Black River (Sean O'Brien Book 6)

by Tom Lowe

  O’Brien looked at the phone number just texted from Shelia Winters, the number to production assistant Katie Stuart. He tapped the number. When she answered, he said, “Katie, this is Sean O’Brien. I met you on the film set the day they were shooting some scenes on the mansion.”

  “Hi, I remember you.”

  “Maybe you can do a big favor for me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You mentioned that part of your job was shipping and receiving props.”

  “Now it’s more sending because the movie is winding down a lot. I’m not sure how many shooting days are left.”

  “Can you recall shipping a prop to Jacksonville?”

  “Hold on. I’m in the production art trailer. I can look at the records.” After a long moment, she said, “Yes, but only one time. It was something already wrapped. I’m not sure what it was, though. Mike Houston, the art director had it ready to go one morning.”

  “Where in Jacksonville was it shipped?”

  “The waybill says it was UPS ground-shipped to Poseidon Shipyards.”

  “One final thing, Katie. The death of the re-enactor on the set, Jack Jordan, was not an accident. It was murder.”

  “Oh my God…”

  “You can help. What’s Mike Houston’s mobile number?”

  “I…I…I’m not supposed to—”

  “Katie, trust me. This is a case of life and death.”

  She blew out a hard breath into the phone. “Okay, but you didn’t get it from me.” She gave O’Brien the number.

  “Thank you. Katie. I hope to see your name credited as a director someday.” O’Brien disconnected. He remembered his conversation with art director, Mike Houston. “It was stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes, Unfortunately. After the third day of shooting. We became aware it was gone when we were playing back scenes for continuity.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “You lying bastard.”

  Dave said, “Lying bastard…who’s that?”

  “The art director on the set of Black River.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he secretly shipped the painting to billionaire Frank Sheldon.”

  Nick sat up, setting Max on the floor. “How’d you figure that?”

  “When I remembered what Sheldon said when I saw the behind-the-scenes video of the day Sheldon and his rat-pack arrived on the set. He’d stared at the painting and said, ‘The face that launched a thousand ships might have been Helen of Troy…but the face of that woman in the painting is a face for a man to defend to his death.’ Earlier, on the news, Sheldon mentioned that he had America II built at a boatyard in Jacksonville called Poseidon Shipyards. Sheldon just launched his personal ship, identical to the one that beat the British a decade before the Civil War. So what would be the ultimate souvenir to include in the launching? Maybe the portrait of a beautiful woman whose face embodies the Gone with the Wind mystique of Old South femininity.”

  Dave said, “And that’s why Sheldon’s private quarters on the new boat were off limits to the news crew.”

  O’Brien nodded. “Because that’s where he hung or plans to hang the painting stolen by the art director from the film set. That’s where I’ll finally find the painting.”

  The rumble of twin diesels approached Gibraltar’s stern, the loud pulse of music, Bad to the Bone, carried across the marina. Nick stood, glanced out the open doors leading to the cockpit and shook his head. A fleshy, pink-faced man stood in baggy swim shorts behind the wheel, a can of beer in one hand. Nick turned back toward O’Brien and said, “Sean, you start trying to break into that yacht and Sheldon will have you walk the plank.”

  Dave exhaled a long breath. “The ship sets sail to England in two days. Did you see the news clip? Frank Sheldon employs bodyguards to keep his privacy. He’s got a wife and two teenage kids. Any of them would bring millions of dollars in ransom money if they were ever kidnapped.”

  O’Brien said, “Absolutely, but I don’t think the show of muscle at the launching of his ship was related to that. Billionaire’s have bodyguards, no doubt. But those guys carried a more mercenary look.”

  Dave sat in a leather chair. “How do you mean, mercenary look?”

  “Former Seals or Special Forces guys. Sheldon is sending a message to someone. I think he’s setting sail to England with more cargo than the painting.”

  Nick grinned. “So he’s got some real booty aboard, eh?”

  “Priceless booty, as in the diamond.”

  “The diamond?”

  “What if Sheldon wants to carry the same cargo back to England that was originally brought to the states during the Civil War? A billionaire’s fantasy could be to have possession of the diamond and the Civil War contract on his maiden voyage back to the nation that originally sent them. The same sailing ship, the same precious cargo.”

  Dave said, “That’d probably be the ultimate display of wealth and narcissism.”

  “Unless, upon delivery, he plans to quietly sell them both back to the great granddaughter of the woman who originally possessed them, Queen Victoria, the woman who first wore the Koh-i-Noor diamond in her crown.”

  Dave’s phone buzzed. He answered it, handed the phone to O’Brien and said, “Alistair Hornsby, the head of M16, would like a word with you.”

  O’Brien took the phone and Hornsby gave him an assessment and background of James Fairmont. Then he added, “Mr. O’Brien, my old friend and colleague, Dave Collins, speaks highly of you and your talents. Time is of the essence here. Perhaps you’d consider helping us.”

  “Who is us?”

  “Great Britain collectively. Her Majesty the Queen and the Royal Family specifically.”

  “How?”

  “By stopping James Fairmont. You’re in the thick of things already. Boots on the ground, if you will. On behalf of the Queen of England, and the Royal Family, we are making a special request that you circumvent and stop Fairmont if possible. We can and will have manpower to assist you. However, Dave tells me you work alone. If you accept this assignment, I assure you that you will be well compensated.”

  “That’s not my motivation.”

  “What then?”

  “Justice. Retribution. Your agent breach, Fairmont, killed Dave’s close friend of forty years. Fairmont broke into a widow’s home after he had her husband killed. He, no doubt, stole the diamond and the Civil War document. You mentioned a high-stakes auction. I think he’s been playing a bidding game between Prime Minister Hannes and the Royal Family against an American Billionaire by the name of Frank Sheldon.”

  “Has he sold the goods to Sheldon?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.”

  “Does this mean you will accept the assignment?”

  “The last assignments I did were in college. You can tell the Queen I’ll do what I can to help. When did you last hear from Paul Wilson?”

  “Five hours ago. He said he was getting close. Now we know how close he really was. Prior to his departure, unknown to him, we had a tracking device inserted in the heel of his right shoe. For the last three hours, his location has not changed even a meter.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Not too far from you and Dave, I suspect. I’ll send you over the GPS coordinates immediately. Maybe he’s with Fairmont, having a long dinner, plotting their spilt of the spoils from the sale of the diamond. However, Wilson doesn’t know that Fairmont has used him to get to the Prime Minister. Now that Wilson’s value is spent, I’m not sure what you will find. Whatever it is, please contact us immediately. Good luck, Mr. O’Brien. You will certainly need it. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “What does Fairmont look like?”

  “Like everyone and no one. He’s a master at blending into his surroundings, even becoming his surroundings.”

  “Send me the most recent picture of him that you have.”

  “You’ll have it. Fairmont, like any really good field agent
, can be like a ghost. Someone who almost walks through walls. He might not look exactly the same twice. He speaks six languages fluently. He, like a great actor, becomes who he wants to be. Excellent at disguises. He’s very good at getting people to talk about things they normally keep to themselves. He can look like a priest, when he’s really the killer in the adjacent confessional booth.”

  O’Brien drove fast, following the directions of the GPS coordinates. He entered the phone number that Katie Stuart had given him, the number to art director, Mike Houston. When Houston answered, it was an abrupt and stiff, “Yes.”

  “Hi, Mike. It’s been a few weeks. I hear you’re about to wrap Black River.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “I’m the guy you wanted off the set, Sean O’Brien.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “You stole a valuable Civil War painting that belongs to the widow of the man murdered on your film set. It belongs to Laura Jordan. You decided, instead, to sell it to Frank Sheldon. What’d he pay you with, underage boys?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Before you hang up, before I alert the police to your theft, I’m willing to make a very simple deal. I want you to call your pal, Frank Sheldon, or whoever is in charge of the guests’ list and add my name.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Mike, you’re so articulate. Listen carefully. I have the waybill number with a charge receipt in your name. I have the delivery confirmation, and I have the behind-the-scenes video of you doing the deal. You never know when the camera’s rolling because it doesn’t blink. If my name’s not on the guest list, yours will be in the newspapers. I’m sure your one hundred million dollar movie could do without the further negative publicity. See you at the party, pal.” O’Brien disconnected.

  “Your destination is ahead on the right.” O’Brien shut off the GPS and proceeded slowly. He was in a heavily wooded, remote section of the county. He turned down a dirt road, and drove another quarter mile, his headlights raking across what appeared to be an old barn on the edge of an overgrown field. He continued driving, looking for cars. Nothing.

  After driving for thirty seconds more, he made a U-turn and drove back with his headlights out, steering by the moonlight. When he came to within one hundred yards of the barn he pulled his Jeep off the road, parking in the scrub oak, out of direct sight. O’Brien looked at his phone, the last call to Kim Davis. He placed his phone on vibrate mode and shut the Jeep’s dome light off, reached in the glove box for a flashlight, lifting his Glock from the console. O’Brien stepped out into the night. Cicadas droned in the pines. He heard the cry of a screech owl somewhere in the forest.

  O’Brien kept in the underbrush, approaching the barn. He stopped. Listening. Trying to hear through the chanting of crickets and cicadas. He stepped around the perimeter of the old barn, the smell of damp hay and horse manure coming from the cracks and spaces between the weatherbeaten boards. He placed one ear to the boards and listened. He could hear something moving, frenzy, as if an animal was gnawing a bone.

  He crept around to the front entrance, Glock in his right hand. O’Brien quietly lifted the unlocked hinged latch. He jerked open the door. Flashlight leveled with the barrel of the Glock. He swept the beam through the dark. Rats scattered. An opossum turned and stared, its snout bloodied. The animal jogged, hiding behind bales of hay.

  The body was propped in one corner. A large rat scurried from the dead man’s lap. Paul Wilson. Face bluish. Eyes wide open. A single gunshot to the center of the forehead. Blood dried and dark. Rat tracks through the blood.

  O’Brien’s heart hammered. He swept the flashlight beam in every corner of the old barn, rusted farm tools were strewn on the hard-packed dirt floor. A tattered scarecrow, straw protruding from holes in its red flannel wool shirt, sat up and cross-legged against one wall. There was a single horse stall, door open and leaning to one side, long since vacant. But the dried ordor of manure still clung in the airless structure mixing with the slight smell of burnt gunpowder, rat feces and human blood.

  Where was James Fairmont? How did he lure Wilson into this place? Where would Fairmont go next?

  O’Brien’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He lifted it out. The message was from Alistair Hornsby. Here is the latest image we have. Fairmont is six-two. Fifty eight years old. About one seventy-five. Natural hair color blond. Could be any color. Natural eye color green.

  O’Brien looked at the face of James Fairmont. Looked into his eyes. Glanced over at the body of Paul Wilson and looked at the vacant, confused eyes. A man deceived. As Hornsby said: ‘a steer lead to the slaughterhouse.’ O’Brien stared hard at Fairmont’s face and remembered what Nick had said: ‘But when he bought a round of drinks, and started asking me stuff like had I been following the news about the diamond and the Civil War paper? When he asked, ‘was Sean helping the widow of the dead guy find the stolen stuff ?’…I said yassas in Greek, which means I’m outta here.’

  “What’d the guy look like?” Dave asked.

  “About Sean’s height. Probably six-two. Blond fella. Green eyes. Maybe mid-fifties. He looked in good shape for his age.”

  O’Brien sent a text to Hornsby: Found Wilson. Dead. You can send your cleaners in. No sign of Fairmont. But I think I know where he’ll go next.

  A half hour later, O’Brien pulled his Jeep into the entrance of the Highland Park Fish Camp. He drove down a dirt road, the surface covered with gravel and crushed shells, the moon flashing through the branches of moss-covered live oaks. A plump raccoon waddled across the road. O’Brien drove past trailers and cabins, some with outside lights on. Others dark. The occupants gone to bed early, eager to fish on Lake Woodruff as the sun rose over the St. Johns River in the morning.

  O’Brien stopped in front of Joe Billie’s trailer. It was dark, the moonlight bouncing off the silver shell. He didn’t think Billie was home. O’Brien reached in his glove box, ripped a small sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote:

  Joe, I may need you and your canoe tomorrow evening. Event involving maiden sail of a large sailing schooner. You have my number, please call for details. Thanks, Sean.

  He got out of his Jeep, stepping on dry pine straw leading up to the front door, the deep-throated boom of bullfrogs coming from the river. O’Brien tapped on the door. No sound of movement. No lights. Nothing. He folded the note and wedged it under the door handle. Did Joe even own a phone? He could use the fish camp phone. He didn’t know if Billie would see it, but O’Brien had a gut feeling in his gut that he would need him.

  O’Brien drove the back roads returning to Ponce Marina. He wanted to think, to plan. He had to trap one of Britain’s best agents and had to do it quickly. Johnathon Fairmont was still in the area. Why? What’s keeping him here? O’Brien called Dave Collins. “Paul Wilson’s dead.”

  “I suspected as much. Where?”

  “The body’s stashed in an old barn a couple of miles north of State Road 19. I let Hornsby know that he can send in the cleaners. I’m heading back to the marina.”

  “I’m sure Fairmont left nothing behind.”

  “Only a string of bodies.”

  “Dave, the only reason that Fairmont is still in the area has to be tied to Sheldon. Why doesn’t Fairmont take the Civil War contract, the diamond, and leave? I’m betting two reasons: one is he doesn’t want to be carrying them…even in the cargo hull of a plane. And the second is Frank Sheldon. Sheldon was one of the few billionaires who could match resources and assets with the Queen of England in maybe the most expensive auction in the history of the world.”

  “So, after a fresh kill, where is the hunter tonight?”

  “The bigger question is where will he be tomorrow night when Sheldon throws a bon voyage party before setting sail for England?”

  Kim Davis tallied the final receipts from the dinner shift at the Tiki Bar, bagged the money, filled out bank deposit slips, locking everything in the office safe before grabbing her purse on the way out the door.
She still wasn’t used to the extra weight the .22 caliber pistol added to her purse. She smiled at Hugh Paulsen, the second-shift manager, ruddy face, Australian accent, wearing a white Panama hat. She said, “I hope you have a good crowd. Is Sammy playing later on?”

  “No. It’ll be a new crooner. Lad’s name is Colin Lafferty. He’s a cross between folk and country rock. Talented fella he is.”

  “I hope he packs the house.”

  “You off tomorrow, Kim?”

  “Oh yes. Tomorrow and the next day. Almost a mini-vacation.”

  “Got plans, do you?”

  “Sleep.” She smiled and walked out into the warm afternoon air. She crossed the parking lot to the left, boats bobbing across the marina, the red brick lighthouse standing in the distance high above the tree line. Kim breathed deeply, the smell of the ocean and jasmine in the soft breeze.

  O’Brien moved fast down L Dock, glancing at his watch. Frank Sheldon would be doing a ceremonial sail with America II and invited guests in three hours. As he walked through the Tiki Bar, two black leather clad bikers took their seats at the bar, a family of tourists, chattering and sunburnt after a half-day on a commercial fishing boat, found seats at two of the wooden tables that were previously used as massive spools for electrical wire. A Buffett song played from the speakers.

  O’Brien spotted the manager and asked, “Is Kim still here?”

  “No, she left a few minutes ago. Said she’s going home to sleep. She’s got the next couple of days off. You might try her phone.”

  Her car sat alone. Parked near the dumpsters at the farthest end of the lot. She heard a dog barking in the distance, the sound of a siren far away toward Daytona Beach. She reached into her purse, finding her keys, touching the pistol, pressing the unlock button. Her parking lights flashed once as the doors unlocked. Her shoulders and feet were sore and she longed for a half hour under a hot shower.