Black River (Sean O'Brien Book 6) Page 18

  The image cut back to the studio. Dave muted the sound as Nick whistled and said, “Somebody tell me what the hell sixty-million rupee is in the good ol’ U – S – of – A dollar column.”

  Dave slid his glasses off the top of his head to his nose and reached for a hand-held calculator. He punched a few buttons, eyes growing wider. “It’s roughly ten-million dollars.” He leaned back on the couch, scratched Max behind her ears and said, “Sean, the mysterious woman in the photo, whom we now presume is Confederate Officer Henry Hopkins’ wife Angelina…the hunt for her portrait seems secondary, at best, to the hunt that’s going to happen if it’s confirmed that the diamond pulled from the river is the fabled Koh–i-Noor. Florida will be crawling with international bounty hunters. Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘solider-of-fortune.’ Some very wealthy people will hire the best mercenaries to find the diamond for private collections. Whoever stole that diamond now is about to become the most hunted person on earth.”

  Professor Ike Kirby wasn’t sure what to expect. His old friend, Dave Collins, had briefed him on the purported contract between the Confederate States of America and Great Britain. Ludicrous. That was his first thought. But then there were the odd events leading up to the death of the Civil War re-enactor. The deceased man had ostensibly been a serious student of Civil War history, and he was in the midst of producing a documentary about the war.

  Then there was the discovery of the apparent diamond. He’d seen the video. By now, more than half a billion people had viewed it. But was the diamond real? If so, maybe the contract would prove to be as well. He thought about that has he locked his car in the driveway, walked toward the ranch-style home, two barn swallows chasing gnats high above a mimosa tree bursting in lavender blossoms. He stepped onto the front porch of the home and rang the bell.

  The door opened and Laura Jordan said, “Hi…are you Doctor Kirby?” She looked up at the lanky man with bags of skin under his glistening eyes, silver hair neatly parted, short beard of salt and pepper whiskers protruding from a friendly but weathered face. He wore a corduroy sports coat over a denim shirt and blue jeans.

  “Please, the Ph.D. is only a formality, a required perquisite in my line of work. Just call me Ike. I’m assuming you’re Mrs. Jordan?”

  “And you can call me Laura. It was good to speak with you briefly on the phone. You said you’re attending a symposium in Orlando and working as a consultant on the movie, Black River.”

  “Yes. I’ve advised the director on a few historical perspectives to provide more accuracy for the film. As far as the symposium is concerned, I don’t take to the dais until tomorrow afternoon. A side expedition to your home is indeed a welcome diversion.”

  “Sean O’Brien said you’re close friends with his friend, Dave Collins.”

  “Dave and I go way back. May I come in?”

  Laura glanced over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the road and perimeter of the neighborhood. She saw a car drive slowly by her home. The car was a black BMW sedan. Dark tinted windows. She’d seen it before…but where?

  Professor Kirby cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

  Laura smiled. “Yes, I’m sorry…come in.” She led him into the dining room. “Please, have a seat at the table. Sean said that his friend Dave calls you the most knowledgeable person in the nation when it comes to Civil War history and antiquities. He said you were one of the experts interviewed for that Civil War documentary on the History Channel.”

  “It was a fun collaboration.”

  “Before his death, my husband was producing a documentary about the eleventh hour of the Confederacy, the dramatic escape of John Breckinridge and the lost Confederate gold.”

  “That’s a fascinating story. I’m surprised that great escape never made it to the big screen. I have no doubt it would make quite a movie. I do want to say I’m so very sorry for your loss. Dave told me what happened. He also said you believe your husband was murdered. Do you think it was because you two found the diamond and the contract?”

  “Yes. And, I’m sure you’ve heard, the diamond has been stolen. The old contract might not have much value to anyone but museums, history professors like you…and maybe some overzealous Civil War buffs.”

  “Mommy, can I go out and play?” Paula stood at the door between the kitchen and dining room. She held a plush animal, a giraffe, in her left hand.

  “A little later, sweetie. I’ll go in the back yard with you, okay? Right now we have a guest. I’ll be done soon and then we can go outside.”

  Paula smiled and left the room.

  Kirby said, “Walking up to your home, I noticed you have a wooden fence around your back yard. It seems very private, and yet I sense hesitancy from you to let your daughter play in the back yard. May I ask why?”

  Laura bit her bottom lip for a second. “Since Jack’s death, I’m very cautious of everything Paula does. To put it more succinctly, I’m fearful for her. We’ve received threats.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  “They’re coming because Jack and I found the Civil War contract. There are some people who believe it represents a departure of Civil War history—the South in particular, and they don’t want to see that happen.”

  Kirby nodded. “Perhaps, more than anything, it’s the romanticism of the cause for succession. That contract adds a new dimension.” He smiled. “Where is the document in question?”

  “On the phone, you said you could tell if the contract is real by doing some tests.”

  “I can do a preliminary examination here, but the other testing would have to be done back at the University of Florida lab.” He reached into a pocket inside his coat and pulled out a pair of white, cotton gloves.

  Laura stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  She returned with a large manila envelope, set it on the table, and carefully removed a file folder. She opened the folder and slid it toward her guest. Professor Ike Kirby glanced down through his bifocals, his pale blue eyes scrutinizing each sentence stopping to read some passages aloud. He lifted the pages in his gloved hands, fingers beginning to tremble as he continued reading. “Extraordinary…” he mumbled.

  “What is it? What have you found?”

  He looked up, his eyes suddenly dewy and distant. “It’s not what I’ve found. It’s what you and your husband found, Laura. If authentic, and on first inspection, it appears to be—this will change the historical narrative of the American Civil War. Because it seems the Civil War, was not exclusively American. The Confederate States of America financed, in part, by another nation—the United Kingdom.” He leaned back on the couch and took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “The science part of the testing begins with handwriting analyses. That signature definitely seems to match known signatures of Jefferson Davis. It’ll probably reflect the same thing for Lord Palmertson. I’ll test the 160-year-old paper and ink. But I believe the science will corroborate what I see here. This is truly an incredible find.”

  “What do you need to do now?”

  “Take it back to the lab at the University of Florida. The testing won’t take long. Dave Collins had explained the events prior and after the death of your husband. You might want to hold a news conference when we get the results.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this Civil War contract further validates the existence of the diamond, as viewed on the video with your husband. So if the contract is genuine, it only stands to reason the diamond is as well. Two peas now in an open pod of controversy. A priceless diamond and a Civil War deal involving England. If the diamond your husband discovered is the Koh-i-Noor, what is the repercussion? Laura, may I take this document to the lab for testing? I will do so under the utmost confidentially.”

  “Of course. How long will it take?”

  “The symposium wraps tomorrow and then I’ll drive back to the university in Gainesville. I’ll begin testing immediately. I’ll call you. In the meantime, I have one more night to stay at the Hampton Inn on L
aSalle Street. I’m in room twenty-three. In the event you need to reach me, I’ll write it down for you.” He jotted the information on a post-it note and handed it to Laura. “Don’t hesitate to call, for any reason.”

  “Thank you. Please call me as soon as you know for sure—when you know it’s real.”

  “I already know, at least I’m ninety-eight percent there. The testing, I believe, will confirm it. You will know as soon as I do.”

  Dave Collins sat at the Tiki Bar, eating from two shrimp cocktails while sipping a Guinness and reading an article in Smithsonian Magazine. He wore a white Panama hat, Hawaiian floral print shirt outside his shorts. He glanced up as Kim walked behind the bar toward him. She said, “Must be a good story you’re reading. You’ve barely put a dent into your shrimp.”

  Dave looked over the rims of his bifocals and nodded. “It’s an article about the pirate, Blackbeard. The man, more than any other, truly embodied what a real swashbuckling pirate was in that period.”

  Kim laughed. “And now they’re lawyers and bankers.” Then she bit her lower lip, inhaled and folded her arms across her breasts. “And they’re stalkers.”

  “Did he come to the Tiki Bar again?”

  “No. But he left a second rose under my car windshield wipers, and he left another note. Typewritten, just like the first one.”

  “What’d he write?”

  Kim glanced around the bar, a family of four taking their seats at a far table, ceiling paddle fans circulating the warm air. “All he said was this: ‘Let us go home and cultivate our virtues.’ I can’t even get a restraining order against this guy because I can’t prove it’s him.”

  “Have you told Sean?”

  “Not yet. I just found the second rose this morning. Sean’s so wrapped up in his investigation that…” She blew out a deep breath.

  “Kim, I have a feeling this is or will become part of his investigation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not trying to frighten you, but what if the guy sending you these Confederate roses is the man who shot Jake Jordan on the movie set? And what if that painting Sean’s looking for is somehow a part of this puzzle?”

  “I just got a chill and it’s eighty degrees at the marina.”

  “Tell Sean immediately.” Dave opened his tablet. “Using the phrase and key words, Civil War, maybe we can find the original source of that last message that came with the rose.” He keyed in the words and grunted.

  “What’s it say?”

  Dave glanced up and then read from the screen. ‘Let us go home and cultivate our virtues’…it was quoted from Robert E. Lee speaking to some of his men after Lee surrendered to Grant in Appomattox, Virginia.”

  Kim shook her head, pulling a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “What’s it mean? Why would some dysfunctional re-enactor write that and think I’d have any clue what it meant?

  “Because he’s not speaking directly at you. He’s speaking to a fantasy of you.”

  “Dave, that’s so crazy. Why me?”

  “I think it’s because he’s the same guy, the same re-enactor, that Sean said had a fascination with the painting that was stolen from the historic plantation where they’re shooting the movie Black River. To some extent, you have a resemblance to the woman in the painting.”

  Kim exhaled slowly. She reached under the bar and lifted up her purse. She glanced around the Tiki Bar, opened the purse and pulled out a .22 pistol. “I bought this. I’m taking shooting lessons at a gun range. I will use it if he comes near me.”

  “Kim, put the gun away. You have every right to defend yourself. I’m hoping it won’t ever come to that.” Dave punched in numbers on his mobile phone. “It’s ringing.” He handed the phone to Kim. “Tell Sean what you told me. If you don’t I will.”

  Kim reached for the phone and raised it to her ear.

  A half hour later, Dave strolled down the perimeter dock, Panama hat just above his thick eyebrows, his copy of Smithsonian Magazine in one hand. He walked past a marine broker’s office, T-shirt shop, snow-cone stand, heading to the dock store to pay his boat slip rent. He watched a sixty-foot charter fishing boat, loaded with sunburned tourists, chug into the marina, seagulls squawking and following close behind. He saw two porpoises break the surface of Halifax River, a half mile upriver from Ponce Inlet and the ocean.

  And he observed a man watching him.

  A tad over forty. Dark hair. A Daytona Beach T-shirt tucked inside his khaki shorts. The man wore sunglasses, sat on a wooden bench, earbuds wedged in his ears, iPad on his lap. He wore boat shoes, an absence of hair near the area of legs where socks would cover, a suggestion he wore socks often.

  Dave entered the marina store, paid his rent and exited. The man had moved from the bench. He was buying a snow cone. As Dave walked by the snow-cone stand, the man said, “Allister Hornsby sends his regards.”

  Dave stopped, a shadow cast from the brim of his hat and darkening half of his face. “Raspberry is the flavor of the day. May I offer you one?”

  “No thanks.”

  The man nodded, paid for the snow cone, turned toward Dave and asked, “Mind if I stroll a bit with you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I’m Paul Wilson.”

  “Well, you know who I am. Since Allister is an old friend of mine, let’s walk and talk.”

  They headed back toward the Tiki Bar, a brown pelican sitting on a dock post, turning its head to watch them, the bird shifting weight from one webbed foot to the other. Dave said, “I detect no trace of an accent. Where were you educated?”

  “In the states, Columbia. Back in the UK, Oxford. Allister sings your praises.”

  “He’s a good man. Paul, I know why you are here. But why come to this marina?”

  The man took a small bite from the snow-come, his eyes scanning the docked boats. “Because it appears to be the epicenter, if you will, to the situation facing the Prime Minister, and for that matter, the Royal Family.”

  “What do you mean by epicenter?”

  “The purported diamond was found near here. Our intel indicates the blackmailer is making his calls from the Central Florida area. And your friend, Sean O’Brien, a man with an interesting background, I might add—was seen on video throwing a reporter’s microphone across a car park lot when reporters got too close to the woman whose husband was killed on the movie set.”

  “And you think all of that is related?”

  “The widow’s husband mentioned the so-called Civil War contract on the video. We saw a close-up image of the diamond he and his crew discovered in the river. At this point, we believe the blackmailer has, or has access, to the diamond and the document. We’d like to recover both as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

  “Do you have any indication who may be behind the threats?”

  The man tossed his snow-cone into a trashcan, waited a moment while two bikers on custom Harley’s pulled into the Tiki Bar parking lot and turned off their engines. “No, not really. He’s smart. Knows encryption and hacking well. His accent, even though he speaks just above a whisper, is spot-on British. So it’s either a Brit or someone who really knows the nuances of the language.”

  Dave leaned up against a dock railing. “How can I help you?”

  “You can tell me what Sean O’Brien knows.”

  “He’s walking down the dock. You can ask him yourself.”

  Max scampered ahead of O’Brien, sniffing the dock posts, pausing to watch four white pelicans sail over the boats in the marina. She trotted to Dave. He leaned down, picking her up. “Miss Max, I saw ol’ Joe, the harbor cat stroll by here a half hour ago. So be on guard. Sean, I want you to meet Paul Wilson. Paul joins us from London and New York. He works for a former UK colleague of mine. Paul’s been assigned to seek out the person or persons responsible for the blackmail threat to Prime Minister Hannes and, ostensibly, the Royal Family.”

  They shook hands and Wilson said, “The situation is escalating. The black
mailer has given Prime Minister Hannes a deadline. We believe the perpetrator is operating out of Central Florida. Please share with me anything you can. For example, the man who was killed on the movie set, Jack Jordan…I’d like to ask how you came to know the Jordan’s, or at least the widow?”

  “There isn’t a lot to tell. I fell into this by default because I was trying to track down an old Civil War era painting for a client of mine.” O’Brien gave him a brief overview.

  Wilson asked, “Did you find the painting?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you find the diamond whilst you search for the painting, would you tell us?”

  “Probably.”

  Wilson said nothing for a moment, the sound of a sailboat halyard clanking against a mast in the breeze over the marina. “So at this moment, the document is still in Laura Jordan’s possession, correct?”

  “Maybe not,” Dave said, scratching Max behind her ears. “A dear old friend of mine, a professor of America history at the University of Florida, is meeting with Laura to examine the document. I suspect he’ll probably borrow it for further study at the university’s lab. The Civil War is his specialty. He’s written many books on the subject. His name is Professor Ike Kirby. I’ll give you his contact information. As far as the document’s next destination, I suppose that will be up to Mrs. Jordan. Let’s hope she is benevolent and willing to part with it.”

  Wilson smiled. “Indeed. Let us hope. In the meantime, I’d like to chat with the men on Jack Jordan’s documentary crew. Perhaps one of them has an insight.”

  O’Brien reached in his wallet and removed a business card. “This is the contact information for Detective Dan Grant. He’s a friend of mine and is one of the lead investigators on the case. He has all the names, players and maybe suspects. He’s investigating a Civil War re-enactor named Silas Jackson. Tell Dan that I referred you to him, and he may be generous and share what he has thus far.”