Black River (30 page)

O
’Brien wished he could have made L dock a mile longer. Maybe that would buy a little more time as he walked in the rain before reaching the end. Because near the end of the dock, beneath the glow of a security light, under a black umbrella, stood Dave and Max. Dave holding the umbrella in one hand, Max in his other hand. “Good morning, Sean. My next gift to you will be an umbrella. You’re soaked. Miss Max and I just returned from our nature walk. I’m almost afraid to ask where you’re returning from because your face looks gloomier than the grimy dawn that’s breaking around us. Tell me you found Ike sleeping soundly.”

“I found him…but I was too late…Ike had been shot.”

Dave said nothing for a moment, the sound of raindrops plopping against the umbrella. “Is he dead?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

Dave closed his eyes, his jawline hardening, his thoughts secluded. He blew air out of his cheeks and looked toward the lighthouse. Then he cut his eyes back to O’Brien. “Ike’s daughter recently gave birth to his first grandchild. A little girl…she was his pride and joy.” Dave’s voice softened, the sound of rain falling against canvas over
Jupiter’s
cockpit. He was silent for a long moment, staring at black clouds in the east, his blue eyes wet. He looked over to O’Brien. “Why? Why kill Ike over a relic from America’s past?”

“Maybe the contract—proof of England’s connection to the Civil War, along with the diamond from the Crown Jewels, is worth killing at least three people.”

“Three people?”

“Yes. Jack Jordan…Ike Kirby…and a night clerk at the hotel where Ike was staying.”

“I need to sit down, Sean. My head is pounding. Let’s retreat to
Gibraltar
. ”

O’Brien stood next to the bar in the trawler’s salon as Dave brought up a white towel from the head and handed it to him. “Dry off before you catch pneumonia. You can use that towel to dry Max too. Why the hell did the assailant shoot the night clerk?”

“Because he wanted to take out the surveillance cameras before he made his way to Ike’s room. There was a round fired into the hard drives of the camera’s back-up system. After that, he either had a key or picked the lock to Ike’s room. I found Ike in his bed, shot at least once. I couldn’t find the Civil War document. Unless he had stored it in a hotel safe, the contract was stolen from his room.”

Dave lifted a bottle of Jameson from behind the bar and poured three finger’s worth into a glass. “Care to join me?”

“I still have work to do.”

Dave nodded, swirled the whiskey and sipped. He stared out the port side window across the tranquility of the marina, his thoughts sequestered. “I was best-man at Ike and Judy’s wedding. Godfather to his first daughter. He was a brilliant, good and kind man.” Dave turned toward O’Brien. “Ike was simply doing a favor for me. Checking the authenticity of the document. It’s the kind of thing that he was very good at doing—tracking down histories’ mysteries. Always curious. Suffice to say, the Civil War contract and its probable relation to an infamous Crown Jewels diamond, a diamond that now appears to have been used as collateral in America’s bloodiest war, was Ike’s Super Bowl. Or it least might prove to have been, had he lived.”

“There’s something else. I found Ike’s phone in the room. On the floor. It looks like he was trying to make call when the killer entered the room.”

“Maybe it was to 911.”

“No, another number. It didn’t look like the call went through before Ike was killed. The perp may have looked at Ike’s recently dialed numbers, his text messages or voice-mail.”

“I left Ike a voice-message earlier tonight.”

“What’d you say?”

“I was responding to a message he left me. He was sure the contract was original and legitimate. I invited him to breakfast. I mentioned that your quest for a lost Civil War painting was following a twisting path that could possibly lead you to the diamond. And I said your power of observation, detection, was unrivaled. What if the shooter has the diamond too? He’d know that your paths might cross. Any element of surprise you may have could be compromised.”

“What if he doesn’t have it, but thinks I do, or that I know where it is? The message you left for Ike could work in our advantage if it draws this guy to me.”

“You have no idea where he is or what he looks like. But he does know you have a boat at the marina. He could show up here and appear to be like any tourists hunting for a charter boat to hire. Be on high alert, Sean.”

“I didn’t want to tell Detective Dan Grant that I was the first responder on the scene, which later proved to be a crime scene. If he knows I was there before the troops arrived, it’ll only add to the paperwork without advancing the investigation into Ike’s death. Ike’s ID will be all over the news soon. Then you can call Dan Grant, tell him you left a voice message on Ike’s phone if you think it’ll help with the investigation.”

Dave drained the remaining Irish whiskey, setting the glass on the bar, his face blossoming, flushed from the alcohol. He wrapped both hands around the empty glass, staring at the muddy dawn settling over the marina, his blue eyes dewy, watching a charter boat cruising toward the pass. He looked up at O’Brien. “Ike was a gentle human being. A wonderful historian who helped his students understand the
why
factor in history and those dead poets, prophets, politicians, leaders and losers whose decisions or indecisions changed the course of human events. One of Ike’s favorite quotes, something he alluded to in his classroom, was from Marcus Aurelius. He said,
‘Death smiles at us, and all a man can do is smile back.’
I don’t believe that. Murder isn’t a natural death. A bullet, at two-thousand feet per second, cuts
through time and space, turning the human brain to confetti and shattering any allusions as to a noble death.”

O’Brien was quiet, letting his friend talk. Dave poured a second drink. “Sean, in previous, malicious dealings such as this, I always suggested to you prudence and avoidance, if possible. Not this time…hell no, not this time. Find the assassin. Find the bastard—whoever is behind this. Do it for Ike. Take no prisoners.”

“I’ll find him.”

Dave nodded. “I need to be alone right now.”

“I understand.” O’Brien picked up Max, turned and walked out onto the cockpit, the teak wood wet from the rain, the marina veined in murky shadows. He heard the clink of glass on glass as Dave poured another drink, and then he heard Dave weeping, two painful sobs. O’Brien’s palms were moist, mouth dry, an acrid taste like copper in his throat. He stepped up to the pier and walked down L dock toward black clouds churning over the Atlantic. No hint of dawn beyond the swirling edge of darkness.

I
t was a phone call that O’Brien didn’t want to make. If he told Laura Jordan too much, she may figure out that he was at the crime scene before police found Ike Kirby’s body.

And there was no sign of the Civil War contract.

After the murder of her husband, and the theft of the diamond, the news about the stealing of the contract would continue to pour acid on her pain. But, she didn’t need to learn the news from a local television station, so O’Brien made the call. When she answered he said, “Laura, something horrific has happened, and I want to give you what information I’ve heard.”

“What is it, Sean? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Ike Kirby has been a victim of a homicide.” He heard her gasp. O’Brien said, “Police are investigating a double murder at the hotel where Ike was staying. Apparently, the killer murdered the clerk and Ike.”

“Oh dear God. I am so, so sorry. He was just here. I need to sit down. He was so kind…I don’t have words…”

O’Brien could hear a muffled sob. He said, “Laura, whoever killed Ike probably stole the Civil War document. That would be the only reason his life was taken.”

“This must come to an end. Why in God’s name? He was such a sweet man. I feel so bad for his family.”

“I’m not certain, but odds are whoever killed Ike was the same man who killed Jack. If police can find this killer, it’ll help some with closure for you.”

“I don’t know what that word means anymore. I have to go, Sean.”

Four days after the double homicide in the hotel, Detective Dan Grant thought he’d have to lead a raid on the man’s house deep in the Ocala National Forest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. The man, Silas Jackson—a white supremacist with a record of violence, was expected to pick up a paycheck at the accounting office trailer for the movie,
Black River
. He was to be compensated for a week’s worth of work before his termination. The accountant for the movie, a forty-something, no nonsense woman with a Boston accent, told Detective Grant that Silas Jackson said he’d be in around 1:00 p.m. to pick up the check.

Dan Grant was there at noon. He was there, waiting with his partner, Larry Rollins, a poker-faced, large-boned man with a military haircut and a tiny pink scar between gray eyebrows. At 1:00 p.m. sharp, Silas Jackson opened the door to the office and entered. Dan Grant said, “Mr. Jackson, we’d like a word with you.”

“I already talked to you. Nothing’s changed.”

“Murder changes everything.”

“You got the wrong guy.”

“We want to speak with you about the death of Jack Jordan.”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

“Let’s step outside the office.” Grant motioned to the door and waited for Jackson to exit. The detectives followed him outside, actors and production crew moving about the lot. Grant said, “Over here, in the shade.”

They stepped to the shade under a lofty live oak. Detective Rollins leaned in and asked, “Where were you Sunday night ago? Around four in the morning?”

“Home in bed.”

“Anybody with you?”

“I ain’t married.”

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Dan Grant said, “Well, we know where you were two weeks before Jack Jordan’s death. You were on a secluded part of the St. Johns River, and you were watching Jordan and his film crew pull a diamond out of the river. Not only were you watching, you were watching through a riflescope. What kept you from shooting Jordan in the river? Too many people? Figured you’d better not kill them all. So you’d bide your time until there was a better opportunity.”

Silas Jackson said nothing. He ran his tongue inside one cheek, glancing at the actors standing near a craft services food truck.

Grant half smiled. “Sort of ironic—as you were pointing a rifle at Jack Jordan, the film crew on the pontoon boat captured you in its lens. And you know what gave it away? Your Confederate uniform. We had a video company enlarge a few single frames and guess what we found. We found you, Jackson.” He held up a sheet of photographs. “The uniform you were wearing when you auditioned to be part of the cast for the movie matched these shots the wardrobe department took of you.”

“Plenty of men around here, especially now, have access to a Confederate uniform.”

“But they don’t have access to your boots. Take off your left boot, Silas, and hand it to me.”

Jackson raised his right eyebrow, his face contorted, looking hard at Grant. “Why?”

“Because we said so,” snapped Detective Rollins. “You got a choice. You either do it here, or we take you downtown to check your hoof. What’s it going to be, pal?”