Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

FIFTY-TWO

O’Brien was driving to Laura Jordan’s home when he received the call. He looked at Max, her head out the open window on the passenger side of the Jeep. She snorted and wagged her tail as O’Brien pulled in behind a dozen cars parked in front of the home, the smell of a barbecue in the air. It was Paula’s fifth Birthday, and Laura had invited friends and family to her home to help make the little girl’s birthday as customary and special as possible.

“Looks like we got the perp,” Detective Dan Grant began. He told O’Brien about the questioning of Silas Jackson and added, “He didn’t bat an eye when we informed Jackson it was him on the video holding a rifle and aiming it at a man who was shot a few weeks later.”

“Did you find the Civil War contract or the diamond?”

“Not yet. We’ve resorted to satellite images to try to locate his trailer somewhere out in the national forest. We’ll find it. There was nothing in his truck.”

“You think Jackson killed Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk?”

“Probably. We have traffic video of him easing through a red light in the wee hours of the morning not far from where the professor and clerk were killed. That’s enough to keep Jackson here for rounds of questioning. He’s trying to lawyer up. I don’t think he has the money. He’s nothing more than a radical white supremacist. A hate monger. He’s simply an internal terrorist living a Gone with the Wind warped fantasy.”

“Thanks for letting me know you picked him up.”

“Professional courtesy. You tipped us off to that stuff under the cypress tree near the river, including Jackson on the video. We missed seeing him first time the video was viewed. It was definitely Jackson standing there…right down to the small crack on the heel of his left Civil-War-era boot. Later, Sean.”

O’Brien followed Max as she trotted from the street up to the house, the smell of barbecue chicken in the air, laughter from children playing in the back yard. Laura greeted O’Brien at the door and said, “Thank you for coming. I thought about cancelling the birthday party for Paula, considering all that’s happened, but right now I think it’s the best thing I can do for her. I’m delighted you could bring your dog. My grandmother had a dachshund. I pictured you with something like a German shepherd.”

“Max is nothing like a German shepherd. She’s…she’s just Max. All ten pounds of swagger and personality. A few months before my wife, Sherrie, died, she found Max. After Sherrie passed, Max and I sort of found each other.”

“That’s sweet. She’s so adorable. Please, come in. Everyone’s in the back yard. I’ve been thinking about getting Paula a small dog. Maybe today will be a good test to see if a dachshund would be a good choice.”

“Max works for cheese.”

More than a dozen people sat in lawn chairs, some standing next to a smoking barbecue grill. Seven children played on a swing set in one corner of the yard. O’Brien watched Paula laugh as she went down a slide followed by a boy about her age.

A man in shorts, T-shirt and blue apron held a can of beer next to the grill, turning burgers, chicken and hot dogs. Max scurried toward the food. O’Brien recognized the man. He was the Civil War re-enactor he’d met on the film set. Silas Jackson is armed and born dangerous.

Laura said, “Sean O’Brien, I want you to meet my friends. Jack and I first met most everyone here from our college days. Some, like my dear friend, Katie, since high school.” Katie, a blonde sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair, smiled. Laura motioned toward three men standing, sipping beer and talking sports. “All of these guys were part of Jack’s documentary production crew.” Laura made the introductions. O’Brien smiled and shook hands. “And our chef is Cory Nelson.”

Nelson wiped has hands on a white towel and reached for O’Brien’s hand. “I met Sean on the set. Glad you could make it. We’re trying hard to keep Paula’s life as normal as possible considering the circumstances of late. Hey, any luck in finding that painting?”

“No, not yet.”

“It’d be great if you could find and return it to Laura.”

Paula and two children, a boy and girl, ran up to Max. Paula said, “That’s a pretty wiener dog. What’s her name?”

O’Brien crouched on the lawn and said, “Her name’s Max. You can pet her.”

The children grinned, each one petting Max who looked over to O’Brien, her eyes bright, nostrils working the air.

Laura said, “Okay kids. Let’s get ready to eat. Everyone wash your hands. You’ve all been playing in the dirt.

“I’ll take them inside to wash up,” said a tanned woman wearing a sun-visor hat, T-shirt and khaki shorts.

Laura smiled. “Great! Food will be ready in a minute. We’ll cut the cake and sing Happy Birthday after lunch.” She bit her bottom lip, blinking quickly, eyes moist, seeing Paula and the other children laughing and running toward the back door.

O’Brien watched her for a moment, turned to the adults and said, “Since everyone here knew Jack well, I wanted to give you some news I just received as I was parking out front.” O’Brien stood so he could see faces, body language. “Looks like police have caught the man who killed Jack.” O’Brien scanned each face, each reaction to the news he just delivered.

“Oh my God,” said the woman called Katie. She held her hand to her lips.

“Where’d you hear this?” asked one man in a floral print shirt holding a bag of potato chips.

“From a contact at the sheriff’s office. The man they’re questioning is Silas Jackson. He was a re-enactor who was employed by the film company for about a week. He was eventually asked to leave.”

Laura slowly sat down. She let out a deep breath, her face flushed. “Are they sure, Sean? Are they sure he’s the one?”

“He was the person on the video pointing a rifle at the pontoon boat that day on the river when Jack and you guys on the crew found the diamond.”

The man holding the potato chips said, “Silas Jackson didn’t like the fact that we wanted to do a documentary on the last days of the Confederacy. He’d argued with Jack the first time Jack began trying to raise funds for the project.”

Cory Nelson used a spatula to set a burger to the front of the grill and said, “Did they find the Civil War contract or the diamond?”

“No.”

“Did they find him with that painting you were looking for?”

“No.”

Nelson raised his shoulders, nodded toward Laura and said, “Too bad the film company didn’t have security cameras in that plantation house. If they had, they could see who stole the painting. My money’s on Jackson.”

O’Brien was silent a moment, and then he said, “Good point. But they did have motion picture cameras all over the outdoor set the day Jack was killed.”

Nelson nodded. “Yeah, but the news media said police couldn’t see anything on camera out of the normal battle scenes.”

“Maybe it’s because they didn’t know where to look.”

No one said anything, the musical jingle of Pop Goes the Weasel coming from an approaching ice cream truck on the next block.

Laura stood and managed to forge a wide smile. “Come on everyone, let’s eat. A little girl is having a birthday today.”

“Sounds good,” said a woman picking up a paper plate.

O’Brien stepped over to Laura. “I’ve got to go.”

“But you just got here.”

“Something’s come up since they took in Silas Jackson – something I need to check.”

“What is it Sean? Please, tell me?”

“It might be nothing. If it’s something, I’ll call you. Can Max stay for a couple hours?”

“Yes, of course. It’ll give Paula a real chance to play with her. Can’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”

“No. Not yet.”

FIFTY-THREE

She could have been a tourist. Maybe someone looking to buy a condo in Ponce Inlet. She dressed in casual clothes. White cotton slacks. Matching top. Wide-brim sun hat. Sandals. She wore tortoise shell dark glasses on a striking oval face. The woman carried a straw handbag as she strolled the boardwalk around Ponce Marina, sea gulls squawking overhead, watching the charter boats unload fish and tourists. Watching people.

Searching for Sean O’Brien.

Inside the handbag, buried beneath a change of clothes, passport and sunscreen, was a 9mm Beretta. She could have been a tourist.

But she wasn’t.

Malina Kade was, perhaps, the best female intelligence agent India had produced in the last twenty years. Fearless, persuasive, and deceptive – her talent for finding and retrieving covert intelligence was exceptional. She’d been in the states a week. Back on holiday to visit close friends, she’d told immigrations when she arrived in Miami.

She glanced at a sunburned, heavy-faced man under the shade of a thatched palm frond roof above a small fish-cleaning station. He scraped a serrated knife down the back of a red snapper, fish scales flying in his gray hair, a cigar wedged in one side of his wide mouth, smoke curling under the dried palm fronds. Three pelicans squatted on the dock in front of him patiently waiting for handouts. She said, “Excuse me.”

He looked up, used the tip of his tongue to flick a fish scale from his cracked lower lip. “Hi, what can I do for you?”

“Looks like you have some hungry friends.” She smiled and gestured toward the sitting pelicans.

“Nothing goes to waste around here. But those birds are smart. They won’t touch a catfish. But ol’ Joe, the dock cat, will. Haven’t seen him today.”

“What kind of cat is Joe?”

“Looks like a calico…but male calico cats are rare as a blue moon. Joe spends more of his time over on L dock. Nick the Greek kinda adopted him.”

“Are you a fishing guide?”

“Oh, no. I just came back from a half day of bottom fishing on the Ponce Pirate. Great boat if you don’t mind people. It can get a little crowded, especially on the weekends.”

She smiled. “I was thinking of buying a fishing trip for my husband’s birthday. Maybe hire a smaller boat that accommodates a couple of people and the crew. Any recommendations? How about Nick the Greek?”

“He fishes commercially. No tourists. But knowing Nick, I’d wager he’d make an exception for you.” He grinned, white smoke spiraling out of the tip of his stogie.

“Maybe Nick the Greek can recommend someone.”

“I heard Nick does sign on from time to time with a fella who’s tryin’ his hand at guiding. I think Nick is the real fish finder. His pal appears to be learning the ropes.”

Malina inhaled deeply, her breasts rising. “What’s his friend’s name?”

“I met him once. Looks like he’d be a better hunter then fisherman. Big, strong guy. Name’s Sean O’Brien. His boat is down on L dock. You know, your best bet is to check with the marina office. They have a list of charter boat captains. Or you can ask over there at the Tiki Bar. You’ll usually find a captain, first mate or two, shootin’ the breeze there.”

“Thank you.”

She approached L dock, stopped and glanced down the dock, tethered sailboats and powerboats rocking in unison with the breeze and slight chop on the surface of the water. Somewhere amongst the boats is where Sean O’Brien moored his boat. Maybe within a few meters of where she stood. Malina looked over at the waterfront entrance to the Tiki Bar and started walking that way.

* * *

It was the wide-brim sun hat that first caught Kim Davis’ eye. Most of the lunch rush was past when the woman entered the Tiki Bar from the dockside of the building, found a stool at the center of the bar and sat. Kim set three drinks on a tray for a server to carry to a table, stepped to where the woman was sitting and said, “Hi, here for lunch?”

“Yes, please.”

“Today’s menu is on the board behind me.”

The woman looked over Kim’s shoulder. “What do you recommend?”

“The grouper sandwich is delicious. The fish comes from the ocean right behind you, caught by local fishermen.”

“The sandwich sounds fine. Water with lemon, please.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“You mentioned local fishermen…I’m going to hire a fishing guide for my husband’s birthday. Can you recommend someone?”

Kim was about to answer when Nick Cronus walked in the Tiki Bar, humming a Rolling Stone classic, Wild Horses, his thick, dark hair coiled from the salt air and thick humidity. Nick wore cut-off shorts, flip-flops and a tank top with a skull in a pirate bandana and three sharks encircling the base of the skull. He looked over at Kim, smiled, glanced at the woman sitting in the stool. Nick’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. He removed the glasses, his eyes taking in the woman’s body. Nick pursed his lips and grinned wider as he tried to allay the disapproving glance that Kim shot his way. He approached the bar and said, “Kim, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

“Hi, Nicky. Grab a seat somewhere. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

Nick smiled as the woman on the stool looked over to him. She returned his smile. He said, “If this seat’s open, I’ll sit here.”

She said, “Please, no one is sitting there.”

“I’m Nickolas Cronus. Friends call me Nick.”

Malina Kade said, “My name’s Sarvarna Dama. Pleased to meet you, Nick.”

“I love exotic sounding names.”

She glanced at his tank-top and said, “In India, or Hindu, it means daughter of the sea.”

Nick’s black eyes danced. “I believe my mama was a mermaid on the island of Patmos and my daddy was Poseidon. That’s why I love the sea so much.”

Kim cleared her throat. “Nicky, the lady was about to order lunch when you arrived.”

Malina said, “I’m not in a rush.” She looked over at Nick. “What do you recommend?”

“Oysters. They’re fresh and delicious. Do you like oysters, Sarvarna?”

“I love oysters.”

Nick began a slow grin, his moustache rising, eyes animated.

FIFTY-FOUR

O’Brien made the call en route to the Hilton. When the man answered, O’Brien said, “Hi Oscar. Shelia Winters asked me to call you because you’re the best film editor she knows. My name’s Sean O’Brien.”

The man hesitated a beat. “Shelia’s great. We go way back. She was a show-runner – a producer, on a television show we did together. She scaled back when she went through a divorce and had to stay home more with her two kids. She’s good at casting, too. What can I do for you, Sean?”

“I’m thinking a career change.”

“What do you do?”

“Charter boat fishing guide out of Ponce Marina.”

“Man, I could use some time on the water.”

“Come, be my guest.”

“I might take you up on it in a couple of months. You want to learn the ropes of editing?”

“I’m very interested in putting pictures together. I’d like to see if I might be any good at it. I figure I can fail at something I like as easy as something I don’t like, so why not try to do what I really want to do?”

“I hear you, pal.”

“You mind if I sit in and watch you do so some editing?”

“Not a problem. I can show you a few things. We’ll have to keep it confidential. I wouldn’t be where I am today if people hadn’t helped me. We’ll call it an introductory internship. When you want to come in?”

“No better time than now.”

“Now’s a good time. Just me and an assistant here. We’re only doing very rough cuts for the studio. Director won’t be back until tomorrow. I can show you a few tricks. See if this career’s in your blood.”

* * *

Nick Cronus opened all the windows on his boat, St. Michael, a breeze puffing the curtains and moving across the salon. He turned to Malina Kade and said, “I have some ouzo on ice. Let’s make a toast.” Nick reached into a small refrigerator behind his bar and lifted out a bottle of ouzo. He filled two glasses and handed one to Malina.

She sat on a bar stool, taking the glass, then looking directly at Nick. She removed her sun-hat, setting it on a barstool. “What are we toasting to?”

Nick grinned. “To you having the time of your life on holiday here in Florida.” They touched glasses, Nick taking a long sip of ouzo. He smiled, stepping from behind the bar and pressing a button on his phone, music promptly streaming and playing from two small speakers in opposite corners of the salon. Nick kicked off his flip-flops in the center of the salon, raised his arms, clicking his fingers, slowly turning around in a Greek-style dance.

After three twirls, he did a slight bow toward Malina and said, “Come, join me. We dance in the sea breeze, and soon you feel like an Indian princess swept off her feet.” Nick smiled. He sipped his ouzo, tapped a selector button, the music changing to a bluesy vocal. He reached for Malina’s hand and led her in an unhurried dance, St. Michael softly swaying in the rising tide and mild wake of a passing boat in the marina.

She smiled and said, “You have a great sense of rhythm. You dance well.”

Nick chuckled. “I’m Greek. I swim. I dance. I laugh and I love…I love with more passion than all the salt in the seven seas. Your name may be Sarvarna, but your beauty is greater than Aphrodite.” He smiled and spun her slowly around, leaning into a small dip. She followed in perfect cadence, her body agile, feminine and strong.

When the dance ended, she said, “Let’s sit on the couch. I want to learn more about you, Nick. You are an entrepreneur, a successful fisherman, yes?”

Nick laughed, refilled his glass of ouzo, topped off her glass and said, “I’m my own boss. I work hard, but I play even harder.”

She moistened her lower lip. “I enjoy ouzo, but do you have some wine? A chardonnay, perhaps?”

“In the fridge in the galley. I’ll get it.”

“I’ll be right here…on the couch…waiting for you.”

Nick bowed slightly, smiled, turning to enter the galley.

When he’d left, Malina reach in her purse, found a capsule, emptied the granular contents into Nick’s glass. She used her index finger to stir the mixture, wiping her finger on a bar napkin.

Nick returned with a glass of wine, filled more than half way. He handed it to her. She smiled and said, “Let’s make another toast. To learning more about one another today than we ever thought possible.”

Nick clinked his glass to hers and took a long swig of ouzo. He sat on the couch.

She smiled, turning her body towards him, legs bent under her. “Tell me, Nicky, when you take this fine boat out to sea do you ever find treasure?”

“I found you! That’s a great treasure. And I did it on dry land.”

“You’re sweet. I mean real treasure, lost at sea. Maybe a pirate’s booty, gold or diamonds in a treasure chest in a long-forgotten sunken ship.” She ran her finger around the lip of her glass.

“Sometimes I find pearls in oysters.” He swallowed more ouzo his moustache damp with alcohol.

“I love pearls. But I love diamonds even more.”

Nick lowered his voice, leaning closer to her. “They found a diamond, maybe the biggest in all of God’s green earth, right here in Florida in the St. Johns River.”

“Oh, tell me more.”

Nick told her everything he knew about the discovery of the diamond. He drained his glass. She smiled and said, “That’s fascinating. So, Sean O’Brien, the fishing guide you mentioned in the bar, sort of stumbled onto this thing. He’s helping the widow of the deceased man recover the diamond, correct?”

“Stumbled on is the right way to put it. Sean often stumbles in some deep poop, but he somehow manages to claw his way outta the mess. He wasn’t looking for the diamond; he was looking for the old painting. Everything else somehow got all connected in a web. Our pal, Dave, his boat’s right across the dock, told Sean there could be a black widow hiding somewhere in that web.”

“So your friend Sean is good at finding things.”

“The best. Or maybe things find him.”

“Where’s his boat?”

Nick motioned to the left with his head. “Right next to mine.” Nick cocked his head, curious. “Why you want to know about my pal. Sean? You sound like that dude I met in the bar last night. He wanted to know about Sean. First I thought it was because the fella wanted to charter Sean’s boat, but now…maybe not.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“Yeah, British. How do you know?”

“Lucky guess. Lots of Brits in Florida this time of the year on holiday. Maybe he did want to do a fishing charter. Maybe you’ll never see him again.”

Nick snorted. “We got a hellava neighborhood watch here in the marina. Laid back, but we know who’s supposed to be here and who’s not.”

“Is that right?” She smiled and placed one hand on Nick’s knee. “You probably don’t even have to lock the doors on your boats when you leave.”

“Used to be that way. Now the marina gets too many tourists. This is supposed to be for boat owners and their guests only, but people like hangin’ at the marina, and they come down the docks like ducks waddling to a lake. I have a key to Dave’s boat, Sean’s boat, and they have keys to my boat.”

“I’m looking for a key. Never found it, though. Maybe one day.”

“What key are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for the key to my heart, or more specifically, the man who can unlock the passion in my heart.”

Nick grinned. “I’m a locksmith, but not a thief of hearts. It’s not a single key – the key to the soul, it’s a combination of respect, honor, love, and protection that might open your heart.” Nick leaned in to kiss her. She responded, moaning slightly.

Nick suddenly felt tired, his arms and legs heavy. He blinked hard, Malina’s face beginning to blur. He felt sweat on his brow, perspiration trickling down his ribcage. Malina’s hot breath in his ear, her hands on his chest, moving to his genitals. She whispered, “Where is the key to Sean’s boat?”

Nick stared at her face, his eyes trying to focus, his penis numb to her touch, his mind disoriented. She hiked up her dress and straddled his lap, leaned down and held his face in both her hands. “Nicky, listen to me…Sean needs help. Where did you put his keys?”

Nick grunted, his voice just above a whisper. “Hangin’ from a mermaid in the galley.” Nick saw the woman’s face come closer, could smell the wine on her breath, his lips numb to her kiss. She jumped, Jack-in-the box style, from his lap to the floor. She smoothed out her dress and walked to the galley.

Malina found three sets of keys hanging from a figurine of a bare-breasted mermaid magnet stuck to the door of the refrigerator. She took all three keys, walked back to the salon, picked her hat off the barstool, turned to Nick and blew him a kiss.

Nick watched the woman walk out the door, the sunlight becoming narrow, black edges, the light at the end of a dark tunnel, coming straight ahead at his body. He was unable to move, to scream, to close his eyes. All that moved were his disoriented thoughts and a single tear that rolled down his cheek.