Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

THIRTY-SEVEN

An hour later, O’Brien paid the check for the lunch and walked with Laura and Paula out the restaurant door into the white wash of sun in the parking lot. A half dozen reporters were there to greet them. With TV cameras rolling, microphones extended, the herd closed around them. One tabloid TV reporter, a round, perspiring man, with pink skin and jowls that flapped when he spoke, said, “The British prime minister is saying the supposed contract, and the diamond, are both some kind of hoax. He’s suggesting that your allegations are an attempt to star in a reality TV show. How do you respond to that?”

O’Brien looked over at Laura, Paula huddled next to her mother. Laura said, “I have no response to a question so ludicrous. Please move. You’re blocking our way.”

The reporters and camera operators jockeyed for better positions. A tall, blond female reporter from Fox News asked, “When your husband first found the diamond, why didn’t he report it to police?”

Laura said, “Because it wasn’t stolen. It was discovered – like you’d find a lost treasure. And, according to the Civil War contract, it was on loan from England, not stolen from England.”

The flabby reporter wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grinned, winked at his cameraman and asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor that the BBC is flying you to London to do an exclusive interview with you if you bring the so-called Civil War contract? Is a movie and book deal in the works?” He stuck the hand-held microphone in Laura’s face.

O’Brien saw Paula wince, and then tears begin rolling down her face as she was being jostled against her mother. Holding tighter to her mother’s hand, almost wrapping her small legs around Laura’s legs, she struggled to find her footing without being knocked over or separated. O’Brien looked to his right. A garbage truck, seventy-five feet away, was stopping in an alley. The back end of the truck yawned and opened wide as a sanitation worker dumped the contents of a large plastic can into the truck.

O’Brien grabbed the microphone from the man and said, “This assault is over. I hear these things have great range.” He threw the microphone hard. It turned end-over-end, sailing across the parking lot, landing in the back of the garbage truck just before the worker pulled the lever. Hydraulic motors rumbled, the back closure moving down, plastic trash bags popping, the microphone buried in a crushed mountain of garbage.

The tall, bearded sound operator yanked the earphones from his ears. “Shit! That sounded like a bomb. Dude, that’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars.”

O’Brien gripped Laura by the elbow, pushing through the wall of reporters and production crew. He led Laura and Paula to their car when he heard one reporter say, “Hey, I recognized that man. He’s the same guy who took out some terrorists hell-bent on dropping a dirty bomb over Atlanta. What’s his name?”

“I recognize him too,” said a female producer gripping an iPad. “His name is O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”

“Son-of-a-bitch owes me a new microphone,” said the audio tech, watching the garbage truck move down the alley.

O’Brien walked across the lot, heading for his Jeep. He spotted the black Ford Excursion parked, the motor idling, dark windows up, condensation dripping from the air conditioner, a small stream pooling next to the front tire on the driver’s side. He could only see a trace outline behind the wheel. O’Brien kept walking. He didn’t know how many people were in the SUV. But when he glanced down at the license plate, he knew that whoever was in the big Ford, they were working for the federal government.

THIRTY-EIGHT

O’Brien drove from DeLand straight to Ponce Marina, the Jeep’s tires popping oyster shells and acorns in the gravel lot. He parked under the shade of a large banyan tree, the engine ticking as it cooled. He thought about what happened outside the restaurant – the media mob, the black government car, and what Laura had told him about the threatening call.

Max stood on her hind legs, head out the Jeep’s window, sniffing the ocean air. O’Brien watched a low-lying cloud above Ponce Inlet and tried to remember the last time it rained. He thought about the image of the man – the man carrying the rifle, standing next to a large cypress tree. If it rains, DNA, boot prints, even possible fingerprints could be compromised. Maybe Detective Dan Grant already inspected the site. Maybe not.

Max glanced back at O’Brien and barked once. “Okay, kiddo, I hear you. You have a lot of good dachshund attributes, but patience isn’t one of them.” O’Brien’s phone rang. He looked at the incoming call and recognized the number. He answered.

Laura Jordan said, “Sean, Detectives Rollins and Grant just left my house. They did a long interview with me. Detective Grant is compassionate to an extent. Not so much with Detective Rollins. I felt like they were doing a good cop – bad cop interrogation. Toward the end of it, after they’d asked me dozens of questions about Jack’s friends and business acquaintances, Detective Rollins wanted to know if Jack and I had been getting along…weird stuff like whether Jack was having an affair. He asked for our life insurance information. Why is the spouse always the prime suspect? I loved my husband dearly.”

“They have to cover the bases. Once they quickly rule you out, they’ll focus on others and look at motives and opportunities.”

“I just don’t want the trail to go cold and for this to turn into a cold case.”

“It won’t. Not now.”

“I hope not. And I hope these investigators are as good as you seem to believe they are.”

“Detective Grant is thorough, and he has a good sense of justice. Did you tell them about the intimidating phone call?”

“Yes. They asked me if I recognized the voice. Unfortunately, of course, I didn’t. The call came in with the numbers blocked. The detectives said the guy might have used what they called a burner – a throw-away mobile phone. They’re going to pull my phone records. Maybe something will show up.”

“Here’s a suggestion: you can buy a recorder at Radio Shack. Place it on your phone, and if this man calls again, record his voice.”

“I can do that. I wanted to thank you for stepping in when that reporter got so pushy.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Goodbye, Sean.” She disconnected and O’Brien simply held his phone for a moment, the sound of a boat horn in the marina, a brown pelican sailing toward Ponce Lighthouse.

“Come on, Max.” O’Brien locked the Jeep and followed Max as she made a beeline to the Tiki Bar, running around a family of tourists coming out of the restaurant.

When O’Brien entered, Max had already caught Kim Davis’s attention. She smiled and said, “Maxine, are you gonna hang with me awhile?” She handed Max a small piece of crisp bacon and then wiped her hands on a bar napkin. She looked up at O’Brien. “I see you’re carrying that file folder the old man left with you.”

“I did share the information in this folder with a detective friend of mine.” O’Brien opened the folder and set the page from the coloring book on the bar.

Kim looked at the page and smiled. “That’s lovely. Who’s the artist?”

“I sketched the butterfly. A four-year-old friend of mine added the color.”

“Your little friend is good, she or he colored in the lines well.”

“She…and she’s the daughter of the man who was killed on the movie set.”

“Oh.” Kim looked at the boats in the marina for a second. “It’s reached that point, hasn’t it, Sean? Why would you contact the widow of the man killed on the movie set?” She folded her arms across her breasts.

“Because the man, Jack Jordan, and his wife Laura, bought that painting you saw in Crawford Antiques. They bought it and some old magazines a few months before he was killed. Inside the pages of one of the magazines was the Civil War contract and a letter by a man named Henry, written to his wife, Angelina. And I believe she’s the woman in the painting.”

Kim pursed her full lips, slowly letting out a deep breath. She motioned for O’Brien to follow her, walking to the far end of the bar where no customers were sitting. Kim said, “That’s what Dave and Nick were talking about when they were in here for lunch. Since you met that old man, you started out hunting for a painting, and now you have managed to stumble upon a murder, a Civil War contract, a letter, and the theft of a diamond. Not just any old theft of a diamond ring, but rather the theft of a diamond that was part of the Crown Jewels and belongs to the Queen of England.”

O’Brien smiled. “That pretty much sums it up.”

“Sean, you can’t save the world.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“I never should have pointed you in the direction of that old man. If I’d known a photo he was carrying would put your life in danger, I would have told him you sold your boat and no longer come to the marina.”

“But that would be lying, Kim.” O’Brien smiled.

“I’d much rather tell a white lie than see you hurt or worse. I couldn’t handle that…not now. Not ever.”

“Hey, nothing’s going to happen. Police are investigating. I’m out of it.”

“Did you tell the old man you’re out?”

“Not yet because I haven’t found the painting.”

“Then stop looking for it and the answer to his question. If that painting, and apparently you think it is…if it’s connected to a murder, the theft of some legendary and probably cursed diamond, and a clandestine contract between England and the Confederacy…why on earth would you try to find it? Isn’t the painting now part of the police investigation?”

O’Brien said nothing.

Kim looked out the open isinglass window, the soft breeze in her hair, a white pelican alighting on a dock post. “Sean, I just worry about you…that’s all. I care deeply about you. Maybe that’s my fault. I guess there’s that fine line I walk by caring about you and trying hard not to sound like I’m nagging you. Of course you’ll help the old man find the painting, maybe help the widow and daughter, because it’s what you do. But helping others doesn’t have to mean putting your life on the line. You could do something a little less threatening, like volunteer to help at the Salvation Army or a homeless shelter for God-sakes.” Kim bit her bottom lip and tried to smile.

“Hey, it’ll work out. I’m not putting my life on the line. I’m not looking for a diamond or a killer. I’m just trying to assist an elderly man in finding a family heirloom, that’s all.”

Kim lifted Max off the wooden floor and held her close. “If you need to be out of town, I can watch Max.”

“Thank you.”

Kim looked down and lifted the old photo of the woman from behind the child’s artwork. She asked, “Do you still believe the woman in the picture was holding the same type of rose I received?”

‘Yes. Did he leave another one?”

“No, thank God. Did you ever bump into the guy I described?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I have.”

“When?”

“He showed up here at the Tiki Bar. I think he might be following me.”

“When you were auditioning, did you tell him you worked here?”

“No. I don’t know if it’s just bizarre odds that he’d stop in here for lunch, or is he stalking me?”

“Did he approach you?”

“Not directly. He took a seat in the back corner of the restaurant. Julie waited on him. He ordered sweet tea and a hamburger. And every time I’d glance toward that part of the restaurant he was looking at me. My shift ended twenty minutes later. On the way home, I had some errands to run. Each place I stopped, I had the feeling that I was being followed. Maybe I was just suspicious, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. It’s something I’ve had since those men broke into my house.” She bit her lip and looked away. “And this re-enactor hasn’t broken any laws. He hasn’t said a word to me since that day on the movie set. I hate the feeling of being suspicious and downright paranoid.”

O’Brien said nothing for a moment. His phone rang in his pocket. He removed it and glanced at the number. Dave Collins calling. O’Brien answered and Dave said, “Sean, I just spoke with Charlie Simmons…the guy who owns the sixty-foot Hatteras docked two slips down from me. Anyway, he said he saw your Jeep in the marina lot. Are you on property?”

“Yes, I’m talking with Kim.”

“Better cut it short and come take a look at this.”

“Take a look at what?”

“Nick and I are flipping through the news channels, domestic and international. And all of a sudden, what do we see on tabloid TV? We see you display your pitcher’s arm. Looks like you just threw out the first pitch in what is becoming a tense global game. Although you managed to hit an open garbage truck with that microphone, to quote our friend, Nick, you just landed in a big pile of shit because all hell is breaking out over this diamond – or the diamond’s possibility of it being identified as the Koh-i-Noor. You need to see this because that bright, flashing stone is a lightning rod, attracting fire and tension as to who really owns it. And now saber rattling between two powerful nations is happening.”

THIRTY-NINE

LONDON, ENGLAND

The black Jaguar sedan moved through London traffic en route to the Palace of Westminster and the Parliament House of Commons when Prime Minister Duncan Hannes’ mobile phone vibrated softly in the inside breast pocket of his tailored suit jacket. Although the caller ID was not displayed, Hannes wasn’t hesitant to take the call.

All his life he’d leaned into challenges. Never back away. It was time this threat was quashed like an annoying insect. Keep the bloody bastard on the line long enough to give M15 time to lock down a more precise location. He answered. “Yes.”

“It is so unfortunate that the proverbial cat is out of your bag, Duncan.” The man’s voice had dreamlike coolness. It was as if a master hypnotist was about to instruct the most powerful politician in Britain to swim naked across the English Channel. “However, there is no real controversy until tangible evidence is brought forth. All else is simply scuttlebutt. Nothing but unproven rumor in an election year. The video with the alleged Crown Jewel diamond could easily have been faked. The contract mentioned in the video hasn’t been seen in public. I can keep it that way, Duncan. I can deliver to you the paper with the unverified signature of someone who held your position 160 years earlier, Lord Palmerston. I’ll wrap the diamond in it. All you have to do in return is make the deposit into the account. Nothing will ever surface. No embarrassment to the Royals. No re-writing of history. It all fades quietly away. And you, Duncan, become the silent hero. A true knight in Her Majesty’s kingdom.”

“How can you negotiate without the goods?”

“Who says I don’t have them?”

“I do. Your call is rubbish, tantamount to the threat of blackmail without the cards on the table. You’re nothing but the joker.”

“I will show you the cards, but now when I spread them on the table it will be for the world to see. And you, dear Duncan, will go from what could have been a knightly position to a mere jester in Her Majesty’s court.”

The caller disconnected.

Duncan pressed four numbers on his mobile phone. A man with a low voice said, “We have every word, sir. Hold a minute and we’ll triangulate a possible location.”

“Please be expeditious. I want this bastard picked up. If England still had beheading, I’d personally stick his bloody head atop a post on the London Bridge.”

“Sir—”

“Yes!”

“The call came from a disposable mobile near Orlando, Florida.”

“Is Randolph James there?”

“He’s standing next to me.”

“Put him on the line.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, we’re getting closer.”

“James, find this man and find him quickly. Send your best man or woman. Find this person and bring him here.”

The Jaguar slowed and stopped in front of the entrance to the House of Commons. Prime Minister Duncan Hannes looked out the car window toward a mob of news reporters gathered to meet him. At that moment, four months before his reelection bid, they looked more like a pack of wolves. He knew they were here to ask him questions about the video of the American who says he found and read the contract between England and the Confederate States of America.

“We’ll find him, sir.”

“James, after 160 years, why does this suddenly appear on my watch, and four months before the elections?”

“Sir, the American whose reported to have found the contract and the diamond was killed on a movie set. The local police are carrying out their investigation, but we suspect his death was probably murder.”

“Did I just speak with the man who killed him?”

“Most likely, sir. We will know for certain when we track him down. We have one of our best field agents on the hunt.”

FORTY

O’Brien sat with Dave and Nick in Gibraltar, Dave holding the remote control and channel surfing, his Internet-capable TV streaming newscasts from around the world. He stopped and paused the picture of a newscast coming from the BBC and said, “Sean, how did one of those tabloid TV shows shoot video of you tossing the reporter’s microphone into the back of that garbage truck? Were you ambushed? And there you stood with the widow and child of Jack Jordan, the poor bloke who was killed on the movie set. The kid looked really frightened.”

“Laura Jordan is being threatened. Someone called after the video went viral, before she met with the news media, and told her to say nothing about the diamond and or the Civil War contract.”

Dave grunted, glanced at the stationary image on his TV screen. “Sounds like Laura ought to be telling this to the police.”

“She’s talking with them. I first spoke with her because she and her husband owned the painting I’m trying to recover.”

Nick sat on one of the bar stools, crossed his hefty arms, and said, “Maybe the same person who snatched the painting stole the diamond and killed her husband. Sean, that puts your hunt for the painting smack dab in the middle of some deep dung ‘cause look at the shit that’s gettin’ stirred up over this diamond and the Civil War contract.”

Dave nodded and lifted one hand. “But is it authentic? Sean, Ike Kirby is probably the best person in the nation to help Laura Jordan determine if the contract is genuine. Give me her number, and I’ll ask Ike to call her to set up an appointment.”

“Okay. But I’ll reach Laura first in a few minutes to tell her to be expecting his call.” O’Brien wrote her number down on a napkin and slid it across the table to Dave.

Nick finished his beer and said, “Dave, turn up the sound. It’s time my man, Sean, got a reality check.”

“Indeed,” Dave said, looking from the TV screen to O’Brien. “As cold and horrific as the killing was on the movie set, assuming the victim was murdered, wait until the international bounty hunters begin following the same trail you’re following, Sean. This scavenger hunt becomes deadly when the bounty is priceless. If these guys take prisoners, it’s only to break arms and legs like that garbage truck smashed the microphone.” Dave pressed the remote and the newscast continued.

The news anchor, a platinum-haired man in his early sixties, said, “The Royal Family is having no public comment on the discovery of what is certainly one of the most coveted and valuable diamonds in the world, the Koh-i-Noor. The viral video, now with more than 130-million views, shows a diamond, apparently identical to the infamous Koh-i-Noor, lifted out of a strongbox off the bottom of a tropical river in Florida. The video is a clip from a documentary in production about the American Civil War, and the presenter – a man who was later killed in an accidental shooting on a movie set – claims that the UK entered into a contract with the Confederate States of America at the start of the war, England apparently helping to fund the Confederate war effort. He contends that he discovered an old contract that spells out how the famed diamond was on loan to the Confederacy in some kind of a top-secret collateral agreement. Prime Minister Duncan Hannes laughed when asked about both the diamond and Britain’s alleged involvement with the Confederacy.”

The image cut to the prime minister getting out of the back seat of a black, chauffeur-driven Jaguar as the car stopped in front of the British Parliament building. The prime minister answered the reporter’s question with a smile and slight chuckle. “The diamond in question, the Koh-i-Noor, is where it’s been for many, many years…in the late Queen Mother’s crown, which is on display with the rest of the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. And, as far as the supposed connection between Great Britain and the American Confederacy, I assure you the purported contract is a complete fabrication. Queen Victoria and the British government, at that time, were wholly neutral during the American Civil War. Neither Her Majesty, nor her government took sides.” He cocked his head, smiled at the reporter and said, “Whilst I don’t mind answering questions to ludicrous hoaxes, if you have a more current and important topic, I’d be delighted to respond.”

The image cut back to the reporter standing in front of the Tower of London. He said, “The flip side to all of this is the huge, renewed pubic curiosity about the diamond. The Tower of London was forced to restrict entrance after three p.m. today to accommodate record crowds. Seems that everyone, tourists here in London, and British citizens, are queuing up to get a close look at the fabled Koh-i-Noor…if it’s the actual diamond. Dylan Anderson, BBC, London.”

Dave smiled and stirred his cocktail. “The prime minister has a great poker face.”

O’Brien crossed his arms. “Meaning you think he knows more than he’s saying.”

“Indeed. An old British friend of mine, an intel analyst, called me. Someone is blackmailing Prime Minister Hannes. The blackmailer, a man who says he has the Civil War document and the diamond to back it up, threatens to release both. That means history books with reference to the Civil War will be rewritten or amended. The Royal Family gets dragged into a 160-year-old mess, and India demands the return of a diamond they say England stole.”

Nick made a long whistle. “No wonder the prime minister looks constipated.”

Dave smiled. “Sean, my old colleague asked me if you do work-for-hire.”

“Did you volunteer me?”

“Never. Certainly not without speaking to you first.”

“I’m sure the UK has agents to deal with this situation. They’re probably already here.”

“Yes, but they haven’t sent multiple agents, only one man. And he’s on the trail – a trail that could lead him to you, only because your association with the widow of the man who found the booty.”

O’Brien nodded. “My only link is because Laura Jordan and her husband found and bought the painting in that Deland antique store.”

Nick ran his fingers through his thick hair and said, “Yeah, man, but that little antique store might as well be a freakin’ Pandora’s box ‘cause look at what’s happening. And now some blackmailer is about to lay the cards on the table, and one of those cards is the queen.”

Dave said, “Nick, that information stays between the three of us. It’s confidential.”

“Already forgot it.” He grinned and sipped a beer.

O’Brien said nothing.

Dave pushed further back in the couch. “Of course Duncan Hannes is going to deny, make light of, and downplay any British association with the Confederate States of America, even long after the Civil War. The war was, and still is, undeniably the worst wound in American history. Less than a century earlier, we fought to leave the reins of the British monarchy, and later we can’t even agree on how we’ll govern our young nation so an internal war erupts, the result left us with a broken nation and almost 700,000 dead. More killed than in all U.S. wars combined.”

Nick tossed a piece of feta cheese to Max and said, “Too much blood spilled. Sean, you’re my blood brother for life ‘cause you saved my life pullin’ those bikers off me. It’s my obligation to you and God to raise the caution flag on the track when I spot evil in your rearview mirror, brother. This has all the DNA of something really dark. A horrible Civil War. A secret contract. A diamond in the roughest of the rough. And that damn painting. It’s not too late to tell your client ‘thanks but no thanks.’ I bet the diamond pulled out of the river is just a fake and all this will amount to nothing.”

O’Brien stood from the canvas director’s chair in the salon and stepped to the open doors leading to the cockpit. He watched a white pelican straddle the top of a dock piling and preen its feathers. He turned back to Dave and Nick. “What if it’s real? What if the diamond is authentic and the one in the crown today is the fake? Unless the diamond was tested, no one would know.”

Nick grinned. “We’d know if a gemologist had tested the one outta the river, ‘cause if that’s the real deal, what does that make the one locked up the in the Tower of London? Makes it an imposter, that’s what.” Nick took a long pull from an icy bottle of Corona.

Dave lean forward, surfing through the channels on TV, and said, “It was common practice, when transporting diamonds of that value years ago, to use a replica – a decoy – that would be packaged and delivered under armed guard in a route generally made public. At the same time, the genuine stone would often be sent through the postal service, believe it or not. Nick, you’re correct in your premise – is the diamond currently housed in the Crown Jewels in fact a real diamond – the Koh-i-Noor, or was there some confusion and the one in the Tower of London was the counterfeit while the actual diamond was shipped to the Confederate States of America?”

Nick grinned and shook his head. “You can bet a year’s worth of afternoon tea that the Brits won’t be in a hurry to do a scratch ‘n sniff on the rock in the Crown Jewels.”

A cross-breeze blew across the marina, the wind bringing the smell of rain into Gibraltar. The curtain on the starboard side puffed, lightning cracked beyond the lighthouse somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Within seconds, rain pelted the marina, large drops slapping the thick fiberglass exterior of Dave’s boat. He looked at O’Brien and asked, “What’s wrong, Sean? You leave all the windows on Jupiter open?”

“No, it’s what Joe Billie found when we located the spot near the river where the photo of the woman was taken.”

Nick stood from the bar. “Oh, boy. You said the coins, a Minié ball, and a crushed stogie was there. Rain won’t help.”

O’Brien stared out the transom door at the storm. He watched rain attack the marina, boats rocking in place, bow and stern lines stretched, a burst of lightning splintering white veins across the dark purple sky. He turned back to Dave and Nick, blew air out of his cheeks and said, “Two extremes do the most damage to latent DNA and fingerprints – water and very dry conditions. Tonight it’s a hard rain, and if the sheriff’s office hasn’t bagged that evidence, what’s left of that cigar will probably be washed into the St. Johns. And we can add that to the river’s list of secrets.”