t feel you have to elaborate on anything. Nothing beats absolute, heartfelt sincerity – the truth. The public can sense it or the lack of it. I know this is stressful, but accept that and find courage in results.”

“You make it sound a little easier. What if I make a mistake?”

“You can’t make a mistake because you and Paula are victims, too. Just look the reporters in the eye and answer their questions. But, remember, this is your platform as well. It’s your chance to reach the public. Someone out there may know something that might help police find Jack’s killer. Consider this as an opportunity to do your own public service announcement, okay?”

“I understand. Your voice is calming…I just wish you were here.”

“It’s better that I’m not. You’ll be fine if you remember to look at this as a chance to bring some kind of results. When Jack pulled up that diamond, when you both found the old contract, it opened up a Pandora’s box that’s been sealed for 160 or more years. Now that it’s out, there is someone who wants to contain it, to probably fence the diamond to a private collector. Jack was simply doing what he loved, documenting history. That led him down a new and dangerous path to find a way to honor the letter written by Henry and the terms of the contract, and Jack was in somebody’s way.”

Laura released a pent-up breath. She glanced at her fingernails on one hand, broken and chewed. She felt like a mess, suddenly disheveled, and on display. “Thank you, Sean for caring. Maybe Paula and I can meet you for lunch. Then I can tell you how my first, and hopefully my last, news conference went.”

“You’ll do fine. And lunch sounds good”

“Would noon at the Mainstreet Grill in DeLand work for you?”

“What car will you be driving?”

“A white Honda Accord. Why? I won’t get lost or be late.”

“See you and Paula then.”

Laura disconnected. She walked into the bathroom when her phone rang. She looked at the digital display: UNKNOWN. She answered. “Hello.”

“Laura Jordan…”

“Who is this?”

“Be very careful what you do and say. You say too much to those reporters and it might come back to haunt you and your daughter.” The voice was slightly muffled, just above a whisper.

“Who is this? How’d you get this number? Don’t threaten me!”

“Some things are buried in the past for very good reasons. Best to let a sleeping junkyard dog lie. If not, there are always consequences…always. It’s bad enough your dead husband mentioned the Civil War contract…but until others see it, it’s just him talking. Nothing more. We advise you to keep it that way.”

The call disconnected.

Laura gripped the phone, her hand shaking. She looked up in the bathroom mirror, the reflection of her frightened face like a stranger staring back at her.

THIRTY-FOUR

Kim Davis was washing a beer mug behind the bar when Dave Collins and Nick Cronus walked in the Tiki Bar. Kim dried her hands and said, “No Sean and no Miss Max. What gives?”

Nick grinned. “Max knows you serve hushpuppies on Wednesday. She stays clear of the Tiki Bar on Wednesdays.”

Kim smiled as Dave nodded and said, “I think Sean’s at his river cabin doing whatever he does in pure solitude.”

“You guys want to sit at the bar or take your favorite table next to the window?”

Dave grinned. “Nick likes the table because it gives him a view of the crosswalk to the beach and the bevy of bikini-clad ladies who park their cars in the lot and walk over to the seashore.”

“Somebody has to keep tabs on tourism.” Nick’s dark eyes danced.

Dave said, “Nick, I need to get a battery charger out of my car. Why don’t you claim the tourism table before the lunch crowd arrives. I’ll take the grouper sandwich and have the coleslaw rather than hushpuppies. In Max’s honor, of course.”

Nick started toward the table. Kim dried her hands on a towel and said, “Nicky, I’m taking a short break. I need to talk to Dave.”

He grinned. “You can always talk to me.”

She smiled and followed Dave out the breezeway into the parking lot, the screeching of seagulls over the marina, a charter boat diesel cranking as a first mate cast lines across the transom.

Dave turned back to Kim and said, “I hope I left my tablet charger in the car. Is everything okay, Kim?”

“No, it’s not okay. I’m not sure what the word okay is supposed to mean anymore. I’ve been following the news and that viral video. What if the man who died was murdered on the movie set? I told Sean that I may have met the guy the day I spent in casting, waiting to audition. I just saw the man’s distraught wife – now his widow, in that news conference on TV. She didn’t pull any punches. She believes her husband was murdered for the diamond. And, all this stuff about a Civil War agreement between the South and England, it’s like a very dark door opened after Sean began hunting for the painting.”

“To further the coincidence, it was the same painting you’d seen months ago in that antique store. A painting bought by the couple we’re talking about, and the husband is now dead. I believed Sean sensed it wasn’t an accident from the onset.”

“I wish that old man had never walked into the restaurant. I worry about Sean.”

“I know you do, Kimberly.”

“He’s always been somewhat mysterious. He won’t discuss the war or most of the things he saw as a homicide detective. But now, especially after he learned about his family – what happened to his mother, his insane brother, and the fact he has a niece he never knew about until recently, it’s somehow changed Sean.”

“Perhaps it’s made him a little more introspective, as it would anyone. He still maintains a sense of humor, but I’ve seen him when he’s had a dark day or two. He usually confines himself to the solitude of his river cabin when that cloud moves over him. Perhaps it’s PTSD. He won’t discuss it.” Dave opened the trunk to his car, searched, and lifted out a small black battery charger. “Eureka! Now I can finish the book I was reading.” A breeze blew through the fronds of the royal palm trees. Dave cut his eyes to Kim and said, “You really care deeply about him, don’t you?”

“Yes. Is it that obvious?”

“May I ask…do you love him?”

She pushed a strand of dark hair behind one ear and smiled. “You get to the point, don’t you? I’ve tried so hard not to, but Sean’s the kind of man who is easy for a woman to love, even as mysterious and unknowable as he can be, he gives to others unconditionally. And he never asks for anything in return. His heart is just as attractive as his face. Because of a trait like that, it sometimes opens the door to bad characteristics in others. When Sean’s helping someone, it’s usually because someone or some thing in society is wronging that person. I think the love he had for his deceased wife was buried with her.”

Dave inhaled deeply and watched three white pelicans sail over the marina. “I believe that being loved by someone can help you gain strength, Kim. But courage is gained by loving others. I think this is how Sean shows it now. Maybe he always did, I don’t know. But I do know that the sheer courage Sean pulls from somewhere, often facing down threats to his own safety, may be the kind of sacrifice that is the ultimate demonstration of love.”

“Sean’s a knight in tarnished armor. Could be it’s the flaws visible beneath the armor that adds to his charm.”

“Elizabethan nobility and chivalry at its finest.” Dave hugged Kim and asked, “Have you told him how you feel?”

“I’ve tried to show him. Please don’t say anything. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Kim…that shall remain between you and Sean. However, in all my career in government service, I’ve never met anyone quite like him. You’re right, he won’t say much about his time in the Middle East. I’ve managed to find out that he was captured. The enemy tried to break him, to brainwash him. Somehow, against great odds, he persevered and then he escaped. What he had to do to survive, to get out alive, is probably very far beyond the breaking point for most of us. But Sean isn’t like most of us. I’ve thought about it often. He’s intellectually fearless. That formidable courage we talked about is somehow imparted in his DNA and rises to a boil when he’s in the ring for someone he’s trying to help. And I think it’s because of his instinctive acuity of right and wrong – or good and evil. When you couple that with his inherent grasp of human nature, of things in or out of the natural order…that’s his gift…and sometimes a bad curse.”

“There’s something else I haven’t told him, but I feel the need to tell someone. You’re like the cool uncle to me. You know that my dad died when I was sixteen.”

“I remember you telling me that.”

“You mentioned Sean might have PTSD. I think I might too. It started a few weeks after those men broke into my house. The things they did…and said…what they did to my dog.” She glanced at boats in the marina and then looked up at Dave. “They were seconds away from holding my hand over the gas burner on my stove. And then Sean surprised them. I have bad dreams that won’t go away. I’m not sleeping well. Sometimes now I think I’m being followed, especially when I leave work. It happened before the mysterious rose showed up in my mailbox, and happens when I least expect it. A sort of panic. Anxiety.” She hugged her upper arms.

“It’s completely understandable and justified. And what you’re doing now is the way to treat those mental wounds. Talk about it. Don’t swallow it back inside your heart. It’s a cancer of the soul that’s vented by the therapy of honest communications.”

“Does it cause hallucinations?”

“You mean nightmares?”

“No. In broad daylight. I think someone’s following me. But I’m not certain. It’s like a movement you catch out of the corner of your eye. When you look back, nothing’s there.”

“You said you’re having a difficult time sleeping. Sleep deprivation can cause what you’re experiencing.”

“I want to buy a gun, Dave. And I want to do it today.”

THIRTY-FIVE

O’Brien parked in the shade across the street from the restaurant in downtown DeLand, twenty minutes before Laura was scheduled to be there. He wanted to arrive early to watch for her – but more importantly, he wanted to watch for signs that she might be followed.

Through his sunglasses, he looked at Max in the seat beside him, her long dachshund ears now lifting slightly, following the traffic noises, her black button nostrils testing the cross-breeze that drifted through the Jeep’s open windows. There was the scent of orange blossoms mixed with the smell of meat grilling. O’Brien scratched her neck. “Max, I need you to sit tight for a little while. They don’t allow dogs inside the restaurant. And since you’re a wiener dog…that might be a good thing. But I’ll bring you a doggie bag. Let’s just sit here and see if anyone is following Laura and her little girl.”

O’Brien glanced out his side and rearview mirrors. He watched business professionals emerging from office buildings, blending in with college students and tourists crossing New York Street with its eclectic mixture of antique shops, coffee houses, restaurants and bars.

At five minutes before noon, a white Honda Accord came slowly up New York Street, Laura at the wheel. She pulled in to the Mainstreet Grill parking lot and found a space between the dozens of cars, the sun winking off chrome and glass. As Laura and Paula got out of the car and started for the entrance to the restaurant, O’Brien heard the droning sound of something above the city. He cut his eyes up to the hard blue sky over DeLand. A vintage bi-plane flew low, its engine strained, pulling a banner sign that read: SHORTY’S – DAYTONA BEACH – HAPPY HOUR 4–7 PM

O’Brien waited five more minutes. He lowered the window a few inches on Max’s side of the Jeep. “Looks like all is clear. Just a mom and her little girl going to lunch. All right, you earn your keep and be a watchdog for me. We’re parked in the shade. Stay cool. If anyone approaches the Jeep, you show some teeth.”

Max cocked her head and made a slight snorting sound, as if she sneezed. O’Brien smiled, locked the Jeep, and walked across the parking lot to the restaurant. He looked over his shoulder once as he paused at the front door. A black Ford Excursion turned into the lot, its windows tinted dark. He ducked into the restaurant and found Laura and Paula sitting next to each other at a booth, a file folder in front of Laura.

O’Brien slid across the booth seat opposite Laura and Paula. He said, “Well, hello ladies. I’m so glad you could join me for lunch.”

“Me too,” Paula said, grinning.

Laura attempted a smile; her fearful thoughts swirling behind guarded blue eyes. “It’s good to see you, Sean.” She lifted the file folder, handed it to her daughter and said, “Paula has a gift for you.”

Paula smiled and opened the folder. She carefully lifted a page from her coloring book. “Mommy cut this out. It’s the butterfly I colored. I wanted to give it to you. I signed it. My letters aren’t very good.” She handed the page to O’Brien.

He said, “Your letters are fine. I can read it perfectly. You did a great job with the butterfly. I will proudly hang this work of art in my house, maybe on my refrigerator.”

Paula grinned, a top front tooth missing. “Art’s my favorite subject in class.”

O’Brien smiled. “I can see why, you’re good.”

Laura said, “And she’ll have some time to practice here at the table. The waitress brought some coloring sheets with the menus. Here, Paula, start on one. We’ll order your mac and cheese in a sec. I need to show Sean something by the entrance.”

“What?”

“An antique that I like. I’ll be able to see you from right over there.”

Paula smiled, lifting up a green crayon. O’Brien followed Laura about twenty feet toward the door. She stopped to point out an antique butter churn on display in the corner. She lowered her voice. “I was threatened.”

O’Brien, glanced back at Paula for a second. “Who threatened you?”

“I don’t know. It was right after I got off my phone with you. A man called. He spoke in a whisper. His voice was icy…cold. Almost inhuman. He warned me to be careful of what I said to the reporters. He said it might come back to haunt me and my daughter.” Laura looked toward Paula, and then cut her eyes up to O’Brien. “He said some things are better left buried in the past, and its best to let a sleeping junkyard dog lie. Otherwise there could be consequences.”

“Was he referring to the diamond or the Civil War contract, or maybe both?”

“I don’t know.”

O’Brien scanned the restaurant, diners busy in conversation, the scent of roast beef and marinara sauce coming from one table. He said, “You need to let the detectives know.”

Laura nodded. “I’ll call them right after we’re done.”

O’Brien looked over Laura’s shoulder, out the front door window just as a satellite news truck rolled into the parking lot.

THIRTY-SIX

Dave Collins sat in a deck chair on the cockpit of Gibraltar, working a crossword puzzle when he received the call. His screen flashed ID UNKNOWN. He thought about ignoring the call, but with the unexpected chain of recent events, his instinct told him to answer. He did and the voice, a British accent, said, “Dave, Alistair Hornsby here. How’s retirement in Florida treating you?”

“My golf game’s become worse, but I get senior rates at the course, and I can play anytime.”

“That’s the problem with old analysts like us. Presented with too much time on our hands, we overanalyze everything, even hobbies. But I suppose golf is a head game.”

“When are you hanging up the magnifying glass?”

“Soon, but remember ol’ boy, I’m a bit younger than you.” He paused a few seconds. “Dave, the reason I am ringing you is because we have a twenty-five year history. We worked a good number of situations together. I like to believe the world is a little better off because of it.”

“Maybe. Now that I have time to explore it, in hindsight, I sometimes wonder if we made the right choices for the right reasons, and for the right people. I had no illusions then, today I have reservations.”

“We live in a complicated world. Yes, very often it’s much to gray, diluting the easier choices made in a black and white condition. But someone has to do what we do…or it could be worse. I think that’s what has kept me in the wheelhouse this long.”

“What’s up, Alistair? If you’re planning a visit to Florida, let’s do some serious fishing followed by consuming responsible amounts of gin martinis.”

“Give me eighteen months. Prime Minister Hannes has a unique situation on his hands, blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“Royal blackmail to be precise.”

“What happened – did one of the queen’s grandsons get caught with his pants down, someone shoot a few below-the-belt selfies and is threatening to post them on the Internet?”

“I wish that were the matter. We could easier deal with that. Fact is, the blackmailer may be there in Florida, perhaps very close to you, at least as a geographical reference.”

“What do you mean?”

“His encrypted messages to the prime minster, although routed from many global servers, indicate his presence somewhere in Florida, and the hotspot is there.”

“Hotspot? Cutting to the chase, I’m sure your call is related to the alleged discovery of a diamond that was found by a documentary producer. He called it the Koh-i-Noor, which is supposed to be in the crown jewels.”

“That’s exactly some of it. The other half, if I may borrow your term alleged – the alleged unearthing of a Civil War contract that may connect the UK to that bloody American war, ostensibly Queen Victoria and the Royal Family. These are some dark and potentially damaging skeletons in the closet. In order to prevent the rewriting of history books, to keep India at arm’s length, the damn contract, if it exists, and the diamond, must not tangibly validate one another.”

“I see your dilemma. Why call me? I’m out of the game.”

“Because of our history together combined with the rumor that you are doing some consulting work from time to time.”

“That was when a friend of mine found a World War II U-boat sunk off the Florida coast with weapons-grade uranium for cargo. He became part of the salvage op when a Russian arms dealer and a Jihadist terrorist group were en route to the dive site.”

“We followed it closely, of course. I assume the friend you are referring to is Sean O’Brien.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“He wasn’t invisible in the heat of taking the hostiles down. Maybe he works free-lance.”

Dave said nothing for a moment, a sea gull squawking from the top of a sailboat mast. “Alistair, why don’t you ask him?”

He chuckled and said, “Perhaps, I shall. In the meantime, whoever is sending in the blackmail threats is extremely sophisticated, or his coconspirator is, at encryption. And he seems to know British protocol well. We have an agent there in Florida, sifting through the murky details.”

“Do I know him or her?”

“Him…and I don’t think so. He was a field op in the Middle East, great at cracking codes. He predicted the rise of Isis half dozen years ago. He’s one of our best. He might drop by your marina to introduce himself to you. Because this suspected diamond was discovered not far from your area, if you hear anything, please let me know…for old times’ sake. Dave, don’t overanalyze golf. It’s just a sport, and the only one you play facing a motionless ball. Unless, of course, billiards is your game, and that’s where you’re always looking for the angles. Cheers.”

* * *

O’Brien led Laura and Paula further into the restaurant. He said, “Let’s get another table in a quieter section. Maybe a little more private.” He spotted a table in a corner. “This will work well.” He pulled the chairs out for little Paula and Laura and then sat facing the door across the restaurant. Paula continued coloring. O’Brien looked at Laura and asked, “What happened during the news conference?”

“They asked why I uploaded the video. I told them, told them I knew Jack’s death wasn’t an accident. Then most of the questions had to do with the diamond – had I seen or held it before Jack’s death? Did I think it was authentic? What had Jack and I planned to do with it? Where did I think it was? They asked about the contract between England and the CSA, specifically where the original copy was located, and if they could see it.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said both the contract and the diamond had looked real to me. I stressed that Jack wanted to have it shipped to England per the terms of the Civil War contract…but he was killed before he could do that. And I said I believed the diamond is with the person who killed him.”

“Did they ask to see the letter?”

“No. They did want to take video and pictures of the contract. I told them it was very old, fragile, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. In the meantime, it was secure and out of the elements in a safe deposit box.”

“But it’s really in a safe in your home.”

“Yes, but they don’t need to know that. Maybe no one will come for it if they think it’s in a bank vault.”

“That’s where it should go until this thing is solved. It might be a good idea to have an expert in handwriting analysis take a look at the contract. Better yet, my friend Dave Collins introduced me to an old friend of his who is recognized as one of the foremost authorities on Civil War history. He’s written books about the Civil War. He has a Ph.D. on the subject, and he teaches it at a university. His name’s Professor Ike Kirby. I had dinner with him. He knows his stuff. He should examine the contract.”

“That sounds good.”

“If it’s authenticated, that’s even more proof that the diamond could have been sent here directly from Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. And it would further suggest whoever killed Jack was well aware of that.”