Black River (31 page)

Jackson sat in one of three folding chairs in the shade, lifted his left boot, removed it and handed the boot to Grant. He looked at the sole and the bottom of the heel. He gave the boot back to Jackson and said, “I’m betting this chink in the heel matches one of the boot prints found on the ground where you stood by the big cypress tree that day down by the river. The same place where we found some loose change on the ground next to a musket …a .58 caliber. And that’s the rifle you used on the movie set.”

“Ya’ll boys are makin’ a big mistake.”

“You made the big mistake when you shot Jack Jordan, then you killed a history professor who was examining the old contract from the Civil War.
And you took out a hotel clerk who just happened to be there when you were about to commit murder.” Grant studied Jackson’s eyes. “How the hell is an old contract, something that is useless today, worth killing to get it? Civil War’s been over for a long damn time, Silas.”

“The first war one, maybe. The second one is just beginning. You got no evidence tying me to shootin’ some history professor. And I didn’t shoot Jack Jordan or anybody else.”

Grant smiled. “I didn’t say the history professor was shot. He could have been knifed, or strangled, or pushed in front of a train. How’d you know he was shot?”

Jackson said nothing, white cottonwood blossoms floating the breeze behind him, a blue heron calling out as it flew to the top of a pine tree. He watched a mosquito alight on his forearm, sticking its snout into the center of two six-shooter pistols tattooed on his arm, fire coming out of the barrels. Jackson scrutinized the mosquito drinking, then he slapped it, blood smearing over tattoos. He wiped his palm on his jeans, then cut his eyes up to the detectives. “Ya’ll are bloodsuckers, too.”

Grant leaned in closer to Jackson and said, “I don’t believe you give a crap about some dusty Civil War contract. I believe you stole the diamond. It’s the one thing that can finance your little army and your big cause. Or maybe trade it for arms. Where’s the diamond?”

“I didn’t steal it. But if I had, I’d damn sure hock it to finance a cause that’s spelled out in the U.S. Constitution. Maybe you ought to read it sometime.”

Grant pointed to a twenty-year-old green Ford pickup truck parked near a semi-truck loaded with production lights and equipment. “That Ford 150 yours?”

“Yeah.”

Grant looked at Rollins. “Tell him what you have, Larry.”

Detective Rollins nodded. “We have video of your truck rolling through a red light at the intersection of Seaside and Atlantic Avenue at 4:17 in the morning Ike Kirby was killed. The Hampton Inn is less than a half-mile away from that intersection. Wanna tell us what you were doing at that location at that time?”

“No law, at least not yet, against a morning drive.”

“But there is a law against murder.”

“You’re trying to railroad this shit on me because of all the publicity. The government’s most likely behind this bullshit game. I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get one,” said Detective Rollins. “The very best legal minds Confederate money can buy.”

O
’Brien was driving to Laura Jordan’s home when he received the call. He looked at Max, her head out the open window on the passenger side of the Jeep. She snorted and wagged her tail as O’Brien pulled in behind a dozen cars parked in front of the home, the smell of a barbecue in the air. It was Paula’s fifth Birthday, and Laura had invited friends and family to her home to help make the little girl’s birthday as customary and special as possible.

“Looks like we got the perp,” Detective Dan Grant began. He told O’Brien about the questioning of Silas Jackson and added, “He didn’t bat an eye when we informed Jackson it was him on the video holding a rifle and aiming it at a man who was shot a few weeks later.”

“Did you find the Civil War contract or the diamond?”

“Not yet. We’ve resorted to satellite images to try to locate his trailer somewhere out in the national forest. We’ll find it. There was nothing in his truck.”

“You think Jackson killed Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk?”

“Probably. We have traffic video of him easing through a red light in the wee hours of the morning not far from where the professor and clerk were killed. That’s enough to keep Jackson here for rounds of questioning. He’s trying to lawyer up. I don’t think he has the money. He’s nothing more than a radical white supremacist. A hate monger. He’s simply an internal terrorist living a
Gone with the Wind
warped fantasy.”

“Thanks for letting me know you picked him up.”

“Professional courtesy. You tipped us off to that stuff under the cypress tree near the river, including Jackson on the video. We missed seeing him first time the video was viewed. It was definitely Jackson standing there…right down to the small crack on the heel of his left Civil-War-era boot. Later, Sean.”

O’Brien followed Max as she trotted from the street up to the house, the smell of barbecue chicken in the air, laughter from children playing in the back yard. Laura greeted O’Brien at the door and said, “Thank you for coming. I thought about cancelling the birthday party for Paula, considering all that’s happened, but right now I think it’s the best thing I can do for her. I’m delighted you could bring your dog. My grandmother had a dachshund. I pictured you with something like a German shepherd.”

“Max is nothing like a German shepherd. She’s…she’s just Max. All ten pounds of swagger and personality. A few months before my wife, Sherrie, died, she found Max. After Sherrie passed, Max and I sort of found each other.”

“That’s sweet. She’s so adorable. Please, come in. Everyone’s in the back yard. I’ve been thinking about getting Paula a small dog. Maybe today will be a good test to see if a dachshund would be a good choice.”

“Max works for cheese.”

More than a dozen people sat in lawn chairs, some standing next to a smoking barbecue grill. Seven children played on a swing set in one corner of the yard. O’Brien watched Paula laugh as she went down a slide followed by a boy about her age.

A man in shorts, T-shirt and blue apron held a can of beer next to the grill, turning burgers, chicken and hot dogs. Max scurried toward the food. O’Brien recognized the man. He was the Civil War re-enactor he’d met on the film set.
Silas Jackson is armed and born dangerous
.

Laura said, “Sean O’Brien, I want you to meet my friends. Jack and I first met most everyone here from our college days. Some, like my dear friend, Katie, since high school.” Katie, a blonde sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair, smiled. Laura motioned toward three men standing, sipping beer and talking sports. “All of these guys were part of Jack’s documentary production crew.” Laura made the introductions. O’Brien smiled and shook hands. “And our chef is Cory Nelson.”

Nelson wiped has hands on a white towel and reached for O’Brien’s hand. “I met Sean on the set. Glad you could make it. We’re trying hard to keep Paula’s life as normal as possible considering the circumstances of late. Hey, any luck in finding that painting?”

“No, not yet.”

“It’d be great if you could find and return it to Laura.”

Paula and two children, a boy and girl, ran up to Max. Paula said, “That’s a pretty wiener dog. What’s her name?”

O’Brien crouched on the lawn and said, “Her name’s Max. You can pet her.”

The children grinned, each one petting Max who looked over to O’Brien, her eyes bright, nostrils working the air.

Laura said, “Okay kids. Let’s get ready to eat. Everyone wash your hands. You’ve all been playing in the dirt.

“I’ll take them inside to wash up,” said a tanned woman wearing a sun-visor hat, T-shirt and khaki shorts.

Laura smiled. “Great! Food will be ready in a minute. We’ll cut the cake and sing Happy Birthday after lunch.” She bit her bottom lip, blinking quickly, eyes moist, seeing Paula and the other children laughing and running toward the back door.

O’Brien watched her for a moment, turned to the adults and said, “Since everyone here knew Jack well, I wanted to give you some news I just received as I was parking out front.” O’Brien stood so he could see faces, body language. “Looks like police have caught the man who killed Jack.” O’Brien scanned each face, each reaction to the news he just delivered.

“Oh my God,” said the woman called Katie. She held her hand to her lips.

“Where’d you hear this?” asked one man in a floral print shirt holding a bag of potato chips.

“From a contact at the sheriff’s office. The man they’re questioning is Silas Jackson. He was a re-enactor who was employed by the film company for about a week. He was eventually asked to leave.”

Laura slowly sat down. She let out a deep breath, her face flushed. “Are they sure, Sean? Are they sure he’s the one?”

“He was the person on the video pointing a rifle at the pontoon boat that day on the river when Jack and you guys on the crew found the diamond.”

The man holding the potato chips said, “Silas Jackson didn’t like the fact that we wanted to do a documentary on the last days of the Confederacy. He’d argued with Jack the first time Jack began trying to raise funds for the project.”

Cory Nelson used a spatula to set a burger to the front of the grill and said, “Did they find the Civil War contract or the diamond?”

“No.”

“Did they find him with that painting you were looking for?”

“No.”

Nelson raised his shoulders, nodded toward Laura and said, “Too bad the film company didn’t have security cameras in that plantation house. If they had, they could see who stole the painting. My money’s on Jackson.”

O’Brien was silent a moment, and then he said, “Good point. But they did have motion picture cameras all over the outdoor set the day Jack was killed.”

Nelson nodded. “Yeah, but the news media said police couldn’t see anything on camera out of the normal battle scenes.”

“Maybe it’s because they didn’t know where to look.”

No one said anything, the musical jingle of
Pop Goes the Weasel
coming from an approaching ice cream truck on the next block.

Laura stood and managed to forge a wide smile. “Come on everyone, let’s eat. A little girl is having a birthday today.”

“Sounds good,” said a woman picking up a paper plate.

O’Brien stepped over to Laura. “I’ve got to go.”

“But you just got here.”

“Something’s come up since they took in Silas Jackson—something I need to check.”

“What is it Sean? Please, tell me?”

“It might be nothing. If it’s something, I’ll call you. Can Max stay for a couple hours?”

“Yes, of course. It’ll give Paula a real chance to play with her. Can’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”

“No. Not yet.”

S
he could have been a tourist. Maybe someone looking to buy a condo in Ponce Inlet. She dressed in casual clothes. White cotton slacks. Matching top. Wide-brim sun hat. Sandals. She wore tortoise shell dark glasses on a striking oval face. The woman carried a straw handbag as she strolled the boardwalk around Ponce Marina, sea gulls squawking overhead, watching the charter boats unload fish and tourists. Watching people.

Searching for Sean O’Brien.

Inside the handbag, buried beneath a change of clothes, passport and sunscreen, was a 9mm Beretta. She could have been a tourist.

But she wasn’t.

Malina Kade was, perhaps, the best female intelligence agent India had produced in the last twenty years. Fearless, persuasive, and deceptive—her talent for finding and retrieving covert intelligence was exceptional. She’d been in the states a week.
Back on holiday to visit close friends
, she’d told immigrations when she arrived in Miami.

She glanced at a sunburned, heavy-faced man under the shade of a thatched palm frond roof above a small fish-cleaning station. He scraped a serrated knife down the back of a red snapper, fish scales flying in his gray hair, a cigar wedged in one side of his wide mouth, smoke curling under the dried palm fronds. Three pelicans squatted on the dock in front of him patiently waiting for handouts. She said, “Excuse me.”