Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

SEVENTY

Dave Collins was channel surfing when O’Brien stepped onto Jupiter. Max jumped off Dave’s couch, greeting O’Brien with a yodeling bark and a flapping tail. He picked her up and sat in a director’s canvas chair in the salon opposite from where Dave sat forward on his couch, the remote control pointed at the screen. O’Brien filled Dave in on his encounter with Silas Jackson and his meeting with Jackson’s father, Gus Louden.

Dave pushed back on the couch. “Although Louden said he hired you to find the painting, his deep-seated, hidden agenda was hoping you’d find his son, Silas Jackson, a man who broke all contact with his family years ago.”

“That’s what Louden is saying.”

“You believe him?”

“I believe the essence of what he says. I think that he hoped I’d find the painting. After that, the publicity generated from it could be what he needed to prove that Henry Hopkins died in combat. That, in his mind, might have been the catalyst to reduce some of the deep-seated anger his son carries, partially because of the family bloodline. The irony is that I found his sociopathic son, but the painting is still MIA.” O’Brien glanced over to the television screen. He watched video of a large sailing schooner being launched. “Dave, turn it up.”

Dave pointed the remote toward the screen. A female news reporter stood at a large pier near downtown Jacksonville, microphone in hand, black hair blowing in the wind, the wooden schooner in the background. She said, “We are live at the Jacksonville Landing to watch the christening of a schooner that’s an amazing replica of the most famous racing sailboat in the world. What you see behind me is a near clone of the schooner that, in 1850, beat the British in what would become known as the America’s Cup. The ship was called America, and after its crew sailed from the states to England, they raced and beat the British by a record of eight minutes ahead of its closest rival. The reproduction, called America II by its owner, Frank Sheldon, will be sailed from Florida, across the Atlantic, making its entrance in grand fashion at the Port of London. Earlier today, Sheldon’s wife, Janet, broke a bottle of champagne against the schooner right before it launched into the St. Johns River.”

The video showed a petite blonde breaking a heavy bottle across the bow of the sailboat. Then the images cut to Sheldon and a group of politicians smiling and laughing on the deck as the yacht made a ceremonial sail into the center of the wide river, the city of Jacksonville in the background. The voice-over continued showing video inside the schooner.

“Frank Sheldon gave Channel Seven News a tour of America II. The boat was made with such attention to historical detail that everything is exact and to scale, matching the original ship’s size and features right down to the nails and screws used. The only place our cameras were not allowed was in Sheldon’s private captain’s quarters where we were told a meeting was taking place. However, he assures us that it’s as authentic as the rest of the yacht with the exception of a computer and lights allowing Sheldon to get some work done while cruising. The crew will begin the voyage in two days.”

The camera’s live shot cut to the reporter and Sheldon standing on the dock, balloons released in the air, crowds of festive people milling along the waterfront, dozens of smaller boats in the river, the boaters taking pictures of the sailing yacht.

The reporter smiled and said, “The construction of America II was a long time coming. More than two years from naval architectural drawings to what you see behind us. “Mr. Sheldon, are you as proud of this moment as you were when you won the America’s Cup race?”

Sheldon smiled, his gelled hair not moving in the wind gusting across the river, flags flapping in the breeze near them. “Absolutely. This is a momentous occasion for the city of Jacksonville and the nation as a whole. The original schooner, America, set racing and historical records that made the world sit up and take note of the United States’ shipbuilding ingenuity. After we return from the sail to England, America II will be visiting port cities all over the country, from New York to San Francisco, giving people a chance to see what the original schooner looked like. I want to thank the crew and artisans at Poseidon Shipyards here in Jacksonville for their extraordinary attention to detail.”

The reporter nodded and looked into the camera. “There will be a gala black tie event the night before American II sets sail. It’s sure to be the best party of the year in Jacksonville. Invited guests will rub shoulders with some of Hollywood’s A-list actors, producers and directors. Many of the cast and crew from the movie Black River are expected to attend. Now back to you in the studio.”

The picture cut to a news anchorman in the studio. O’Brien set Max down, his eyes following a large sailboat entering Ponce Marina.

Dave hit the mute button and asked, “What are you thinking, Sean?”

O’Brien’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He looked at the screen and answered. “Sean, it’s Laura. I scrolled through Jack’s phone records a few days before and after he found the diamond. I came across one with a 305 area code…it was received by Jack’s phone three days after he found the diamond. I don’t see where he made a call to that number. Here’s the rest of the number.”

O’Brien wrote it down and asked, “How about one with a 206?”

“Hold on a sec. Let me look.”

O’Brien passed the phone number to Dave. Then Laura said, “There’s one with a 206. You want the rest of it?”

“Yes.” O’Brien wrote it down, passing a second piece of paper to Dave.

Laura said, “I know that 305 is Miami, but where’s the 206 area code?”

“Seattle. Did Jack make or receive a call from that number?”

“He received it.”

O’Brien looked at the TV screen as the live interview with Sheldon continued. O’Brien said, “Laura, use Jack’s phone and call the 206 number.”

“You mean right now?”

“Yes. Quickly. Let it ring three times and disconnect.”

O’Brien looked closely at the screen. “Dave, turn up the sound.”

Dave adjusted the volume.

O’Brien didn’t blink. He watched the wide, two-shot. Sheldon on the right. The reporter on the left. Three seconds later, Sheldon moved. Almost as if he hiccupped. He coolly touched the breast pocket of his sports coat. O’Brien could hear the slight vibrating buzz from the phone that was less than ten inches from the tiny lapel microphone Frank Sheldon wore on his jacket.

SEVENTY-ONE

Laura Jordan waited for the third ring on her dead husband’s phone. She quickly pressed the END button and set it down on the kitchen counter, still holding her phone to her right ear. “Sean, who’d I just call?”

“Frank Sheldon.”

“Frank Sheldon! How do you know it’s his number?”

“Because I’m watching Sheldon being interviewed on live TV, and he touched the inside breast pocket of his sports coat at the first ring. I could faintly hear the buzz of the phone in his coat pocket.”

“What does this mean? Do you think Frank Sheldon was responsible for Jack’s death?”

“I think Sheldon’s a billionaire who’s used to getting anything he believes his money can buy. But I’m betting your husband couldn’t be bought.”

“Why would Jack tell him about the diamond?”

“Maybe he didn’t. You said Jack received the call from the number – a number I now know goes straight to Sheldon’s phone. Maybe someone else told Sheldon and he, Sheldon, called Jack to negotiate a deal. Maybe Jack refused and that started the chain of events into motion.”

“Do you think Frank Sheldon sent that man to my house the night of the break-in? Was he responsible for killing Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk?”

“Maybe.” O’Brien heard the subtle beep of an incoming call. He glanced at the phone screen, recognizing the number. “Laura, I have to take a call.”

“If Sheldon thinks I still have the diamond, what will he do? Are Paula and I safe?”

“Is there somewhere you can stay?”

“My mother’s house.”

“Go there. I’ll call you back.” O’Brien disconnected and answered the incoming call.

Detective Dan Brown said, “We found Cory Nelson.”

“Did you take him in?”

“Yeah, all zipped up in a body-bag.”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “What happened?”

“Someone used a piano wire garrote. Almost cut Nelson’s head off. Murder happened in his car. Looks like the killer was hiding in the backseat when Nelson got inside. From there, bam. It appears to have been one hell of a struggle. Nelson ripped a fingernail clean off trying to pry the wire from tightening around his neck. Bad damn way to die. The question is – who killed Cory Nelson and why?”

“Nelson had a key to Jack Jordan’s van.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“That’s why there was no sign of a break-in on the van the day Jordan was killed. With all the confusion that morning at the scene of the shooting, Nelson could have strolled to Jack’s van, unlocked the door and taken the diamond. He probably knew where Jack had it hidden until Jack could take it to the gemologist later that day.”

“So you’re saying whoever damn near sliced Nelson’s head off was after the diamond.”

“Most likely.”

“Maybe it’s Silas Jackson.”

“Possibly, but not likely.”

“Why?”

“Did a guy by the name of Paul Wilson contact you?”

“No, who is he and why would he contact me?”

“He works for the British government, and I told him you’re running the investigation into the murders.”

“Okay, O’Brien, I’m assuming he’s a field agent. Those guys play by no rules of engagement and jurisdiction. I doubt I’ll hear from him unless there’s something he needs and can’t find for himself. So the Brits want to get involved in this scavenger hunt. This must become real sticky across the pond.”

“A priceless diamond and a blood-stained Civil War contract with their name on it has a way of making things sticky.”

“Yes, so does four known deaths connected with what I’m calling the utter definition of a blood diamond – Professor Kirby, Don Roberts the hotel clerk, Jack Jordan, and now Cory Nelson. The slow-motion video damn sure indicates Nelson was the triggerman in Jordan’s murder…so who the hell slipped a wire around Nelson’s neck?”

O’Brien was silent.

“Gotta go, Sean. Looks like a fisherman found something near the river.”

O’Brien disconnected and turned toward Dave Collins. He was hunched over his laptop, punching the keyboard, white light bouncing off his bifocals. O’Brien said, “Detective Dan Grant said they just found the body of Cory Nelson, almost beheaded. The killer used a garrote.”

Dave said nothing for a moment. He looked up from his laptop. “If Nelson was complicit in the killing of Jack Jordan, and it looks like he was…maybe someone’s pawn…who’s the real mastermind behind the thefts, the killings, and presumably the blackmail of the Royal Family?”

“Did you locate that number Laura gave me?”

“Indeed.” He looked up over the top of his bifocals. “It’s a number connected to the British Consulate in Miami. Interesting. Did Jack Jordan dial it, or did he receive the call?”

“According to Laura, the call was made to his phone.”

“So who inside the British Consulate in Miami would be speaking with Jordan after the discovery of the diamond?”

“Someone who has access to Prime Minister Duncan Hannes.”

Dave eased back on the couch. He stared out the open doors to the cockpit, a forty-foot sports fishing boat was heading out of the marina into Ponce Inlet and the ocean. He said, “Looks like the proverbial excretion is about to hit the international fan. I’ll try Paul Wilson’s phone. He wrote his mobile number on the back of a charter captain’s brochure that Wilson picked up on the docks.” Dave pointed to a fishing brochure on the far end of the coffee table. “Sean, can you pass that to me? If I can’t reach Wilson, I’ll call Alistair Hornsby, my old colleague in London.” Dave glanced at his watch. “It’s about midnight London time.”

O’Brien picked up the card brochure, turned it over and looked at the hand-written number on the reverse side. He stared at it, concentrating.

Dave asked, “Something unusual?”

“Very. This is the number that was on Ike Kirby’s cell phone the night I found him.”

“What?”

“It was the last number Ike dialed before he died.”

SEVENTY-TWO

O’Brien caught movement on the port side of the boat. Max turned her head, ears cocked. Within seconds, tanned legs and worn flip-flops marched by the open windows on Gibraltar. Nick Cronus jumped straight from the dock onto the cockpit. He wore an unbuttoned tropical print shirt and faded orange swim trunks. “I swear to God—”

Dave held his palm up for a second. “Hold on, Nick. We have a situation.” He turned back to O’Brien and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me that Ike knew agent Paul Wilson. Why…what’s the connection? Was Ike somehow involved in this – the blackmailing of the prime minister and the Royal Family?”

O’Brien stood next to the salon’s open door, the breeze blowing his shirttail. “I don’t think Ike was involved. But I do think we have one very smart blackmailer and killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe it was the killer who made the last call from Ike’s phone?”

“The killer…why?”

“Because he wants to double-cross the man he’s working with – the guy with the expertise, the means and the encryption savvy to open the gates to the prime minster and the Royal Family. And that guy is agent Paul Wilson.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because, whoever killed Ike and hit the send button to Wilson’s number, wanted to lay a trail to Wilson – to suggest that Wilson and Ike had a liaison. Is that Frank Sheldon or someone working for him…or someone from the British Consulate in Miami? And, remember, when I first met Wilson here at the marina – I asked him if the Koh-i-Noor in the Crown Jewels was the real diamond. He hesitated, thought a second too long about his answer. When he said it was real and had been there 170 years, I suggested that this key information could take the wind out of the blackmailer’s threats because it would mean the Civil War contract might be a fake, too. But he shrugged it off, saying even a replica diamond could have been used as collateral with the contract.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that he knows the diamond pulled out of the river is real because they’ve tested the one in the crown. And whomever made the fake call to Wilson’s phone is brilliant and very deadly.”

Dave inhaled a chest full of air, slowly releasing it. “I’ll call Alistair and let him know he has one hell of a mess on his hands.”

“We’re dealing with a very cunning and diabolical assassin. And, right now, he probably has Paul Wilson in his crosshairs.”

Nick folded his thick arms across his chest and said, “Sean, Dave…listen, you got more than one situation, there’s another one down by the river. Switch it to Channel Two News. They’ve been running live news bulletins on a body found in the river. I never wanted for anything bad to happen to Sarvarna or Malina – or whatever her name was.”

“Was?” Dave asked, changing channels.

Nick nodded. “Hell yes, was. It has to be her.”

Dave switched channels. The video showed police and emergency personnel in a remote and heavily wooded section of the St. Johns River. Blue and red lights flashing, two sheriff marine boats on the river, a news helicopter hovering in the hard blue sky. The caption in the lower portion of the screen read: Eyewitness News LIVE feed. The camera panned to the right where EMT’s lifted a gurney covered in a white sheet. They rolled the body into the back of a dark blue van.

The reporter’s voice-over said, “Police are calling this a brutal homicide. To recap: they were alerted to the location of a woman found dead in the river, the body wedged up against exposed cypress tree roots. The cause of death is under investigation. However, the fisherman, Harold Frost, who first spotted the body, is here on the scene with me.” The shot pulled out wide, revealing a sixtyish man wearing overalls, Detroit Tigers cap, and white T-shirt and orange rubber boots. His weathered face was dotted with gray whiskers, eyes nervous. The reporter asked, “Mr. Frost, please tell us what you saw.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I was fishin’ for bass in the shoals when I saw what I thought was some kind of trash caught in the cypress knees. I motored my John-boat in closer and could see it was the body of a woman. I could tell she was dead. Poor thing.” He exhaled and licked his cracked lips. “She seemed to be in her thirties. Dark brown hair. Wearing a business suit of some sort. I could see that…” He paused and shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the river. “It looked to me like some sorry S-O-B had tried to decapitate her.”

“Did you see anything else? Maybe signs of someone in the area?”

“No. It’s a very remote section of the river.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frost.” The camera shot zoomed in on the reporter. “Police say they don’t believe the woman was from the area, or the country, for that matter. They found a blue Ford Escape, a rental car on a secluded back road not far from where the body was recovered. One detective told us the car was rented six days ago at Miami International Airport. They say a passport, from India, was found in a small purse hidden under the front seat of the car. They haven’t released the name of the murder victim. From Marion County, Liz Phillips, Channel Two News.”

Nick hugged his upper arms, his face heavy, eyes darkened by the shock of the news. He walked behind the bar. “Dave, you mind if I have a shot of your Jameson. I normally don’t drink the whiskey, but this isn’t a normal damn time.”

“Help yourself.” Dave turned toward O’Brien and said, “Remember, too, I told Paul Wilson that the Civil War contract was most likely being examined by my old friend. Ike Kirby. At that point, I might as well have given Ike the death sentence.”

O’Brien shook his head. “But you didn’t know at the time. Regardless, the killer had broken into Laura Jordan’s home. From there, he was immediately on the trail of Ike. And he hasn’t stopped there. He’s, most likely, killed his pawn, Cory Nelson, then killed the Indian IB agent because she was tracking him.”

Dave grunted. “I wonder how the killer got on her radar so quickly.”

“Maybe she found Paul Wilson first.”

“Why would Wilson tell her anything? Maybe he didn’t unless he became aware that the killer, his assumed partner, was throwing him under the bus. Wilson could have used Malina to take out whoever double-crossed him.”

Nick shook his head. “And the shit hit the fan for me not long after I watched her suck an oyster clean outta his shell. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought I was eatin’ oysters and knockin’ back ouzo with a beautiful spy.” He glanced at the muted TV screen, the news video repeating the images of a white-draped gurney being loaded into a coroner’s van. Nick made the sign of the cross. “What a waste of a beautiful woman. I forgive her.”

Dave looked at his watch. “I’m calling Alistair Hornsby in London.” He placed the call and stepped onto the cockpit to speak. He gave Hornsby a complete assessment and said, “It looks to me like you’ve got one hell of a breach on your hands.”

Hornsby was silent for a few seconds. He exhaled a weary breath into the phone and said, “We never suspected Paul Wilson. But we did have initial suspicions about a man who once trained Wilson.”

“Who was that?”

“You met him, Dave, at Vauxhall in London a few years ago. His working alias at the time was Bradley Edwards. His real name is Johnathon Fairmont. He led counter-intelligence for M16 leading up to the 2012 Olympics in London.”

Dave closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the man’s face. “Why just leading up, why not through the games?”

“Duncan Hannes, that’s why. Hannes replaced him with an old college friend who worked mid-level as an SIS domestic officer. Fairmont took a reassignment to the British consulate in Miami. Sort of a place in the sun where aging intelligence officers go to spend their last years. Initially, Fairmont made his displeasure quite clear. He’s been silent for a few years. Now it all makes sense. Fairmont has to be the brains behind the blackmailing. He’s used Paul Wilson like a steer headed to the slaughterhouse.”

“And Fairmont, no doubt, was the man who killed my dear friend, Ike Kirby. After he shot him in the head, Fairmont used Ike’s phone, making a dummy call to Wilson in an effort to divert suspicion to Wilson. You need to eliminate Fairmont immediately.”

“It’s not that easy. He was one of the very best in his prime. Almost wrote the SIS book on deception and leaving only trails you want the enemy to follow. When Fairmont was in the field, he had more than two-dozen known kills. Probably more. He’s very smart, deadly and absolutely ruthless. The prime minister has less than forty-eight hours before Fairmont releases the Civil War document and the results of what he alleges as an independent gemologist examination of the diamond.” Hornsby blew out a long breath. “Dave, you mentioned that your friend, Sean O’Brien first suspected Paul Wilson, correct?”

“Yes.”

“That was quite astute of him. Where can I find O’Brien?”

“Why, Alistair?”

“Maybe a man of his talents is for hire. Do you think he might be persuaded to help?”

“You can ask him. Here’s standing twenty feet from me.”

“Dave, please…whatever you do…don’t let him leave. I will ring you back in five minutes.” Hornsby disconnected.

Dave stood on the deck of the cockpit, a chop from the rising tide slapping the hull. He now knew who killed his dear friend, Ike Kirby. The assassin was an intelligence agent he’d briefly met years ago. Dave opened and closed his fists, his anger rising like the marina tide. He was hesitant to step back inside Gibraltar, now knowing that Alistair Hornsby was about to ask Sean O’Brien to face one of the most sinister rogue intelligence agents in British history.