Black River (Sean O'Brien Book 6) Read online

  Dave said, “Maybe he dropped it into Bugg Spring.”

  Ike smiled. “Maybe. The water is crystal clear, but it’s very deep and veers off into underwater passages. No one could begin to treasure hunt there now.”

  “Why’s that?” O’Brien asked.

  “Because the U.S. Navy conducts most of its ultra-sensitive and ultra-secret underwater sonar tests there. What they learn makes it into navigation systems for nuclear submarines. Anyone going into that spring would be shot.”

  Nick sipped a Corona, chuckled and said, “I used to dive for sponges. I can find anything underwater. Even lost submarines, right Sean and Dave?”

  Dave said, “Nick’s a human sonar. A porpoise under the sea.”

  Ike’s gray eyes ignited for a second. He reached for the photo next to O’Brien. “May I see that one more time?”

  “Sure.”

  Ike looked at the woman’s picture for a few seconds, her face reflected in the lights onto the lower portion of his bifocals. “Ahh…now I remember. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a painting on the movie set that’s similar to this.”

  “Where on the set?” O’Brien asked.

  “In an antebellum plantation-style home known as the Wind ‘n Willow near Ocala. The film company is renting it to shoot scenes there. I believe the painting was used as a prop and hung in the great room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano. The painting was used in some of the first scenes they shot. But I don’t believe they’ve finished shooting in the house.”

  Dave said, “If it is this puzzling painting, it means it was bought by Jack Jordan and his wife in that antique store you found, Sean. Maybe, since he was in the movie, he let the art department borrow or buy it.”

  Nick said, “Well, if it was on loan, the dead man’s wife still owns it. And I’m bettin’ she wants it back big time.”

  “How do I find this place?” O’Brien asked

  “The Wind ‘n Willow Plantation is off highway 122. South of Ocala. The street is Dixie Drive. I don’t remember the address. But it’s easy to find.” Ike reached inside his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s a business card for the art director. Guy’s name is Mike Houston. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. Everybody on the set acts a little frenzied, and since the death, they’re quite excitable.”

  “Thanks, I’ll drive out there in the morning. Maybe I can wrap this thing up.”

  “That’s possible,” Dave said, reaching for a napkin. He watched the rotating beam from the lighthouse for a second. “Sean, if this is that painting, you’ve done what you were commissioned to do. If the widow, or even the film company owns it, your client may want to buy it, or snap a picture of whatever’s written on the backside of the painting. And you, with your first PI job, can quietly walk away. But something is gnawing at my gut and telling me it might not be that simple.”

  It wasn’t hard for O’Brien to find the Wind ‘n Willows plantation. A bronze plaque near a slate-rock fence on the perimeter of the property indicated the estate was included on the National Register of Historic Places. O’Brien didn’t take time to read the inscription as he followed a film production lighting and grip truck down a winding gravel drive through manicured property that included a grove of pecan trees, stately live oaks, blooming azaleas, and camellias.

  A white-columned, Greek Revival plantation home could be seen at the end of a long row of trees. O’Brien parked his Jeep under a century-year-old oak, limbs swathed with Spanish moss, blackbirds squawking in the branches. He got out and began walking down a long gravel driveway toward the great house, the sweet scent of blooming magnolias heavy in the motionless air.

  Dozens of production vans, cars and two semi-trucks were parked in an adjacent field. Film crew workers, most wearing shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps, moved around the property, walkie-talkies crackling. Actors dressed in period clothing stood in small groups chatting, some sipping coffee from white Styrofoam cups, others sitting at folding tables beneath large awnings. The crew carried lights, jibs and dolly tracks inside the front door of the old home.

  Beyond the mansion, at the end of the pecan grove, an actor sat motionless on a chestnut-brown horse. O’Brien watched him for a moment. Even on a film set, in the midst of art in motion and life fixed on storyboards, the man on horseback looked somehow out of sync with the rhythm of the movie set.

  O’Brien walked closer to the mansion, approaching a college-aged girl, blond hair pulled through an opening in the back of her baseball cap. He smiled and asked, “Are cameras about to roll?”

  “Getting close.”

  “Are you the director?”

  She grinned. “One day, maybe. I’m a PA, short for production assistant. This is my first feature since graduating from film school. They have me working props, shipping and receiving stuff.”

  O’Brien extended his hand. “Sean O’Brien.”

  “Katie Stuart, nice to meet you. Are you an actor?”

  “I don’t have the talent. For you, it sounds like a good start in the biz. Is Mike Huston, the art director, on set?”

  “He’s like the big guy in the department. I don’t even think he knows my name. Just a sec.” She held one hand up, listening to chatter coming through a single earpiece connected to a walkie-talkie. Her eyes searched the surrounding area, then she spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I don’t see Phil. He might be in his trailer. I’ll try to find him.” She turned back to O’Brien. “Sorry, it’s typical crazy, but like in a good way.”

  “And that’s a good thing.” O’Brien smiled.

  She pushed a strand of blond hair back under her hat. “Absolutely, especially after the accident. We’re all trying to move forward. Are you with the police?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You’re looking for Mike, right?”

  O’Brien nodded.

  “He’s probably inside the house. I’d lead you to him, but I’m not sure I can do that. Set protocol and whatnot. Also, I need to find an actor who’s MIA.”

  “He’ll be back. Actors need some direction to run away. Describe Mike for me.”

  She smiled. “He’s not quite as tall as you. Kinda losing his hair. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he’s carrying an iPad. Gotta go.” She turned and left.

  O’Brien walked up to the huge front porch, climbed a dozen steps centered between large white columns. Wooden rocking chairs, a porch swing and antique outdoor furniture were tactically positioned on the veranda. He followed power cables into the house, nodding at production assistants, gaffers, and camera and sound technicians going in and out.

  Inside, they were preparing to shoot a scene in a great room, one wall lined with old books, a massive stone fireplace, and hot lights shining through diffusion screens. O’Brien tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He watched the assistant director position two stand-in actors as the lighting was set. He remembered what Professor Ike Kirby said: “I believe the painting was used as a prop, hung in the huge parlor room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano.”

  O’Brien looked at the walls, above the piano, over the fireplace. Lots of paintings. Art depicting Civil War era dynasties, landscapes, sailing ships—but nothing resembling the woman in the photograph. He could feel the mood on the set change, like an abrupt change in weather.

  The crew seemed to part as a man in his mid-fifties entered the room. He had long limbs, dirty blond hair, and a lined and timeworn face. He walked with a distinct gait across the wood floor. O’Brien assumed he was the director as he stepped up to a man that matched Mike Houston’s description—black shirt, sleeves rolled up. They looked at the monitors together, each man speaking in a low tone.

  O’Brien waited for them to finish before approaching. He worked his way around the production crew and actors, removing the photo from the file folder, walking up to the person he assumed was Mike Huston and said, “Excuse me. Mr. Houston
, Professor Ike Kirby suggested that I see you.”

  “Ike’s been a savior on this film. He has an enormous understanding of Civil War history. What can I do for you…I didn’t catch your name.” The director didn’t acknowledge O’Brien.

  “I’m Sean O’Brien, Mr. Houston. Professor Kirby told me about a painting that’s being used as a prop for the movie. It was painted from this old photo.” He extended the photo. Mike Houston held it in one hand. O’Brien continued. “Is it here, on the set?”

  “It was, but I’m sorry to say it’s no longer here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. After the third day of shooting, we became aware it was gone when we were playing back scenes for continuity.” He gestured toward a far wall to his right. “It hung above the piano. And it was in every wide shot we took.”

  “Was the theft reported to police?”

  “Of course. Its owner, a re-enactor we had hired, loaned it to us.”

  “Who was the re-enactor?”

  Houston glanced at the director for a beat. “His name was Jack Jordan?”

  “Was?”

  “He died in a tragic accident.”

  “The shooting?”

  As Houston started to answer, the director said, “This is a closed set, Mr. O’Brien. What’s your real business here?”

  “The painting originally belonged to my client’s family. My client is elderly and ill. He wants to find the painting before his death. It has a lot of history and meaning for him. I’m simply trying to locate it, not recover it.”

  The director lifted one eyebrow, touched the tip of his nose like he was swatting a gnat. “Client? Are you a lawyer?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Which means you’re not a legitimate police detective. You’re costing me time and money. We have a film to shoot. Leave now or we’ll call security and escort you off the property we’re leasing.” The director turned his back and walked over to the director of photography.

  O’Brien glance up at the wall behind the piano, placed the photo back in the folder, and walked out the door. On the porch, he stepped to one side as six actors—four women and two men, dressed in Confederate uniforms and period gowns started to climb the steps. Personal assistants, a publicist, and hair and make-up people followed them. A behind-the-scenes photographer snapped a candid picture of the ensemble before they entered the cavernous mansion.

  O’Brien started for his car, his thoughts replaying what Mike Houston had said about how he discovered the painting was missing when he looked at the scene takes. O’Brien’s mind raced. Now I know the painting exists. It was caught on camera…but the camera can’t reveal what was inscribed on the back of the canvas.

  O’Brien was almost to his Jeep when heard footsteps coming from behind him, walking faster. “Pardon me,” came a man’s voice.

  O’Brien turned around, expecting to see a security guard. A man wearing a Confederate uniform came closer. He was unshaven, dark whiskers, elongated face damp from perspiration. He said, “Couldn’t help but overhearing you back there on the set. Heard what you said about the painting. Name’s Cory Nelson.”

  O’Brien looked at the man’s medals. “Do I call you Captain Nelson?”

  “Only if you’re doing a reenactment with me.” He grinned. “When I’m wearing my Confederate uniform I’m a captain. When I’m dressed as a Union soldier I’m just an enlisted man.”

  “So are you a re-enactor who can fight for either side, the blue or the gray?”

  “You work more in the movie and TV biz that way. I’m more of an actor than a re-enactor. I’m pretty good at accents, especially Scottish and English. Hell, I’ve even worked in theater.” He glanced to his right and left. “That painting belonged to a friend of mine. He was the one killed in that freak accident on set.”

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

  “You said your client is looking for the painting. Mind if I ask why?”

  “It would prove that a relative of his wasn’t a deserter during the Civil War. And at my clients advanced age and health, it’s important for him to know.”

  “I understand. Too bad somebody walked off with it, especially considering what happened to Jack.”

  “Were you there when he died?”

  “Yeah…but not right where he was killed. By the time I got there, they had a sheet over Jack’s body and the cops were on the scene.”

  “And no one knows which rifle fired the fatal shot, correct?”

  Nelson raised his blond eyebrows. “No, at least I don’t think anybody knows. Jack didn’t make enemies. It was the first battle scene filmed…just carelessness. Somebody not checking his firearm thoroughly. It’s sad. Jack left a wife and little girl.”

  “Do you know where Jack found the painting?”

  “He and his wife, Laura, bought it at some antique shop. Jack showed the painting to Mike, the art director you just met. Mike loved the painting. He wanted to buy it, but Jack told him it wasn’t for sale. Mike wasn’t the only one who had a fascination for the painting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a re-enactor who couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He was one of the first hired on the movie. Jackson lasted a little more than a week. He began questioning how the filmmakers were doing their thing.”

  “Questioning?”

  “This guy’s a purest. He lives and breathes Civil War reenactment like a religion. If he didn’t like the way the assistant director was lining things up, he questioned it for realism. The film folks were patient at first, but that changed and they had security walk him off the set.”

  “Does he portray Confederate and Union soldiers as an actor or re-enactor?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Never. For him, it’s the gray all the way. He has rebel blood flowing in his veins.”

  “Where do I find Silas Jackson?”

  Nelson grinned, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “He’s about as close to the Aryan Brotherhood that you’ll come across. Hell, maybe a lot worse. Some call him a radical anarchist and prepper.”

  “Prepper?”

  “Yeah. He’s always preparing.”

  “For what?”

  “Civil dissolution in the country. He says he wants to take the nation back. He has a trailer deep in the Ocala National Forest. Hunts and traps. Lives off the land, for the most part. He makes the dudes on Duck Dynasty look like boy scouts. I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Sean O’Brien.”

  He nodded and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know for sure that Silas Jackson stole that painting you’re hunting for, Mr. O’Brien, but he’d stare at it and say stuff like he could feel the presence of the woman in the painting. He said she was reawakened in another woman, and when he found that other woman, he’d know it. Crazy stuff.”

  O’Brien said nothing for a long moment. “You said he lives deep in the forest. How deep?”

  “Near the headwaters of Juniper Creek.” Nelson pulled a watch out of his pocket. “I need to get back to the set.” He dropped his cigarette and used his boot to crush the hot ash.

  O’Brien looked at the boot print a second and then lifted his eyes to Nelson. “Thanks for the information.”

  “No problem. Maybe you can find that painting somehow, help get it back to Jack’s wife, Laura. Cops haven’t found it. Probably won’t.”

  As Nelson turned to leave, O’Brien said, “One last question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’s the casting department?”

  “It’s in a trailer near the grassy lot where most of the cars are parked.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you do go into the forest looking for Silas Jackson, you’d better take some men with you. He’s got a like-minded group of followers who meet with him from time to time. They camp, ride horseback in the w
oods, shoot at cutout targets of politicians. Silas is always armed. And he was born dangerous.”

  The casting trailer was parked in the shade under a live oak. O’Brien knocked on the door and entered. A middle-aged woman with full lips, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat behind a modular desk, one hand on a computer mouse, eyes trained on the screen. She wore tight faded jeans and a T-shirt that read: Black River – The Movie. She looked up at O’Brien and said, “If you’re here to read, I’m sorry. All the parts are cast.”

  O’Brien grinned. “Darn, I guess I missed the cut.”

  She leaned back in her chair a moment and smiled. “Hardly, you most definitely would have made the cut, but you missed the casting deadlines.” She glanced at her computer screen and then raised her eyes back up to O’Brien. “I’m casting for a TV series in two months. You could be just what the director is looking for in one role. You ever play a bad guy?”

  “Only if I’m forced to.”

  She smiled. “Do you have a headshot, resume?”

  “Maybe I can come back with that. In the meantime, you might have a headshot on file of an actor who auditioned.”

  “What’s his or her name?”

  “Silas Jackson.”

  “Let me see.” She typed on her keyboard for a few seconds, squinting. “Umm…I do have a head shot. But it’s not one that he carried in here. I remember when I met him. He brought half a dozen of his Civil War reenactment buddies with him. I hired them all. Wardrobe department actually took the shots to keep for continuity purposes, mostly. But with these guys, you don’t have to worry about realism. They know period clothing better than just about anyone.”

  “Can I have a look?”