Black River (Sean O'Brien Book 6) Page 11

  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.”

  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.”

  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.”

  “Ar
e 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.”

  S he was gone almost five minutes. When she returned, Laura Jordan was wearing white cotton gloves and she carried a file folder in her arms. She sat on the edge of the couch and opened the folder, gently removing two papers, both aged the color of light brown mustard. “Sorry I took so long. For a minute I couldn’t remember the combination to the safe. Jack was the one who usually opened it. He and I found these in the magazine. My hands perspire each time I read them.”

  “What are they?

  “One is a letter, signed by a man named Henry. He might be the Henry related to your client. The other paper is a document—it’s an agreement between the Confederate States of America and Great Britain.”

  O’Brien leaned forward. “Are you saying this is a wartime contract between the Confederacy and England?”

  “Exactly. This is amazing when you read what it says.”

  “I’m almost hesitant to ask what’s written on that page.”

  “Well, for certain this is something no one ever studied in American history or British history classes because I doubt whether anyone alive knew about it until Jack and I found this stuff. The agreement is signed by Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States of America and Lord Palmertson, who was the British prime minister during the time of the American Civil War. You can read it, but what it says is that England agreed to partial backing, at least financially, of the Confederacy as long as the CSA was winning the war. Here’s some of what it says.” She looked down and read from the document. “It is agreed upon, on this date, August 14, 1861, that Great Britain will forgive remaining debt owed on seven warships commissioned by the Confederate States of America, built in Liverpool shipyards, and delivered to the CSA in Charleston, South Carolina. It is further understood and mutually agreed, that Great Britain will not seek repayment or restitution for monies lent to enable the CSA to purchase the
yacht known as America, a vessel to be fitted with British weaponry by the CSA, and used at its option in its succession effort. The bullion, more than one million pounds of gold, provided to the CSA treasury by special arrangement with Great Britain, shall remain in the CSA treasury, to be used at the sole discretion of the CSA. Whilst, it is mutually understood and agreed that the diamond on loan from Her Majesty’s Crown Jewels, shall be used only in a capacity of collective collateral assets, although never to be sold jointly or individually, bartered or traded. It is conclusively understood, agreed and guaranteed that this diamond, sometimes referred to as the Koh-i-Noor, will be returned to Great Britain from the CSA by special emissary within seventy-two hours of CSA’s war effort diminishing to the point of no probable restoration or victory. This decision is to be made solely by the Honorable Jefferson Davis, President of the CSA, after consultation with General Robert E. Lee and British Prime Minister Lord Palmertson. At which point the diamond will be returned to Lord Palmertson to be reinstated in its proper place within the Crown Jewels. All parties to this pact shall be sworn to absolute secrecy and confidentially, bonded by the signatures affixed to this covenant.” Laura sat straight back on the couch, her eyes lifting from the paper to O’Brien. “What do you think?”

  “If that contract is authentic, this would be huge international news and rewrite British and American history books. Overtly, England was said to have been neutral in the American Civil War, never taking sides with the Union or the Confederacy. But that contract suggests that the Queen of England may have partially financed the Confederate war machine. If nothing else, did she know her diamond was on loan from the Crown Jewels? And since the South lost, was it ever returned? Is this the diamond your husband found?”

  “This next paper, written by a man named Henry, may answer that. Let me check on Paula, and I’ll tell you what it says.”