by Tom Lowe
“No. In broad daylight. I think someone’s following me. But I’m not certain. It’s like a movement you catch out of the corner of your eye. When you look back, nothing’s there.”
“You said you’re having a difficult time sleeping. Sleep deprivation can cause what you’re experiencing.”
“I want to buy a gun, Dave. And I want to do it today.”
O’Brien parked in the shade across the street from the restaurant in downtown DeLand, twenty minutes before Laura was scheduled to be there. He wanted to arrive early to watch for her—but more importantly, he wanted to watch for signs that she might be followed.
Through his sunglasses, he looked at Max in the seat beside him, her long dachshund ears now lifting slightly, following the traffic noises, her black button nostrils testing the cross-breeze that drifted through the Jeep’s open windows. There was the scent of orange blossoms mixed with the smell of meat grilling. O’Brien scratched her neck. “Max, I need you to sit tight for a little while. They don’t allow dogs inside the restaurant. And since you’re a wiener dog…that might be a good thing. But I’ll bring you a doggie bag. Let’s just sit here and see if anyone is following Laura and her little girl.”
O’Brien glanced out his side and rearview mirrors. He watched business professionals emerging from office buildings, blending in with college students and tourists crossing New York Street with its eclectic mixture of antique shops, coffee houses, restaurants and bars.
At five minutes before noon, a white Honda Accord came slowly up New York Street, Laura at the wheel. She pulled in to the Mainstreet Grill parking lot and found a space between the dozens of cars, the sun winking off chrome and glass. As Laura and Paula got out of the car and started for the entrance to the restaurant, O’Brien heard the droning sound of something above the city. He cut his eyes up to the hard blue sky over DeLand. A vintage bi-plane flew low, its engine strained, pulling a banner sign that read: SHORTY’S – DAYTONA BEACH – HAPPY HOUR 4–7 PM
O’Brien waited five more minutes. He lowered the window a few inches on Max’s side of the Jeep. “Looks like all is clear. Just a mom and her little girl going to lunch. All right, you earn your keep and be a watchdog for me. We’re parked in the shade. Stay cool. If anyone approaches the Jeep, you show some teeth.”
Max cocked her head and made a slight snorting sound, as if she sneezed. O’Brien smiled, locked the Jeep, and walked across the parking lot to the restaurant. He looked over his shoulder once as he paused at the front door. A black Ford Excursion turned into the lot, its windows tinted dark. He ducked into the restaurant and found Laura and Paula sitting next to each other at a booth, a file folder in front of Laura.
O’Brien slid across the booth seat opposite Laura and Paula. He said, “Well, hello ladies. I’m so glad you could join me for lunch.”
“Me too,” Paula said, grinning.
Laura attempted a smile; her fearful thoughts swirling behind guarded blue eyes. “It’s good to see you, Sean.” She lifted the file folder, handed it to her daughter and said, “Paula has a gift for you.”
Paula smiled and opened the folder. She carefully lifted a page from her coloring book. “Mommy cut this out. It’s the butterfly I colored. I wanted to give it to you. I signed it. My letters aren’t very good.” She handed the page to O’Brien.
He said, “Your letters are fine. I can read it perfectly. You did a great job with the butterfly. I will proudly hang this work of art in my house, maybe on my refrigerator.”
Paula grinned, a top front tooth missing. “Art’s my favorite subject in class.”
O’Brien smiled. “I can see why, you’re good.”
Laura said, “And she’ll have some time to practice here at the table. The waitress brought some coloring sheets with the menus. Here, Paula, start on one. We’ll order your mac and cheese in a sec. I need to show Sean something by the entrance.”
“What?”
“An antique that I like. I’ll be able to see you from right over there.”
Paula smiled, lifting up a green crayon. O’Brien followed Laura about twenty feet toward the door. She stopped to point out an antique butter churn on display in the corner. She lowered her voice. “I was threatened.”
O’Brien, glanced back at Paula for a second. “Who threatened you?”
“I don’t know. It was right after I got off my phone with you. A man called. He spoke in a whisper. His voice was icy…cold. Almost inhuman. He warned me to be careful of what I said to the reporters. He said it might come back to haunt me and my daughter.” Laura looked toward Paula, and then cut her eyes up to O’Brien. “He said some things are better left buried in the past, and its best to let a sleeping junkyard dog lie. Otherwise there could be consequences.”
“Was he referring to the diamond or the Civil War contract, or maybe both?”
“I don’t know.”
O’Brien scanned the restaurant, diners busy in conversation, the scent of roast beef and marinara sauce coming from one table. He said, “You need to let the detectives know.”
Laura nodded. “I’ll call them right after we’re done.”
O’Brien looked over Laura’s shoulder, out the front door window just as a satellite news truck rolled into the parking lot.
Dave Collins sat in a deck chair on the cockpit of Gibraltar, working a crossword puzzle when he received the call. His screen flashed ID UNKNOWN. He thought about ignoring the call, but with the unexpected chain of recent events, his instinct told him to answer. He did and the voice, a British accent, said, “Dave, Alistair Hornsby here. How’s retirement in Florida treating you?”
“My golf game’s become worse, but I get senior rates at the course, and I can play anytime.”
“That’s the problem with old analysts like us. Presented with too much time on our hands, we overanalyze everything, even hobbies. But I suppose golf is a head game.”
“When are you hanging up the magnifying glass?”
“Soon, but remember ol’ boy, I’m a bit younger than you.” He paused a few seconds. “Dave, the reason I am ringing you is because we have a twenty-five year history. We worked a good number of situations together. I like to believe the world is a little better off because of it.”
“Maybe. Now that I have time to explore it, in hindsight, I sometimes wonder if we made the right choices for the right reasons, and for the right people. I had no illusions then, today I have reservations.”
“We live in a complicated world. Yes, very often it’s much to gray, diluting the easier choices made in a black and white condition. But someone has to do what we do…or it could be worse. I think that’s what has kept me in the wheelhouse this long.”
“What’s up, Alistair? If you’re planning a visit to Florida, let’s do some serious fishing followed by consuming responsible amounts of gin martinis.”
“Give me eighteen months. Prime Minister Hannes has a unique situation on his hands, blackmail.”
“Blackmail?”
“Royal blackmail to be precise.”
“What happened—did one of the queen’s grandsons get caught with his pants down, someone shoot a few below-the-belt selfies and is threatening to post them on the Internet?”
“I wish that were the matter. We could easier deal with that. Fact is, the blackmailer may be there in Florida, perhaps very close to you, at least as a geographical reference.”
“What do you mean?”
“His encrypted messages to the prime minster, although routed from many global servers, indicate his presence somewhere in Florida, and the hotspot is there.”
“Hotspot? Cutting to the chase, I’m sure your call is related to the alleged discovery of a diamond that was found by a documentary producer. He called it the Koh-i-Noor, which is supposed to be in the crown jewels.”
“That’s exactly some of it. The other half, if I may borrow your term alleged—the alleged unearthing of a Civil War contract that may connect the UK to that bloody American war, osten
sibly Queen Victoria and the Royal Family. These are some dark and potentially damaging skeletons in the closet. In order to prevent the rewriting of history books, to keep India at arm’s length, the damn contract, if it exists, and the diamond, must not tangibly validate one another.”
“I see your dilemma. Why call me? I’m out of the game.”
“Because of our history together combined with the rumor that you are doing some consulting work from time to time.”
“That was when a friend of mine found a World War II U-boat sunk off the Florida coast with weapons-grade uranium for cargo. He became part of the salvage op when a Russian arms dealer and a Jihadist terrorist group were en route to the dive site.”
“We followed it closely, of course. I assume the friend you are referring to is Sean O’Brien.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“He wasn’t invisible in the heat of taking the hostiles down. Maybe he works free-lance.”
Dave said nothing for a moment, a sea gull squawking from the top of a sailboat mast. “Alistair, why don’t you ask him?”
He chuckled and said, “Perhaps, I shall. In the meantime, whoever is sending in the blackmail threats is extremely sophisticated, or his coconspirator is, at encryption. And he seems to know British protocol well. We have an agent there in Florida, sifting through the murky details.”
“Do I know him or her?”
“Him…and I don’t think so. He was a field op in the Middle East, great at cracking codes. He predicted the rise of Isis half dozen years ago. He’s one of our best. He might drop by your marina to introduce himself to you. Because this suspected diamond was discovered not far from your area, if you hear anything, please let me know…for old times’ sake. Dave, don’t overanalyze golf. It’s just a sport, and the only one you play facing a motionless ball. Unless, of course, billiards is your game, and that’s where you’re always looking for the angles. Cheers.”
O’Brien led Laura and Paula further into the restaurant. He said, “Let’s get another table in a quieter section. Maybe a little more private.” He spotted a table in a corner. “This will work well.” He pulled the chairs out for little Paula and Laura and then sat facing the door across the restaurant. Paula continued coloring. O’Brien looked at Laura and asked, “What happened during the news conference?”
“They asked why I uploaded the video. I told them, told them I knew Jack’s death wasn’t an accident. Then most of the questions had to do with the diamond—had I seen or held it before Jack’s death? Did I think it was authentic? What had Jack and I planned to do with it? Where did I think it was? They asked about the contract between England and the CSA, specifically where the original copy was located, and if they could see it.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said both the contract and the diamond had looked real to me. I stressed that Jack wanted to have it shipped to England per the terms of the Civil War contract…but he was killed before he could do that. And I said I believed the diamond is with the person who killed him.”
“Did they ask to see the letter?”
“No. They did want to take video and pictures of the contract. I told them it was very old, fragile, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. In the meantime, it was secure and out of the elements in a safe deposit box.”
“But it’s really in a safe in your home.”
“Yes, but they don’t need to know that. Maybe no one will come for it if they think it’s in a bank vault.”
“That’s where it should go until this thing is solved. It might be a good idea to have an expert in handwriting analysis take a look at the contract. Better yet, my friend Dave Collins introduced me to an old friend of his who is recognized as one of the foremost authorities on Civil War history. He’s written books about the Civil War. He has a Ph.D. on the subject, and he teaches it at a university. His name’s Professor Ike Kirby. I had dinner with him. He knows his stuff. He should examine the contract.”
“That sounds good.”
“If it’s authenticated, that’s even more proof that the diamond could have been sent here directly from Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. And it would further suggest whoever killed Jack was well aware of that.”
An hour later, O’Brien paid the check for the lunch and walked with Laura and Paula out the restaurant door into the white wash of sun in the parking lot. A half dozen reporters were there to greet them. With TV cameras rolling, microphones extended, the herd closed around them. One tabloid TV reporter, a round, perspiring man, with pink skin and jowls that flapped when he spoke, said, “The British prime minister is saying the supposed contract, and the diamond, are both some kind of hoax. He’s suggesting that your allegations are an attempt to star in a reality TV show. How do you respond to that?”
O’Brien looked over at Laura, Paula huddled next to her mother. Laura said, “I have no response to a question so ludicrous. Please move. You’re blocking our way.”
The reporters and camera operators jockeyed for better positions. A tall, blond female reporter from Fox News asked, “When your husband first found the diamond, why didn’t he report it to police?”
Laura said, “Because it wasn’t stolen. It was discovered—like you’d find a lost treasure. And, according to the Civil War contract, it was on loan from England, not stolen from England.”
The flabby reporter wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grinned, winked at his cameraman and asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor that the BBC is flying you to London to do an exclusive interview with you if you bring the so-called Civil War contract? Is a movie and book deal in the works?” He stuck the hand-held microphone in Laura’s face.
O’Brien saw Paula wince, and then tears begin rolling down her face as she was being jostled against her mother. Holding tighter to her mother’s hand, almost wrapping her small legs around Laura’s legs, she struggled to find her footing without being knocked over or separated. O’Brien looked to his right. A garbage truck, seventy-five feet away, was stopping in an alley. The back end of the truck yawned and opened wide as a sanitation worker dumped the contents of a large plastic can into the truck.
O’Brien grabbed the microphone from the man and said, “This assault is over. I hear these things have great range.” He threw the microphone hard. It turned end-over-end, sailing across the parking lot, landing in the back of the garbage truck just before the worker pulled the lever. Hydraulic motors rumbled, the back closure moving down, plastic trash bags popping, the microphone buried in a crushed mountain of garbage.
The tall, bearded sound operator yanked the earphones from his ears. “Shit! That sounded like a bomb. Dude, that’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars.”
O’Brien gripped Laura by the elbow, pushing through the wall of reporters and production crew. He led Laura and Paula to their car when he heard one reporter say, “Hey, I recognized that man. He’s the same guy who took out some terrorists hell-bent on dropping a dirty bomb over Atlanta. What’s his name?”
“I recognize him too,” said a female producer gripping an iPad. “His name is O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”
“Son-of-a-bitch owes me a new microphone,” said the audio tech, watching the garbage truck move down the alley.
O’Brien walked across the lot, heading for his Jeep. He spotted the black Ford Excursion parked, the motor idling, dark windows up, condensation dripping from the air conditioner, a small stream pooling next to the front tire on the driver’s side. He could only see a trace outline behind the wheel. O’Brien kept walking. He didn’t know how many people were in the SUV. But when he glanced down at the license plate, he knew that whoever was in the big Ford, they were working for the federal government.
O’Brien drove from DeLand straight to Ponce Marina, the Jeep’s tires popping oyster shells and acorns in the gravel lot. He parked under the shade of a large banyan tree, the engine ticking as it cooled. He thought about what happened outside the restaurant—the media mob, the black gover
nment car, and what Laura had told him about the threatening call.
Max stood on her hind legs, head out the Jeep’s window, sniffing the ocean air. O’Brien watched a low-lying cloud above Ponce Inlet and tried to remember the last time it rained. He thought about the image of the man—the man carrying the rifle, standing next to a large cypress tree. If it rains, DNA, boot prints, even possible fingerprints could be compromised. Maybe Detective Dan Grant already inspected the site. Maybe not.
Max glanced back at O’Brien and barked once. “Okay, kiddo, I hear you. You have a lot of good dachshund attributes, but patience isn’t one of them.” O’Brien’s phone rang. He looked at the incoming call and recognized the number. He answered.
Laura Jordan said, “Sean, Detectives Rollins and Grant just left my house. They did a long interview with me. Detective Grant is compassionate to an extent. Not so much with Detective Rollins. I felt like they were doing a good cop—bad cop interrogation. Toward the end of it, after they’d asked me dozens of questions about Jack’s friends and business acquaintances, Detective Rollins wanted to know if Jack and I had been getting along…weird stuff like whether Jack was having an affair. He asked for our life insurance information. Why is the spouse always the prime suspect? I loved my husband dearly.”
“They have to cover the bases. Once they quickly rule you out, they’ll focus on others and look at motives and opportunities.”
“I just don’t want the trail to go cold and for this to turn into a cold case.”
“It won’t. Not now.”
“I hope not. And I hope these investigators are as good as you seem to believe they are.”
“Detective Grant is thorough, and he has a good sense of justice. Did you tell them about the intimidating phone call?”
“Yes. They asked me if I recognized the voice. Unfortunately, of course, I didn’t. The call came in with the numbers blocked. The detectives said the guy might have used what they called a burner—a throw-away mobile phone. They’re going to pull my phone records. Maybe something will show up.”