by Tom Lowe
“Reality is an abstract world for your son.”
“Where is he?”
“Ocala National Forest. That’s where I left him. I left him with a warning to leave my friend alone. He met her on a film set and has some fantasy that she’s the woman in the painting you hired me to find. Why would he have those fantasies?”
“He’s always had an unrealistic expectation about finding the perfect southern lady—refined, educated, beautiful, perhaps a touch of nobility in her lineage. Although, I’m sure he never saw that painting as a child, and would have no idea the woman in the painting was related to him—she certainly portrayed the image of his make-believe world. As a teenager, he rarely had a girlfriend for more than a few days. Later, when he did find a woman that seemed to tolerate his fictional idea, he beat her. She got a restraining order, but Silas can’t be restrained. Her family up and moved. It was so fast it was as if they were in a witness relocation program.”
“Why did you think if I found the painting I might find Silas?”
“Because of his fascination with Civil War things. As a re-enactor, I knew he read all the Civil War magazines and blogs. If you found the painting, I was going to take a picture of it, write an historical description. Make it public, especially in the places he might look. This would prove that his ancestor, Henry Hopkins, wasn’t a coward, but rather a soldier who died a noble death in combat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the place I harbor hope, I wanted to see if that would release the pressure valve on Silas’ anger, meaning any burden of proof about his ancestor was no longer his to show. You found my son. Even though you weren’t looking for him. And I thank you for that. If you want to walk away from trying to track down the painting, I understand.”
O’Brien said nothing, looking up in the sky as a bat flew through the moonlight.
Louden said, “I had heard rumors that Silas was running some clandestine dissident paramilitary outfit. I know my son and what he’s capable of doing—of destroying. Unless he’s contained with medication or locked away, I’m afraid he will do something that could hurt a lot of people—a modern day Picket’s charge against the government. If the painting is found, that alone might be enough to curb his drive, his personal need for proving he isn’t a coward. Will you continue searching for the painting? I’m deeply sorry if you believe I deceived you. It wasn’t my intention.” O’Brien could see Louden’s eyes watering.
“I made a commitment to find it for you. But you need to know this: the unearthing of the painting could lead to the burial of your son. Is that something you want to risk?”
“Sometimes we have to make unbearable choices in life. This is one of those times.”
“I have an idea where the painting might be?”
“Where?”
“At this point, the less you know, the better. If I’m right, you will know.” O’Brien turned and left the lighthouse parking lot, left the tearful old man with a lost son fighting a lost cause and inner demons. O’Brien walked north on the beach, the breakers crashing on the hard sand, an angry surf frothing in the milky glow of the moon, the moving beam from the lighthouse devoured by a vast black sea.
O’Brien wanted to stop by Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, pick up Max and give Dave an update. But not now. He needed someplace quiet to make a call, and he needed to do it before anything else happened. He walked past Nick’s boat, St. Michael, the laughter of a woman and Greek music coming from the salon. Nicks virility and life restored post Malina. O’Brien boarded Jupiter, the bow and stern lines creaking against the gentle pull of the rising tide. He climbed the steps up to the bridge, unzipped the isinglass windows and sat in the captain’s chair.
A calm breeze across the marina carried the scent of the sea—briny, mixed with garlic shrimp and smoldering charcoal. He called Laura Jordan and asked, “Was Jack’s van a production van that he used for his documentary work or more on a minivan for the family?”
“It was his production van for hauling gear and his film crew. Why?”
“If Cory was his partner, would he have had a key to the van?”
“Now that you mention it, I think he did have the extra key.”
“And he probably knew where Jack could or would hide the diamond in the van.”
“Possibly. Jack hid it in a concealed slot under the center console. And, the only reason he had it with him that day was because he had an appointment with a gemologist after the shoot to see if the diamond was real.”
“That’s a tough place to find for any thief to find. But easy if you know where to look. Maybe Nelson knew where to look because Jack shared the information with him. Even if he didn’t, Nelson probably was aware that Jack had a meeting with the gemologist and wouldn’t be able to retrieve the diamond from the safety deposit box in time to make the scheduled appointment. Therefore, if Jack had returned to the van and found the diamond gone, Cory Nelson would be the logical suspect. That fact is one more reason for Nelson to kill him.”
“One more? What other reason did he have?”
“You, Laura.”
“Me?”
“Nelson wanted you. He played the game well. Feigned the concerned ‘best friend’ and partner of your husband, the ‘Uncle Jack’ role with Paula, when all along he had you in his toxic sights, too.”
“Do you know if the police have arrested him?”
“No, but I’ll find out and let you know.”
“I feel so bad that Ike Kirby’s life was taken over this…and the other man who I didn’t know. And the horrific irony is that I thought I really knew Cory. We trusted him with everything, even with a spare key to our home and Jack’s van.”
O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the drone of a shrimp boat’s diesel engines, as the boat made its way up the channel in the Halifax River from Ponce Inlet, to subside. He thought about what Silas Jackson had said when he confronted him. “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk.”
“Sean, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I thought a Civil War re-enactor named Silas Jackson may have been the person who killed Jack. Now I know it was Cory Nelson. Because Nelson had the key to your home and the alarm code, he could have searched your house for the document any time you weren’t there. If he couldn’t find it…that could have been the only reason he’d enter your place in the dead of night.”
“But I’d given the document to Professor Kirby to evaluate.”
“Exactly. And not long after that, the killer was in Ike’s room. When the perp left, the contract went with him. I don’t think Nelson was the man standing in the dark in your bedroom holding Paula and threatening your lives. I don’t believe it was the re-enactor, Silas Jackson either. It was somebody else…someone who covers his tracks well.”
“Who?”
“Someone who’s in a position to blackmail the British Prime Minister and possibly the Royal Family. Whoever he is…he’s got the old document. He may have the diamond, too. If not, he’s probably tracking down the person who does have it. If that person is Cory Nelson, the only thing that may save his life is police finding him before the killer does. If Nelson and this guy schemed to work some sort of deal as partners, maybe police will get lucky and catch them both. But if the executioner, the one who broke into your home in twenty-nine seconds, killed Ike and the clerk just to get the contract, imagine what he might do.”
“This…this evil, it really began when Jack and I bought the painting and old magazines in that antique store. Everything, over a period of a few months, spiraled down from there. I can’t fully grasp what’s happened…and what even frightens me more is what might occur before it ends. You must be very careful, Sean. I had an awful dream, a nightmare and you were in it.”
“Do you have Jack’s mobile phone?”
“Yes.”
“Go back through it. Go to the date Jack found the diamond. From that day and the next two days look closely at the calls made and received.”
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br /> “The police have pulled Jack’s phone records and mine. I don’t think they found anything that jumps out.”
“Sometimes it’s the thing that doesn’t jump out. Police often only look for patterns and repetitive calls. Sometimes it’s the single one or two that get through the net.”
“Am I looking for anything specific?”
“Go through the numbers from the date Jack found the diamond through the next forty-eight hours after that. Look for phone numbers with the same area code but the send and receive digits in the full phone numbers may be different. Call me when you have it. Okay?”
“Yes, of course. Sean, what are you looking for?”
“A needle in a haystack…but the haystack is getting smaller.”
Dave Collins was channel surfing when O’Brien stepped onto Jupiter. Max jumped off Dave’s couch, greeting O’Brien with a yodeling bark and a flapping tail. He picked her up and sat in a director’s canvas chair in the salon opposite from where Dave sat forward on his couch, the remote control pointed at the screen. O’Brien filled Dave in on his encounter with Silas Jackson and his meeting with Jackson’s father, Gus Louden.
Dave pushed back on the couch. “Although Louden said he hired you to find the painting, his deep-seated, hidden agenda was hoping you’d find his son, Silas Jackson, a man who broke all contact with his family years ago.”
“That’s what Louden is saying.”
“You believe him?”
“I believe the essence of what he says. I think that he hoped I’d find the painting. After that, the publicity generated from it could be what he needed to prove that Henry Hopkins died in combat. That, in his mind, might have been the catalyst to reduce some of the deep-seated anger his son carries, partially because of the family bloodline. The irony is that I found his sociopathic son, but the painting is still MIA.” O’Brien glanced over to the television screen. He watched video of a large sailing schooner being launched. “Dave, turn it up.”
Dave pointed the remote toward the screen. A female news reporter stood at a large pier near downtown Jacksonville, microphone in hand, black hair blowing in the wind, the wooden schooner in the background. She said, “We are live at the Jacksonville Landing to watch the christening of a schooner that’s an amazing replica of the most famous racing sailboat in the world. What you see behind me is a near clone of the schooner that, in 1850, beat the British in what would become known as the America’s Cup. The ship was called America, and after its crew sailed from the states to England, they raced and beat the British by a record of eight minutes ahead of its closest rival. The reproduction, called America II by its owner, Frank Sheldon, will be sailed from Florida, across the Atlantic, making its entrance in grand fashion at the Port of London. Earlier today, Sheldon’s wife, Janet, broke a bottle of champagne against the schooner right before it launched into the St. Johns River.”
The video showed a petite blonde breaking a heavy bottle across the bow of the sailboat. Then the images cut to Sheldon and a group of politicians smiling and laughing on the deck as the yacht made a ceremonial sail into the center of the wide river, the city of Jacksonville in the background. The voice-over continued showing video inside the schooner.
“Frank Sheldon gave Channel Seven News a tour of America II. The boat was made with such attention to historical detail that everything is exact and to scale, matching the original ship’s size and features right down to the nails and screws used. The only place our cameras were not allowed was in Sheldon’s private captain’s quarters where we were told a meeting was taking place. However, he assures us that it’s as authentic as the rest of the yacht with the exception of a computer and lights allowing Sheldon to get some work done while cruising. The crew will begin the voyage in two days.”
The camera’s live shot cut to the reporter and Sheldon standing on the dock, balloons released in the air, crowds of festive people milling along the waterfront, dozens of smaller boats in the river, the boaters taking pictures of the sailing yacht.
The reporter smiled and said, “The construction of America II was a long time coming. More than two years from naval architectural drawings to what you see behind us. “Mr. Sheldon, are you as proud of this moment as you were when you won the America’s Cup race?”
Sheldon smiled, his gelled hair not moving in the wind gusting across the river, flags flapping in the breeze near them. “Absolutely. This is a momentous occasion for the city of Jacksonville and the nation as a whole. The original schooner, America, set racing and historical records that made the world sit up and take note of the United States’ shipbuilding ingenuity. After we return from the sail to England, America II will be visiting port cities all over the country, from New York to San Francisco, giving people a chance to see what the original schooner looked like. I want to thank the crew and artisans at Poseidon Shipyards here in Jacksonville for their extraordinary attention to detail.”
The reporter nodded and looked into the camera. “There will be a gala black tie event the night before American II sets sail. It’s sure to be the best party of the year in Jacksonville. Invited guests will rub shoulders with some of Hollywood’s A-list actors, producers and directors. Many of the cast and crew from the movie Black River are expected to attend. Now back to you in the studio.”
The picture cut to a news anchorman in the studio. O’Brien set Max down, his eyes following a large sailboat entering Ponce Marina.
Dave hit the mute button and asked, “What are you thinking, Sean?”
O’Brien’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He looked at the screen and answered. “Sean, it’s Laura. I scrolled through Jack’s phone records a few days before and after he found the diamond. I came across one with a 305 area code…it was received by Jack’s phone three days after he found the diamond. I don’t see where he made a call to that number. Here’s the rest of the number.”
O’Brien wrote it down and asked, “How about one with a 206?”
“Hold on a sec. Let me look.”
O’Brien passed the phone number to Dave. Then Laura said, “There’s one with a 206. You want the rest of it?”
“Yes.” O’Brien wrote it down, passing a second piece of paper to Dave.
Laura said, “I know that 305 is Miami, but where’s the 206 area code?”
“Seattle. Did Jack make or receive a call from that number?”
“He received it.”
O’Brien looked at the TV screen as the live interview with Sheldon continued. O’Brien said, “Laura, use Jack’s phone and call the 206 number.”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes. Quickly. Let it ring three times and disconnect.”
O’Brien looked closely at the screen. “Dave, turn up the sound.”
Dave adjusted the volume.
O’Brien didn’t blink. He watched the wide, two-shot. Sheldon on the right. The reporter on the left. Three seconds later, Sheldon moved. Almost as if he hiccupped. He coolly touched the breast pocket of his sports coat. O’Brien could hear the slight vibrating buzz from the phone that was less than ten inches from the tiny lapel microphone Frank Sheldon wore on his jacket.
Laura Jordan waited for the third ring on her dead husband’s phone. She quickly pressed the END button and set it down on the kitchen counter, still holding her phone to her right ear. “Sean, who’d I just call?”
“Frank Sheldon.”
“Frank Sheldon! How do you know it’s his number?”
“Because I’m watching Sheldon being interviewed on live TV, and he touched the inside breast pocket of his sports coat at the first ring. I could faintly hear the buzz of the phone in his coat pocket.”
“What does this mean? Do you think Frank Sheldon was responsible for Jack’s death?”
“I think Sheldon’s a billionaire who’s used to getting anything he believes his money can buy. But I’m betting your husband couldn’t be bought.”
“Why would Jack tell him about the diamond?”
“
Maybe he didn’t. You said Jack received the call from the number—a number I now know goes straight to Sheldon’s phone. Maybe someone else told Sheldon and he, Sheldon, called Jack to negotiate a deal. Maybe Jack refused and that started the chain of events into motion.”
“Do you think Frank Sheldon sent that man to my house the night of the break-in? Was he responsible for killing Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk?”
“Maybe.” O’Brien heard the subtle beep of an incoming call. He glanced at the phone screen, recognizing the number. “Laura, I have to take a call.”
“If Sheldon thinks I still have the diamond, what will he do? Are Paula and I safe?”
“Is there somewhere you can stay?”
“My mother’s house.”
“Go there. I’ll call you back.” O’Brien disconnected and answered the incoming call.
Detective Dan Brown said, “We found Cory Nelson.”
“Did you take him in?”
“Yeah, all zipped up in a body-bag.”
O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “What happened?”
“Someone used a piano wire garrote. Almost cut Nelson’s head off. Murder happened in his car. Looks like the killer was hiding in the backseat when Nelson got inside. From there, bam. It appears to have been one hell of a struggle. Nelson ripped a fingernail clean off trying to pry the wire from tightening around his neck. Bad damn way to die. The question is—who killed Cory Nelson and why?”
“Nelson had a key to Jack Jordan’s van.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“That’s why there was no sign of a break-in on the van the day Jordan was killed. With all the confusion that morning at the scene of the shooting, Nelson could have strolled to Jack’s van, unlocked the door and taken the diamond. He probably knew where Jack had it hidden until Jack could take it to the gemologist later that day.”