Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

TWENTY-FOUR

O’Brien wanted to spend time at his cabin on the river doing physical work. Sweating. Thinking. In four days, he replaced and stained some of the wooden planks on his dock and cut brush around his property. He now was chopping wood near the river, shirtless, sweat rolling off his biceps and down his chest. He thought about the conversations with Professor Ike Kirby, the director and art director on the movie set – the casting agent.

Where was the painting?

Its discovery might provide Gus Louden with what he needed to prove his relative wasn’t a war deserter.

And it may prove why Jack Jordan died on the movie set.

Just let investigators handle it. Move on.

He lifted the ax above his head, his eyes focusing on the top of a log he was about to split in the side yard of his cabin on the river. He stopped, lowered the ax and reached down scooping a ladybug off the log. “It’s your lucky day,” he said, releasing the insect in the grass. Max trotted over and sniffed. “Leave the ladybug alone, Max. She almost lost her tiny head on the chopping block. She has a second chance.”

O’Brien turned and drove the ax into the wood, splitting the log into two pieces. Max followed him as he pushed a wheelbarrow filled with cut firewood. He stacked it in a bin he’d built near his screened-in back porch. He turned to Max and said, “We’ll get a few chilly nights here in Florida. This half cord ought to last ten years. I always heard that wood warms you three ways: when you cut it, when you stack it, and when you burn it. We did two of them today. How about some lunch?”

Max barked and trotted ahead of O’Brien up the path leading to the back porch. O’Brien loved the way Max enjoyed the outdoors – such a trooper, following him from place to place as he did his chores, like it was her job, too. He showered, changed to shorts and a T-shirt, and then turned on the TV in the kitchen as he fixed Max a bowl of food. The news was on the screen. O’Brien muted the sound and began making a turkey, hot mustard and sweet onion sandwich. He picked his phone up from the kitchen counter and made the call. “Mr. Louden, this is Sean O’Brien.”

“Did you find the painting already?”

“No. I did spend some time following a circuitous path. An antique dealer in DeLand bought it at an estate sale and then sold it, more than eight months ago, to a couple – Jack and Laura Jordan.”

“Do they have it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you going to check?”

“No.”

“May I ask you why?”

“Jack Jordan’s dead. He was killed on a movie set. Police say it was an accident. He’d lent the painting to the movie producers to be used in a few scenes. It was apparently stolen from the set and the theft was reported to police. You can check with the Volusia County Sheriff’s department if you want to. Or you can call the man’s widow, Laura. I have a number I got from the antique dealer, but I’m not going to intrude on her privacy at this time in her life.”

“I understand. I read about that shooting. My heart goes out to his wife and daughter.”

“How’d you know he had a daughter?”

“It was mentioned in the news story.”

O’Brien said nothing.

“Mr. O’Brien, you did a lot…you managed to track it down this far and fast. I will send you a check. You earned it.”

“But I didn’t finish the job and find it. Just send me a check for gas and lunch money. I wish you luck with the recovery of the painting. One other thing, do you know where the woman in the painting – the photo – is buried?”

“Yes, her grave is in a very small cemetery on the grounds of a place now called the Wind ’n Willows. It’s an old plantation on the National Registry of Historic Places. The property has changed hands many times over the years. But, when my great, great grandmother was alive, it was known as the Hopkins farm. Her maiden name was Anderson, and she married Henry Hopkins, the youngest of the three Hopkins sons. All three boys were killed in the war. Henry is the only one not buried in that little cemetery.”

“I wish you the best in locating the painting. You might want to follow up with police and the antique dealer to gather a few details before speaking with the widow of the man killed on the set. A final question, though: In the photo of the woman in the painting…she’s holding a flower in her left hand…do you know what kind of flower it is?”

“Yes, it’s called a Confederate rose. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Thank you, Mr. Louden. I wish you the best.” O’Brien gave him the phone number he’d received from the antique dealer and then disconnected. He looked at Max. “That’s that, Miss Max. No more looking for a mysterious painting. Let’s take out the canoe and fish for a bass. Perhaps we can find one almost as big as you.” Her tail jiggled. Max cocked her head, listening.

“But I keep thinking about something else. Who sent the Confederate rose and that note to Kim? The re-enactor who left a rose in the old cemetery doesn’t match the description Kim gave me. Maybe it was a one-time-thing, and it won’t happen again.” He looked down at Max. “But we both know better, don’t we?”

Something on the TV screen caught O’Brien’s eye. He reached for the remote, turning up the sound. A reporter stood in the Ocala National Forest, a movie crew adjusting lights and cameras in the background. The reporter said, “Although police are still calling the death on the set of the movie Black River, an accident, Laura Jordan, the widow of the man killed, Jack Jordan, said she does not believe her husband’s death was an accident. She told police that her husband, who was a documentary producer as well as a Civil War re-enactor, was working on a documentary about the last days of the Confederacy. Laura Jordan said her husband had been trying to track down the mystery of what happened to the gold in the Confederate treasury. Jordan says her husband stumbled onto something, perhaps even more valuable, a large diamond.”

The picture cut to a woman interviewed in the front yard of a home, a flag at half-staff behind her. The wind blew her dark hair. O’Brien could tell she had been crying, eyes puffy, nostrils ruddy. She said, “Jack and his crew found it in the St. Johns River. It was wedged in mud on the bottom of the river under fifty feet of water. It was a diamond, and Jack believed it was connected to the Civil War and the last days of the Confederacy.”

“Where is the diamond?” asked the reporter.

“Stolen. Jack had it hidden in his van. He was taking it to a gemologist right after he finished the scene he was in on the movie set. My husband never made it because someone killed him. The diamond was stolen. Police say they’re investigating, but so far nothing. Jack was a good man, a good husband, and a loving father to our daughter. Now he’s gone. How do you tell a four-year old her daddy’s never coming back home?” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, ending the interview.

The picture cut back to the reporter. “We talked with detectives, and they assure us that they take Laura Jordan’s assertions seriously. They say they could find no evidence of a break-in on Jack Jordan’s van. Forensics dusted for fingerprints. As far as the reported diamond goes, police say they are watching all pawn shops in the area, monitoring places like Craigslist. Was this alleged diamond part of the Confederate treasury at the end of the Civil War? How did Jack Jordan know where to look to find it in the river? And, if it’s all accurate, who else may have known about it? Now back to you, Karl, in the studio.”

The picture cut to a chisel-faced anchorman in a blue suit. He said, “Let’s hope the movie, Black River, has as much drama as the incidents surrounding the filming of the movie and that documentary. Confederate gold and maybe even diamonds. Now that sounds like an action-adventure movie. Tina James is up next with your weekend weather forecast.”

O’Brien looked at Max. “What do you say we use this TV for a boat anchor, okay?”

Max tilted her head in a dachshund nod.

O’Brien picked his phone up and hit redial. Gus Louden answered, clearing his throat.

O’Brien asked, “Have you called the widow, Laura Jordan?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good. Don’t call her. I will.”

“Does this mean you’re back…you’ll continue hunting for the painting?”

“Yes, that’s what it means.”

TWENTY-FIVE

O’Brien carried the file folder to the end of his dock, thinking about the widow – the look in her eyes, the delicate appeal in her voice. Even from the television screen, the isolation inside Laura Jordan’s heart was as visible as the tears on her cheeks.

Detectives were investigating her claim of theft from her husband’s van, a stolen diamond, a motive for murder. Life imitating art turned ugly on a movie set where lots of Civil War re-enactors were carrying their own authentic pistols and period rifles. If it was an accident, was it like the analogy Dave illustrated, a firing squad? No one knows which one of the rifles is loaded. But every member of the firing squad knows its collective intent – to execute someone. If Jack Jordan’s death was accidental, no one knew – not anyone in the entire advancing Union brigade knew about the Minié ball in the chamber.

Or did they? If it was a mistake, why didn’t that man admit it? Maybe he really didn’t know.

Stuff happens. Tragic, but it happens.

O’Brien thought about that as he stopped at the end of the dock, the river calm, a pumpkin-orange butterfly alighting on a dock piling, the scent of honeysuckles in the air. Max scampered down the dock, darting after lizards, her nostrils catching the wind over the river, brown eyes scanning for gators. A great blue heron skimmed across the river. O’Brien watched the bird’s flight, its wings almost touching the surface, its reflection off the flat water giving the illusion of two birds flying. The heron flew toward the oxbow bend in the river and alighted in the branches of a cypress tree.

O’Brien slid the photo out of the folder and stared at it. Looked at the woman’s face. Studied the river in the background. He thought about what Joe Billie had told him, the sinking of the sailboat, the soldier swaying from the mast in the night, life fading, and alligators circling below his feet. Wounded men dying in a river filled with alligators.

Where did Jack Jordan dive for a strongbox? And how did he know where to look?

A wild turkey flew from the far side of the river and landed at the top of an elevated and ancient, earthen burial mound near his cabin. The mound dated much further back than the Civil War, back before the Spanish conquistadors tracked all over this land in the 1600’s. The mound was built by the Timmacuan Indians, a race of people long gone. Annihilated by European diseases. More than two hundred thousand dead.

Stuff happens.

But sometimes it doesn’t have to.

He looked at the phone number at the bottom of the picture, the number the antique dealer had given him and made the call. After six rings, a woman answered, her voice reticent and flat. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Jordan?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“My name is Sean O’Brien. I am so very sorry for the loss of your husband.”

“Were you a friend of Jack’s?”

“No. I heard about his death on the news. I saw your interview today.”

“How’d you get Jack’s cell phone number?”

“It was on a card that your husband left with an antique dealer in DeLand. I’ve been searching for an old painting that you and your husband had bought in the store. It’s a painting of a young woman at around the time of the Civil War. I’m trying to help someone find it.”

“It’s no longer here. The painting was stolen from the movie set.”

“Do police have leads?”

“They haven’t arrested anyone. You said that you’re trying to help someone find it. May I ask why?”

“An elderly man asked me to help him find it.” O’Brien told her the circumstances.

“Who is this elderly man?”

“His name’s Gus Louden. He’s my client. I’m a private investigator.”

“Were you ever a police officer?”

“Yes, at one time. I was a detective with Miami-Dade PD.”

The woman was silent for a few seconds. “Jack was generous with most everything. We didn’t know if the painting had any real worth. It just had a different, unique look to it. Regardless, Jack let the art producers borrow it. Three days later it was gone. The studio said they’d pay to replace it. But how do you replace a painting from the Civil War?”

“How was the theft reported to the police?”

“My husband called them. That didn’t make the producers happy. It was about a week before he was killed. Police took the report, spoke with the film company’s art director, and said they’d keep an eye on local pawnshops, Craigslist, and eBay. And that was all that’s happened. It’s almost similar to how they’ve handled his death and the theft of the diamond.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were quick to rule it accidental…like they were under pressure not to make waves and interrupt the production of a hundred-million dollar movie.”

“You said in your TV news interview that you don’t believe your husband’s death was an accident, but rather a homicide. Beside the theft of a diamond, do you have any other reason to think it wasn’t accidental?”

She said nothing for a moment. “Mr. O’Brien, I don’t want to talk over the phone. Since you were a detective at one time, maybe we could meet. And yes, I do have a reason. It was found in the pages of an old magazine. It’s what pointed Jack to the river…and his eventual death.”

TWENTY-SIX

O’Brien didn’t look at his GPS once he turned onto Laura Jordan’s street. Her house was easy to spot. She’d told him it was the third home on the right. From the TV news clip, he recognized the same American flag flying at half-staff. The flagpole was attached to a pale yellow house, the flag hanging straight down, motionless in the early afternoon. He parked on the concrete drive under the limbs of a white oak, carried the file folder with the photograph, and walked down a fieldstone path to the front door, white impatiens blooming under sago palms.

O’Brien rang the doorbell and waited. He could hear the hum of honeybees in the blossoms, the call of a crow in the woods behind the house. Laura Jordan opened the door, holding the edge with both hands, as if she wasn’t sure she would fully extend the door. She took a deep breath through her nostrils, face tight, eyes swollen and drained. “It didn’t take you long to get here.”

“I have an old cabin on the river not too far from DeLand. It’s just Max and me there. She’s my miniature dachshund. Between her naps, Max is housesitting the rest of the afternoon.” O’Brien smiled.

Laura returned the smile. “Please, come inside. Would you like some coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

He followed her, the home neatly decorated with a blend of antiques and contemporary furniture. O’Brien noticed a gun cabinet with vintage rifles behind the glass. There was a painting of Civil War General, Robert E. Lee, hanging on the wall to the right of the cabinet.

A young girl, no more than four, sat on her knees in a chair at the kitchen table, a coloring book open, and a red crayon in her tiny fist. Laura said, “Paula, this is Mr. O’Brien.”

She looked up from the coloring book, her large blue eyes curious. “Are you Daddy’s friend?”

O’Brien smiled. “I wish I could have met your daddy. I’m so glad I get a chance to meet you, though. What are you coloring?”

“A picture. Big Bird. I’m not very good.”

O’Brien looked down at the page, the wings of Big Bird colored in blue, his head and body scrawled in red and yellow. He said, “That’s good. I really like your choice of colors.”

Paula smiled. “I made him blue.”

“Are there any butterflies in your book?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Do you like butterflies?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to draw one for you? Then you can color it, too.”

“Okay.”

O’Brien lifted a black crayon from the table, and on the edge of the page, next to Big Bird, he drew a butterfly. Paula’s eyes grew wide. She grinned. “What colors go on it?”

“You pick. Maybe something bright.”

“I like yellow.”

“Me too.”

Laura poured two cups of coffee, watching her daughter interact with O’Brien. She bit her bottom lip, and blinked back tears. “How would you like your coffee?”

“Black’s fine.”

“Let’s sit at the living room table.”

O’Brien looked at Paula and said, “I can’t wait to see how you color the butterfly.”

“Me, too.” She grinned, dimples popping.

He followed Laura into the living room. She set the cups and saucers on a wooden coffee table, O’Brien taking a seat in a chair across from the couch where she sat down. He said, “You have a sweet little girl. She’s animated and curious, a great combination.”

Laura smiled. “You’re good with children. Do you have kids?”

O’Brien was hesitant a moment and then said, “No.”

“Paula can’t fully grasp the death of her father. And I can’t totally explain it to her. She knows Daddy is in a better place, and one day we’ll all be back together again.”

O’Brien said nothing. He sipped his coffee.

Laura looked at O’Brien over the rim of her cup and said, “Jack was the type of man who would give you the shirt off his back if you really needed it. We were married for twelve years, and never in all that time did I hear him say something mean-spirited about another person. He was remarkable, and he had such a love for life and for his family and friends. He loved doing the Civil War reenactments. Paula and I would join him on some of the bigger ones in the summer. It was fun to reunite with people who came to those weekend camps and battles at old historic sites. Jack used to say he felt the spirits of the dead soldiers when he was on that hallowed ground.”

O’Brien nodded, letting her talk.

Laura looked over to a family photograph on the end table. In the picture, she stood with her husband and daughter in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Jack Jordan was holding Paula in his arms, snow falling around them. “Mr. O’Brien—”

“Please, call me Sean.”

“Sean, you said you were a police detective at one time…”

“For more than a dozen years.”

“Why’d you stop, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My wife, Sherri, she’d asked me to. Unfortunately, she was dying of ovarian cancer when she did. She wanted to spend more time together, to start a family, then she got sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And so now you work as a private investigator, right?”

“Sort of…just starting, officially, but only if I feel I can help someone. That’s why I wanted to show you this photo.” He slipped it from the folder. “The picture was taken on the bank of a river. The painting was made from it. Is this the painting that you had?”

She nodded. “Yes. We never knew that the artist painted it from a photo. It’s a remarkable, almost uncanny resemblance. You said it was found on a battlefield.”

“My client thinks the woman in the picture – the same woman that’s in the painting, is his great, great grandmother. Did you or your husband ever look at the back of the painting?”

“I didn’t…don’t think Jack did either. Why?”

“Because before his death on the battlefield during the Civil War, the man who’d commissioned his wife’s painting had written something on the back of it…and he’d signed his name.”

Laura stared at the photo in silence for a few seconds. “What was his name?”

“Henry Hopkins.”

She touched her throat with the tips of two fingers. “Henry?”

“Yes.”

“If you can locate the painting…maybe it’ll mean closure for Henry’s family after all these years.”

“I hope it happens.”

“I do too. I want closure as well. Not just for me, but for Paula. If her father was murdered, one day she needs to know why. And today I need to know. Sean, I don’t want to impose, and I don’t want to sound like a hysterical widow who just lost her husband and is looking for someone to blame. But because my husband died on a film set where there’s substantial money at stake if they have to delay shooting, I don’t think there’s a lot of motivation to call it a homicide if it can have the appearance of an accident. If you find that painting, maybe along the path you’ll learn whether my husband’s death was really an accident or a planned killing.”

“You said there is something found in the pages of an old magazine that might have played a role in your husband’s death. What was that?”

Laura sipped her coffee, her eyes again looking over to a family photograph on the end table. She glanced up at O’Brien. “The thing that entered our lives began when we spotted the painting. That’s what got our attention. But it was what we found between the pages that left us stunned.”

“What do you mean?”

“The antique dealer told us the painting and thirteen old magazines, most of them Saturday Evening Posts, came from an estate sale of an eccentric woman who’d lived outside of Jacksonville. The very last magazine in the stack had something remarkable hidden between the pages.” She stopped speaking and studied O’Brien’s eyes. “You look like a man who would keep his promise.”

“I am.”

“Can I trust you? I mean really trust you? Please, in the name of God, answer truthfully.”

“Yes, you can trust me. And that’s an absolute promise.”

“Okay…I believe you. I’m not sure why, but for some reason I do. And I need to believe you. I can tell you what was hidden in the pages, but to understand it fully, to understand the significance, I must show you.”