by Tom Lowe
“Maybe that’s the way someone designed it to look. But now, on this video, you have physical and visible proof that Jack Jordan was being stalked by somebody.” O’Brien reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a flash drive. “The entire video is on here. This is your copy.”
“Why is the rest of the video, the stuff Jack Jordan says about the Civil War contract and the diamond, now on YouTube? Did you do it?”
“It’s on the Internet because Laura Jordan, the widow, thought it would validate her husband’s death as a murder because of his find in the river. Pulling up a diamond in the real rough—the river mud, and putting it on camera as part of his Civil War documentary is an astonishing find. He was producing a documentary about the last days of the Civil War and how some of the Confederate brass exited in the eleventh hour and escaped to Cuba and then England.”
“But why kill the guy? If somebody broke into his van, and he wasn’t in it, why shoot him on the movie set?”
“Maybe it wasn’t just about the diamond.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe it was about something else. It could have something to do with the discovery of the contract between England and the Confederacy. What if someone didn’t want that to become public? What if they didn’t want that information to become part of Civil War history…and were willing to kill to hide the secret?”
“Who the hell would do something like that?”
“Dan, a lot of Civil War re-enactors live and breathe this stuff, the heritage and legacy of the Old South…or the North, for that matter. Maybe one of these guys wanted to keep the history books from being rewritten in terms of the Civil War and England’s collusion with the South.”
Grant looked at his watch. “How the hell did you get involved in this thing, Sean? How’d the widow, Laura Jordan, find you?”
“She didn’t. Another widow did.” O’Brien reached in his folder and removed the photo of the painting. He slid it across the table to Grant.
“Who’s that?”
“I think her first name was Angelina. And I think her husband’s name was Henry. That spot she’s standing next to is on the St, Johns River, very near the same place where you saw the sniper with the rifle following Jack Jordan.”
“Where’d you get that photo?”
“From an elderly man who believes the woman in the picture was his great, great grandmother. You see, Dan, her husband was killed, too. Just like Jack Jordan—on a battlefield. But Jack didn’t know he was fighting a war, because someone he knew, maybe trusted, killed him. And now, after lying in the river mud, the finding of the diamond and its mention in the contract between England and the CSA will open more than spirited historical debates. It’ll open old war wounds, and the battle for ownership of that diamond could cross international borders.”
Detective Grant let out a long breath. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” O’Brien slid the photo closer to Grant. “I found that spot on the river. I found it because I was trying to locate the place where the woman in the photo stood at the time of the Civil War. I’ll give you directions. In that picture, the cypress tree is small. On the video it’s huge. The spot where this woman stood is almost the same place where the stalker on the video was standing.”
Grant grinned. “So is this some kind of providence? Was a ghost from the Civil War directing you to a place where a potential shooter was tracking a man who would be shot by a Civil War rifle 160 years later? Sean, is this a crazy, ironic coincidence?”
“When it comes to crime, I never believe in anything being coincidental.”
“And I’ve never believed in ghosts.”
“No ghosts. Just an old photo. Near the tree, on the ground, you’ll find a cigar stub, some change, and a Civil War Minié ball. I’m assuming all of it fell out of the guy’s pocket.”
Grant nodded. “I know you, and I’m betting you’re also assuming the bullet is probably identical to the one that killed Jack Jordan.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“All right.” Grant pushed back his chair to stand. “I think there’s room in my caseload to work with Larry Rollins. I’ll see what I can arrange internally. If all this is what you think it is, this investigation just shot way beyond my pay grade and jurisdiction. We could be talking about intercontinental diamond theft and sales. Much as I dislike working with the feds, looks like I’ll be putting in a call to them.”
“You won’t have to. The diamond’s appearance on a viral video, coupled with the information about its history and original ownership, will cross international borders and agencies with the speed of light. You’ve got a head start on the investigation…but not for long.”
Laura Jordan poured a cup of coffee, sipped, glanced out her kitchen window and almost dropped the coffee cup. It was Saturday morning, 7:37, three days since she uploaded the video of her husband finding the diamond and talking on camera about the Civil War contract between England and the Confederacy.
And now a half dozen local and network TV news trucks were parking on the quiet residential road in front of her home, technicians fine-tuning the huge satellite dishes atop the trucks, reporters sipping coffee from paper cups, adjusting earpieces, looking at notepads. “Oh my God,” Laura whispered, clutching her worn terry cloth robe and peeking between the kitchen curtains.
There was a loud knock at her front door. She felt her heart jump, the taste of the coffee acrid and bitter in her mouth. She paced the floor for a second, trying to compose herself. Be calm…just face it. She had told Sean O’Brien that she could do it. And now the day had arrived. The news media were knocking at her door. She glanced at a family picture on the dining room wall of Jack, Paula and herself at the beach, kneeling—a sand castle in front of them.
The knock returned. Louder. Little Paula walked slowly into the kitchen, face creased from sleep. She held a stuffed giraffe to her chest, her pink pajamas with yellow ducks wrinkled and uneven from another night of tossing and turning in her bed. “Mommy, somebody’s at the door.”
“I know sweetheart. I’ll answer it. You go wash your face, and I’ll make you some pancakes.”
Paula smiled, turned and went toward the bathroom. Laura set the coffee cup on her kitchen counter, tied the robe tighter around her waist and walked down her foyer to the front door. She opened it, the morning sun cresting the tree line, shining in her face. She counted seven reporters and at least that many camera operators. They looked like a mob, some professionally dressed, the others in T-shirts and faded jeans. A tall reporter introduced himself, saying he was with CNN and added, “Mrs. Jordan, we don’t mean to intrude, however your number is unlisted. The video of your deceased husband is raising enormous speculation and questions. A few minutes ago, the video has been viewed 127-million times. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Laura attempted a smile as camera flashes popped. She said, “I don’t mind speaking with you, but give me a little time. I need to fix my daughter breakfast. And it wouldn’t hurt if I showered.”
The tall reporter smiled. “Absolutely. We understand and we appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be here, as unobtrusive as possible, when you’re ready.”
Laura nodded, looked over his shoulder and saw two more news trucks arrive. She watched as neighbors drifted onto the street, many dressed in pajamas and robes. “Just give me some time. I will answer your questions best I can.” She closed and locked the door, her heart hammering in her chest.
In the kitchen, she searched for her phone, finding it under one of Paula’s coloring books. Laura scrolled through the menu, searching for Sean O’Brien’s number, her hand trembling. She bit her lower lip and made the call. “Sean, it’s Laura. There are news media—reporters literally standing in my front yard. I counted seven of those big satellite trucks. They’re from all over, the cable networks, too. They want to interview me. They just showed up out of the blue.”
“They’re there because the video is well over a hundred-mil
lion views. It’s creating controversy. More importantly, Laura, it’ll generate demand for a thorough investigation into Jack’s death. The state’s attorney will make it a priority.”
“I know…I just didn’t expect to open my door and see all those TV cameras pointed at my face. I’ve never done a news conference.”
“Just answer their questions succinctly. Don’t feel you have to elaborate on anything. Nothing beats absolute, heartfelt sincerity—the truth. The public can sense it or the lack of it. I know this is stressful, but accept that and find courage in results.”
“You make it sound a little easier. What if I make a mistake?”
“You can’t make a mistake because you and Paula are victims, too. Just look the reporters in the eye and answer their questions. But, remember, this is your platform as well. It’s your chance to reach the public. Someone out there may know something that might help police find Jack’s killer. Consider this as an opportunity to do your own public service announcement, okay?”
“I understand. Your voice is calming…I just wish you were here.”
“It’s better that I’m not. You’ll be fine if you remember to look at this as a chance to bring some kind of results. When Jack pulled up that diamond, when you both found the old contract, it opened up a Pandora’s box that’s been sealed for 160 or more years. Now that it’s out, there is someone who wants to contain it, to probably fence the diamond to a private collector. Jack was simply doing what he loved, documenting history. That led him down a new and dangerous path to find a way to honor the letter written by Henry and the terms of the contract, and Jack was in somebody’s way.”
Laura released a pent-up breath. She glanced at her fingernails on one hand, broken and chewed. She felt like a mess, suddenly disheveled, and on display. “Thank you, Sean for caring. Maybe Paula and I can meet you for lunch. Then I can tell you how my first, and hopefully my last, news conference went.”
“You’ll do fine. And lunch sounds good”
“Would noon at the Mainstreet Grill in DeLand work for you?”
“What car will you be driving?”
“A white Honda Accord. Why? I won’t get lost or be late.”
“See you and Paula then.”
Laura disconnected. She walked into the bathroom when her phone rang. She looked at the digital display: UNKNOWN. She answered. “Hello.”
“Laura Jordan…”
“Who is this?”
“Be very careful what you do and say. You say too much to those reporters and it might come back to haunt you and your daughter.” The voice was slightly muffled, just above a whisper.
“Who is this? How’d you get this number? Don’t threaten me!”
“Some things are buried in the past for very good reasons. Best to let a sleeping junkyard dog lie. If not, there are always consequences…always. It’s bad enough your dead husband mentioned the Civil War contract…but until others see it, it’s just him talking. Nothing more. We advise you to keep it that way.”
The call disconnected.
Laura gripped the phone, her hand shaking. She looked up in the bathroom mirror, the reflection of her frightened face like a stranger staring back at her.
Kim Davis was washing a beer mug behind the bar when Dave Collins and Nick Cronus walked in the Tiki Bar. Kim dried her hands and said, “No Sean and no Miss Max. What gives?”
Nick grinned. “Max knows you serve hushpuppies on Wednesday. She stays clear of the Tiki Bar on Wednesdays.”
Kim smiled as Dave nodded and said, “I think Sean’s at his river cabin doing whatever he does in pure solitude.”
“You guys want to sit at the bar or take your favorite table next to the window?”
Dave grinned. “Nick likes the table because it gives him a view of the crosswalk to the beach and the bevy of bikini-clad ladies who park their cars in the lot and walk over to the seashore.”
“Somebody has to keep tabs on tourism.” Nick’s dark eyes danced.
Dave said, “Nick, I need to get a battery charger out of my car. Why don’t you claim the tourism table before the lunch crowd arrives. I’ll take the grouper sandwich and have the coleslaw rather than hushpuppies. In Max’s honor, of course.”
Nick started toward the table. Kim dried her hands on a towel and said, “Nicky, I’m taking a short break. I need to talk to Dave.”
He grinned. “You can always talk to me.”
She smiled and followed Dave out the breezeway into the parking lot, the screeching of seagulls over the marina, a charter boat diesel cranking as a first mate cast lines across the transom.
Dave turned back to Kim and said, “I hope I left my tablet charger in the car. Is everything okay, Kim?”
“No, it’s not okay. I’m not sure what the word okay is supposed to mean anymore. I’ve been following the news and that viral video. What if the man who died was murdered on the movie set? I told Sean that I may have met the guy the day I spent in casting, waiting to audition. I just saw the man’s distraught wife—now his widow, in that news conference on TV. She didn’t pull any punches. She believes her husband was murdered for the diamond. And, all this stuff about a Civil War agreement between the South and England, it’s like a very dark door opened after Sean began hunting for the painting.”
“To further the coincidence, it was the same painting you’d seen months ago in that antique store. A painting bought by the couple we’re talking about, and the husband is now dead. I believed Sean sensed it wasn’t an accident from the onset.”
“I wish that old man had never walked into the restaurant. I worry about Sean.”
“I know you do, Kimberly.”
“He’s always been somewhat mysterious. He won’t discuss the war or most of the things he saw as a homicide detective. But now, especially after he learned about his family—what happened to his mother, his insane brother, and the fact he has a niece he never knew about until recently, it’s somehow changed Sean.”
“Perhaps it’s made him a little more introspective, as it would anyone. He still maintains a sense of humor, but I’ve seen him when he’s had a dark day or two. He usually confines himself to the solitude of his river cabin when that cloud moves over him. Perhaps it’s PTSD. He won’t discuss it.” Dave opened the trunk to his car, searched, and lifted out a small black battery charger. “Eureka! Now I can finish the book I was reading.” A breeze blew through the fronds of the royal palm trees. Dave cut his eyes to Kim and said, “You really care deeply about him, don’t you?”
“Yes. Is it that obvious?”
“May I ask…do you love him?”
She pushed a strand of dark hair behind one ear and smiled. “You get to the point, don’t you? I’ve tried so hard not to, but Sean’s the kind of man who is easy for a woman to love, even as mysterious and unknowable as he can be, he gives to others unconditionally. And he never asks for anything in return. His heart is just as attractive as his face. Because of a trait like that, it sometimes opens the door to bad characteristics in others. When Sean’s helping someone, it’s usually because someone or some thing in society is wronging that person. I think the love he had for his deceased wife was buried with her.”
Dave inhaled deeply and watched three white pelicans sail over the marina. “I believe that being loved by someone can help you gain strength, Kim. But courage is gained by loving others. I think this is how Sean shows it now. Maybe he always did, I don’t know. But I do know that the sheer courage Sean pulls from somewhere, often facing down threats to his own safety, may be the kind of sacrifice that is the ultimate demonstration of love.”
“Sean’s a knight in tarnished armor. Could be it’s the flaws visible beneath the armor that adds to his charm.”
“Elizabethan nobility and chivalry at its finest.” Dave hugged Kim and asked, “Have you told him how you feel?”
“I’ve tried to show him. Please don’t say anything. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Kim…that shall remain between
you and Sean. However, in all my career in government service, I’ve never met anyone quite like him. You’re right, he won’t say much about his time in the Middle East. I’ve managed to find out that he was captured. The enemy tried to break him, to brainwash him. Somehow, against great odds, he persevered and then he escaped. What he had to do to survive, to get out alive, is probably very far beyond the breaking point for most of us. But Sean isn’t like most of us. I’ve thought about it often. He’s intellectually fearless. That formidable courage we talked about is somehow imparted in his DNA and rises to a boil when he’s in the ring for someone he’s trying to help. And I think it’s because of his instinctive acuity of right and wrong—or good and evil. When you couple that with his inherent grasp of human nature, of things in or out of the natural order…that’s his gift…and sometimes a bad curse.”
“There’s something else I haven’t told him, but I feel the need to tell someone. You’re like the cool uncle to me. You know that my dad died when I was sixteen.”
“I remember you telling me that.”
“You mentioned Sean might have PTSD. I think I might too. It started a few weeks after those men broke into my house. The things they did…and said…what they did to my dog.” She glanced at boats in the marina and then looked up at Dave. “They were seconds away from holding my hand over the gas burner on my stove. And then Sean surprised them. I have bad dreams that won’t go away. I’m not sleeping well. Sometimes now I think I’m being followed, especially when I leave work. It happened before the mysterious rose showed up in my mailbox, and happens when I least expect it. A sort of panic. Anxiety.” She hugged her upper arms.
“It’s completely understandable and justified. And what you’re doing now is the way to treat those mental wounds. Talk about it. Don’t swallow it back inside your heart. It’s a cancer of the soul that’s vented by the therapy of honest communications.”
“Does it cause hallucinations?”
“You mean nightmares?”