Black River

TWENTY-FIVE

O’Brien carried the file folder to the end of his dock, thinking about the widow — the look in her eyes, the delicate appeal in her voice. Even from the television screen, the isolation inside Laura Jordan’s heart was as visible as the tears on her cheeks.

Detectives were investigating her claim of theft from her husband’s van, a stolen diamond, a motive for murder. Life imitating art turned ugly on a movie set where lots of Civil War re-enactors were carrying their own authentic pistols and period rifles. If it was an accident, was it like the analogy Dave illustrated, a firing squad? No one knows which one of the rifles is loaded. But every member of the firing squad knows its collective intent — to execute someone. If Jack Jordan’s death was accidental, no one knew — not anyone in the entire advancing Union brigade knew about the Minié ball in the chamber.

Or did they? If it was a mistake, why didn’t that man admit it? Maybe he really didn’t know.

Stuff happens. Tragic, but it happens.

O’Brien thought about that as he stopped at the end of the dock, the river calm, a pumpkin-orange butterfly alighting on a dock piling, the scent of honeysuckles in the air. Max scampered down the dock, darting after lizards, her nostrils catching the wind over the river, brown eyes scanning for gators. A great blue heron skimmed across the river. O’Brien watched the bird’s flight, its wings almost touching the surface, its reflection off the flat water giving the illusion of two birds flying. The heron flew toward the oxbow bend in the river and alighted in the branches of a cypress tree.

O’Brien slid the photo out of the folder and stared at it. Looked at the woman’s face. Studied the river in the background. He thought about what Joe Billie had told him, the sinking of the sailboat, the soldier swaying from the mast in the night, life fading, and alligators circling below his feet. Wounded men dying in a river filled with alligators.

Where did Jack Jordan dive for a strongbox? And how did he know where to look?

A wild turkey flew from the far side of the river and landed at the top of an elevated and ancient, earthen burial mound near his cabin. The mound dated much further back than the Civil War, back before the Spanish conquistadors tracked all over this land in the 1600’s. The mound was built by the Timmacuan Indians, a race of people long gone. Annihilated by European diseases. More than two hundred thousand dead.

Stuff happens.

But sometimes it doesn’t have to.

He looked at the phone number at the bottom of the picture, the number the antique dealer had given him and made the call. After six rings, a woman answered, her voice reticent and flat. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Jordan?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“My name is Sean O’Brien. I am so very sorry for the loss of your husband.”

“Were you a friend of Jack’s?”

“No. I heard about his death on the news. I saw your interview today.”

“How’d you get Jack’s cell phone number?”

“It was on a card that your husband left with an antique dealer in DeLand. I’ve been searching for an old painting that you and your husband had bought in the store. It’s a painting of a young woman at around the time of the Civil War. I’m trying to help someone find it.”

“It’s no longer here. The painting was stolen from the movie set.”

“Do police have leads?”

“They haven’t arrested anyone. You said that you’re trying to help someone find it. May I ask why?”

“An elderly man asked me to help him find it.” O’Brien told her the circumstances.

“Who is this elderly man?”

“His name’s Gus Louden. He’s my client. I’m a private investigator.”

“Were you ever a police officer?”

“Yes, at one time. I was a detective with Miami-Dade PD.”

The woman was silent for a few seconds. “Jack was generous with most everything. We didn’t know if the painting had any real worth. It just had a different, unique look to it. Regardless, Jack let the art producers borrow it. Three days later it was gone. The studio said they’d pay to replace it. But how do you replace a painting from the Civil War?”

“How was the theft reported to the police?”

“My husband called them. That didn’t make the producers happy. It was about a week before he was killed. Police took the report, spoke with the film company’s art director, and said they’d keep an eye on local pawnshops, Craigslist, and eBay. And that was all that’s happened. It’s almost similar to how they’ve handled his death and the theft of the diamond.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were quick to rule it accidental…like they were under pressure not to make waves and interrupt the production of a hundred-million dollar movie.”

“You said in your TV news interview that you don’t believe your husband’s death was an accident, but rather a homicide. Beside the theft of a diamond, do you have any other reason to think it wasn’t accidental?”

She said nothing for a moment. “Mr. O’Brien, I don’t want to talk over the phone. Since you were a detective at one time, maybe we could meet. And yes, I do have a reason. It was found in the pages of an old magazine. It’s what pointed Jack to the river…and his eventual death.”