Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

FORTY-EIGHT

Professor Ike Kirby usually slept well. An early riser, he went to bed right after the 10:00 p.m. news and awoke each morning before sunrise. The last few hours had been different. After leaving Laura Jordan’s home, Kirby bought take-out Chinese food and ate in his hotel room. When he finished a hurried dinner, he spent another two hours analyzing the Civil War contract until his eyes burned from strain and fatigue.

He was so exhausted that he never heard the soft buzzing of his phone on the dresser as he slept. He never heard the sound of scraping, the metal against metal picking of the deadbolt lock on the hotel door. Had it not been for the siren as the fire truck and crew rushed to a car fire off Cherry Street, Kirby wouldn’t have awaken and seen the intruder standing in the room near the small desk and under the dim light coming through the blinds.

“Good morning, Professor Kirby,” the prowler whispered.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my room? How do you know me?”

“So many questions in one excited breath. I was about to leave the way I entered, through the door, silently and oh so quickly. But then you had that unfortunate happenstance of hearing the siren racing by the hotel.”

“Do you want money? My wallet is on the dresser. Take it! There’s four hundred dollars in it. That ought to be enough for you to buy drugs. I can’t see your face, so I can’t recognize you. Just take the money and leave.”

“Drugs? I think not, Professor.” The man held up the file folder containing the Civil War document. “This is my drug of choice. A Civil War contract and perhaps a matching diamond to add to the ecstasy. Let me ask you, is it real? The contract between England and the Confederacy. In your opinion, Professor Kirby, is it genuine?” He set the folder back on the dresser.

“It still must go through scientific testing, but, in my opinion, it’s authentic.” Kirby narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Why your interest into this Civil War contract? Are you some kind of collector?”

“Unfortunately, for you, I am the opposite of a collector. I am an eliminator. A terminator.” He lifted a 9mm Beretta, only the black tip of a silencer visible in the dim light.

“No! Don’t!” Kirby pushed back in bed, holding his hands in front of him. The round slammed into the center of his chest, his blue pajama top erupting in a flower of blood. He stared at the perimeter darkness, disbelieving, the room smelling of smoke and cordite. He touched the dime-sized hole in his chest, a half-inch above his heart, and felt the wetness of the blood on his fingertips. The second bullet hit him between the eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the white headboard.

The man slid the pistol back under his belt. He started to pick up the file folder, pausing. He lifted a mobile phone off the dresser, scrolled down to the last number received, a number listed to Dave Collins. The shooter played back the voice message. He heard Laura Jordan’s terrified voice. “Professor Kirby! Get out of your room now! You’re in danger. A man may be coming to you, and he’s coming for the Civil War document. He’s dangerous. Maybe insane. Please…” There was a breathy sigh and the called disconnected.

The man played the next voice-message. “Hey Ike…Dave getting back with you. Damn good news about that Civil War contract. On first pass, if you believe it’s the real McCoy, I’d bet the boat on it. As always, I’ll keep that news under my hat. I’m glad you got a chance to get to know Nick and Sean. Because of Sean’s search for that damn painting, he’s separated a few layers from the contract by sheer happenstance. However, if anyone can hunt down the whereabouts of the stolen diamond, it’s Sean O’Brien. His gift of human observation, in my opinion, is unmatched. Call me when your testing corroborates your deduction. Nothing like a chance rewriting American Civil War history to put a bounce in your step. Let’s discuss it at breakfast, if you can. In closing, let’s go fishing like we used to. Sean has an excellent boat near mine. Nick, though, will find the fish. Call me. Give Judy my love. Bye. ”

The man lifted up the file folder and whispered, “Too bad Professor Kirby won’t be joining you for breakfast, Dave Collins. Perhaps I will instead. And I can’t want to meet your sharp-eyed BFF, Sean O’Brien.”

The man punched a set of numbers into Ike’s phone. Pressed call and immediately pressed end. He dropped the phone on the carpeted floor and walked out of the dark room into the blue neon night.

FORTY-NINE

It was a few minutes after four o’clock in the morning when O’Brien pulled his Jeep onto the hotel parking lot. Although mostly filled with cars, the lot had a secluded, surreal look as a soft rain fell through bluish light cast from two streetlights. The shower did little to loosen road dirt on the cars; most of which bore out-of-state license plates. O’Brien scanned the car tags as he drove across the lot. He glanced at windshields, looking for signs that wipers may have recently been turned on or off.

All the cars appeared to have been parked for a while. Business travelers, sales people, tourists – everyone tucked into their temporary beds behind doors with numbers painted on them. O’Brien read the room numbers while he cruised slowly through the lot. He could see that the hotel had at least eighty rooms, the first forty or so on the ground floor. He looked for room twenty-three. There it was. Bottom floor. Curtains closed. Lights off.

And then he looked for surveillance cameras. There were two that he could see. Maybe more. His options were to kick in the door – his break-in would be caught on camera, or he could find the front desk clerk and convince him or her to open the door to room twenty-three. He pulled his Jeep into a spot near the office and ran toward the door.

The lobby was brightly lit. No one could be seen. A stack of USA Today newspapers sat near the desk. The phone buzzed. No one came out from the back office to answer it. The Weather Channel played on a TV monitor above the front desk, the meteorologist talking about a tornado touching ground in Arkansas. O’Brien looked around the lobby. He thought there was a trace of spent gunpowder in the air. His heart beat faster.

The first sign.

Amber colored glass lay shattered on the white tile floor near one corner of the lobby. The security camera had been hit with a bullet, lens splintered, replaced with a single dark and vacant hole staring at O’Brien like a blinded, one-eyed creature. He lifted his Glock, went behind the front desk, carefully opening the office door.

The smell of fresh human blood and gunpowder met him at the threshold. The body of a middle-aged man lay sprawled next to a desk, face and hands ashen, more than a quart of blood on the floor near what was left of the man’s head.

O’Brien glanced up at the bank of security monitors. No images. Nothing but black. He turned, picked up a paper napkin near a coffee pot, and ran out of the lobby, ran quietly down the cement walkway near the ground-level rooms. Within thirty seconds, he stood in front of room twenty-three. He leaned closer, placing his right ear on the door. Listening. Silence. The only sounds came from a tractor-trailer rig changing gears on a freeway entrance ramp.

He looked to his left, then to his right. Moths flew in and out of the light from a flood lamp on one corner of the hotel. O’Brien placed the napkin gently on the doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked. He stepped back and kicked hard, the heel of his shoe striking near the handle. The door flew open, wood splintering. O’Brien stepped inside, leveling his Glock, sweeping around the small room. There was the same smell of death. Burnt gunpowder and spilled blood. The odor of copper pennies, urine and feces.

O’Brien felt the rush of adrenaline-fueled blood pumping through his temples. He looked at the body of Professor Ike Kirby lying in the bed, his head back against the headboard, shot between the eyes, his lifeless eyes open and staring at the ceiling. O’Brien stepped into the bathroom, Glock extended, his heart pounding.

No one.

He searched the room, careful not to touch anything, looking for the Civil War contract. He looked in drawers, the professor’s open suitcase. Nothing. Then he hunted for the dead man’s cell phone. It was on the floor. O’Brien used a handkerchief to pick up the phone. Had the killer scrolled through emails, text messages or phone calls? That would give him access to Ike’s immediate circle of friends, including Dave Collins. O’Brien scrolled to the last number called. It wasn’t Dave’s number…it was someone else. O’Brien looked at the time of the call and the length. Odd. Less than five seconds.

Sirens. Police and emergency vehicles racing to the scene.

O’Brien set the phone down. He ran from the room. Ran from the horror – the reek of death. He drove east toward a steely sunrise, the illusion of dawn squinting through charcoal gray clouds. Three squad cars, two unmarked cars, blue lights spinning, engines roaring, sped past O’Brien’s Jeep. He knew they were responding to the information they just got from Laura. Maybe Detective Dan Grant was en route. O’Brien could turn the Jeep around, drive back to the hotel and tell Dan or officers what he found. But that would create unnecessary complications. The killer had vanished. They’d find nothing but bodies. It was too late for the police cavalry. Too late for a genteel history professor and a middle-aged hotel clerk simply trying to pay the bills. Both killed by someone they didn’t know, and for reasons they’d never know.

O’Brien knew that whoever killed Ike Kirby left no evidence behind. Taking out the security cameras meant having to take out the hotel night clerk. It was the work of a pro. Who was he? A hired gun, or someone working for himself? Why was the Civil War contract so valuable to someone that it was worth killing three people to get it? Could the executioner have the stolen diamond as well? Who did Ike try to call before he was killed?

O’Brien thought about that as he drove through the dim morning, a misty rain spraying the windshield. He was exhausted but could feel the current of adrenaline in his body. He glanced down at his phone on the Jeep’s console. There was no way he’d deliver the horrible news to Dave over the phone. Soon the pendulum swing of the wipers and the hypnotic drone of the engine helped evaporate some anxiety from his mind. He’d be back at the marina in forty minutes – forty minutes to think of a how he’d tell Dave that his friend of forty years was dead.

FIFTY

O’Brien wished he could have made L dock a mile longer. Maybe that would buy a little more time as he walked in the rain before reaching the end. Because near the end of the dock, beneath the glow of a security light, under a black umbrella, stood Dave and Max. Dave holding the umbrella in one hand, Max in his other hand. “Good morning, Sean. My next gift to you will be an umbrella. You’re soaked. Miss Max and I just returned from our nature walk. I’m almost afraid to ask where you’re returning from because your face looks gloomier than the grimy dawn that’s breaking around us. Tell me you found Ike sleeping soundly.”

“I found him…but I was too late…Ike had been shot.”

Dave said nothing for a moment, the sound of raindrops plopping against the umbrella. “Is he dead?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

Dave closed his eyes, his jawline hardening, his thoughts secluded. He blew air out of his cheeks and looked toward the lighthouse. Then he cut his eyes back to O’Brien. “Ike’s daughter recently gave birth to his first grandchild. A little girl…she was his pride and joy.” Dave’s voice softened, the sound of rain falling against canvas over Jupiter’s cockpit. He was silent for a long moment, staring at black clouds in the east, his blue eyes wet. He looked over to O’Brien. “Why? Why kill Ike over a relic from America’s past?”

“Maybe the contract – proof of England’s connection to the Civil War, along with the diamond from the Crown Jewels, is worth killing at least three people.”

“Three people?”

“Yes. Jack Jordan…Ike Kirby…and a night clerk at the hotel where Ike was staying.”

“I need to sit down, Sean. My head is pounding. Let’s retreat to Gibraltar. ”

O’Brien stood next to the bar in the trawler’s salon as Dave brought up a white towel from the head and handed it to him. “Dry off before you catch pneumonia. You can use that towel to dry Max too. Why the hell did the assailant shoot the night clerk?”

“Because he wanted to take out the surveillance cameras before he made his way to Ike’s room. There was a round fired into the hard drives of the camera’s back-up system. After that, he either had a key or picked the lock to Ike’s room. I found Ike in his bed, shot at least once. I couldn’t find the Civil War document. Unless he had stored it in a hotel safe, the contract was stolen from his room.”

Dave lifted a bottle of Jameson from behind the bar and poured three finger’s worth into a glass. “Care to join me?”

“I still have work to do.”

Dave nodded, swirled the whiskey and sipped. He stared out the port side window across the tranquility of the marina, his thoughts sequestered. “I was best-man at Ike and Judy’s wedding. Godfather to his first daughter. He was a brilliant, good and kind man.” Dave turned toward O’Brien. “Ike was simply doing a favor for me. Checking the authenticity of the document. It’s the kind of thing that he was very good at doing – tracking down histories’ mysteries. Always curious. Suffice to say, the Civil War contract and its probable relation to an infamous Crown Jewels diamond, a diamond that now appears to have been used as collateral in America’s bloodiest war, was Ike’s Super Bowl. Or it least might prove to have been, had he lived.”

“There’s something else. I found Ike’s phone in the room. On the floor. It looks like he was trying to make call when the killer entered the room.”

“Maybe it was to 911.”

“No, another number. It didn’t look like the call went through before Ike was killed. The perp may have looked at Ike’s recently dialed numbers, his text messages or voice-mail.”

“I left Ike a voice-message earlier tonight.”

“What’d you say?”

“I was responding to a message he left me. He was sure the contract was original and legitimate. I invited him to breakfast. I mentioned that your quest for a lost Civil War painting was following a twisting path that could possibly lead you to the diamond. And I said your power of observation, detection, was unrivaled. What if the shooter has the diamond too? He’d know that your paths might cross. Any element of surprise you may have could be compromised.”

“What if he doesn’t have it, but thinks I do, or that I know where it is? The message you left for Ike could work in our advantage if it draws this guy to me.”

“You have no idea where he is or what he looks like. But he does know you have a boat at the marina. He could show up here and appear to be like any tourists hunting for a charter boat to hire. Be on high alert, Sean.”

“I didn’t want to tell Detective Dan Grant that I was the first responder on the scene, which later proved to be a crime scene. If he knows I was there before the troops arrived, it’ll only add to the paperwork without advancing the investigation into Ike’s death. Ike’s ID will be all over the news soon. Then you can call Dan Grant, tell him you left a voice message on Ike’s phone if you think it’ll help with the investigation.”

Dave drained the remaining Irish whiskey, setting the glass on the bar, his face blossoming, flushed from the alcohol. He wrapped both hands around the empty glass, staring at the muddy dawn settling over the marina, his blue eyes dewy, watching a charter boat cruising toward the pass. He looked up at O’Brien. “Ike was a gentle human being. A wonderful historian who helped his students understand the why factor in history and those dead poets, prophets, politicians, leaders and losers whose decisions or indecisions changed the course of human events. One of Ike’s favorite quotes, something he alluded to in his classroom, was from Marcus Aurelius. He said, ‘Death smiles at us, and all a man can do is smile back.’ I don’t believe that. Murder isn’t a natural death. A bullet, at two-thousand feet per second, cuts through time and space, turning the human brain to confetti and shattering any allusions as to a noble death.”

O’Brien was quiet, letting his friend talk. Dave poured a second drink. “Sean, in previous, malicious dealings such as this, I always suggested to you prudence and avoidance, if possible. Not this time…hell no, not this time. Find the assassin. Find the bastard – whoever is behind this. Do it for Ike. Take no prisoners.”

“I’ll find him.”

Dave nodded. “I need to be alone right now.”

“I understand.” O’Brien picked up Max, turned and walked out onto the cockpit, the teak wood wet from the rain, the marina veined in murky shadows. He heard the clink of glass on glass as Dave poured another drink, and then he heard Dave weeping, two painful sobs. O’Brien’s palms were moist, mouth dry, an acrid taste like copper in his throat. He stepped up to the pier and walked down L dock toward black clouds churning over the Atlantic. No hint of dawn beyond the swirling edge of darkness.

FIFTY-ONE

It was a phone call that O’Brien didn’t want to make. If he told Laura Jordan too much, she may figure out that he was at the crime scene before police found Ike Kirby’s body.

And there was no sign of the Civil War contract.

After the murder of her husband, and the theft of the diamond, the news about the stealing of the contract would continue to pour acid on her pain. But, she didn’t need to learn the news from a local television station, so O’Brien made the call. When she answered he said, “Laura, something horrific has happened, and I want to give you what information I’ve heard.”

“What is it, Sean? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Ike Kirby has been a victim of a homicide.” He heard her gasp. O’Brien said, “Police are investigating a double murder at the hotel where Ike was staying. Apparently, the killer murdered the clerk and Ike.”

“Oh dear God. I am so, so sorry. He was just here. I need to sit down. He was so kind…I don’t have words…”

O’Brien could hear a muffled sob. He said, “Laura, whoever killed Ike probably stole the Civil War document. That would be the only reason his life was taken.”

“This must come to an end. Why in God’s name? He was such a sweet man. I feel so bad for his family.”

“I’m not certain, but odds are whoever killed Ike was the same man who killed Jack. If police can find this killer, it’ll help some with closure for you.”

“I don’t know what that word means anymore. I have to go, Sean.”

* * *

Four days after the double homicide in the hotel, Detective Dan Grant thought he’d have to lead a raid on the man’s house deep in the Ocala National Forest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. The man, Silas Jackson – a white supremacist with a record of violence, was expected to pick up a paycheck at the accounting office trailer for the movie, Black River. He was to be compensated for a week’s worth of work before his termination. The accountant for the movie, a forty-something, no nonsense woman with a Boston accent, told Detective Grant that Silas Jackson said he’d be in around 1:00 p.m. to pick up the check.

Dan Grant was there at noon. He was there, waiting with his partner, Larry Rollins, a poker-faced, large-boned man with a military haircut and a tiny pink scar between gray eyebrows. At 1:00 p.m. sharp, Silas Jackson opened the door to the office and entered. Dan Grant said, “Mr. Jackson, we’d like a word with you.”

“I already talked to you. Nothing’s changed.”

“Murder changes everything.”

“You got the wrong guy.”

“We want to speak with you about the death of Jack Jordan.”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

“Let’s step outside the office.” Grant motioned to the door and waited for Jackson to exit. The detectives followed him outside, actors and production crew moving about the lot. Grant said, “Over here, in the shade.”

They stepped to the shade under a lofty live oak. Detective Rollins leaned in and asked, “Where were you Sunday night ago? Around four in the morning?”

“Home in bed.”

“Anybody with you?”

“I ain’t married.”

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Dan Grant said, “Well, we know where you were two weeks before Jack Jordan’s death. You were on a secluded part of the St. Johns River, and you were watching Jordan and his film crew pull a diamond out of the river. Not only were you watching, you were watching through a riflescope. What kept you from shooting Jordan in the river? Too many people? Figured you’d better not kill them all. So you’d bide your time until there was a better opportunity.”

Silas Jackson said nothing. He ran his tongue inside one cheek, glancing at the actors standing near a craft services food truck.

Grant half smiled. “Sort of ironic – as you were pointing a rifle at Jack Jordan, the film crew on the pontoon boat captured you in its lens. And you know what gave it away? Your Confederate uniform. We had a video company enlarge a few single frames and guess what we found. We found you, Jackson.” He held up a sheet of photographs. “The uniform you were wearing when you auditioned to be part of the cast for the movie matched these shots the wardrobe department took of you.”

“Plenty of men around here, especially now, have access to a Confederate uniform.”

“But they don’t have access to your boots. Take off your left boot, Silas, and hand it to me.”

Jackson raised his right eyebrow, his face contorted, looking hard at Grant. “Why?”

“Because we said so,” snapped Detective Rollins. “You got a choice. You either do it here, or we take you downtown to check your hoof. What’s it going to be, pal?”

Jackson sat in one of three folding chairs in the shade, lifted his left boot, removed it and handed the boot to Grant. He looked at the sole and the bottom of the heel. He gave the boot back to Jackson and said, “I’m betting this chink in the heel matches one of the boot prints found on the ground where you stood by the big cypress tree that day down by the river. The same place where we found some loose change on the ground next to a musket …a .58 caliber. And that’s the rifle you used on the movie set.”

“Ya’ll boys are makin’ a big mistake.”

“You made the big mistake when you shot Jack Jordan, then you killed a history professor who was examining the old contract from the Civil War. And you took out a hotel clerk who just happened to be there when you were about to commit murder.” Grant studied Jackson’s eyes. “How the hell is an old contract, something that is useless today, worth killing to get it? Civil War’s been over for a long damn time, Silas.”

“The first war one, maybe. The second one is just beginning. You got no evidence tying me to shootin’ some history professor. And I didn’t shoot Jack Jordan or anybody else.”

Grant smiled. “I didn’t say the history professor was shot. He could have been knifed, or strangled, or pushed in front of a train. How’d you know he was shot?”

Jackson said nothing, white cottonwood blossoms floating the breeze behind him, a blue heron calling out as it flew to the top of a pine tree. He watched a mosquito alight on his forearm, sticking its snout into the center of two six-shooter pistols tattooed on his arm, fire coming out of the barrels. Jackson scrutinized the mosquito drinking, then he slapped it, blood smearing over tattoos. He wiped his palm on his jeans, then cut his eyes up to the detectives. “Ya’ll are bloodsuckers, too.”

Grant leaned in closer to Jackson and said, “I don’t believe you give a crap about some dusty Civil War contract. I believe you stole the diamond. It’s the one thing that can finance your little army and your big cause. Or maybe trade it for arms. Where’s the diamond?”

“I didn’t steal it. But if I had, I’d damn sure hock it to finance a cause that’s spelled out in the U.S. Constitution. Maybe you ought to read it sometime.”

Grant pointed to a twenty-year-old green Ford pickup truck parked near a semi-truck loaded with production lights and equipment. “That Ford 150 yours?”

“Yeah.”

Grant looked at Rollins. “Tell him what you have, Larry.”

Detective Rollins nodded. “We have video of your truck rolling through a red light at the intersection of Seaside and Atlantic Avenue at 4:17 in the morning Ike Kirby was killed. The Hampton Inn is less than a half-mile away from that intersection. Wanna tell us what you were doing at that location at that time?”

“No law, at least not yet, against a morning drive.”

“But there is a law against murder.”

“You’re trying to railroad this shit on me because of all the publicity. The government’s most likely behind this bullshit game. I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get one,” said Detective Rollins. “The very best legal minds Confederate money can buy.”