Black River

FORTY-SEVEN

Jupiter rocked slightly in her slip when O’Brien’s phone vibrated on his nightstand. Even in his sleep, he heard it on the first buzz. He looked at the digital screen, not recognizing the number. O’Brien answered and sat up, moonlight spilling through the porthole in the master berth. Laura Jordan was crying so loud, he couldn’t make out all of her words. Between cries she blurted, “Sean! He was in my bedroom!”

“Laura…slow down. Take a breath. What happened?”

“A man broke into my home! He lifted Paula out of her bed. He laid her on my bed. Dear God.” She choked for a second. “He wanted the Civil War contract.”

“Are you hurt? Is Paula hurt?”

“No. But he slit the throat of the neighbor’s poor little dog. And he said he’d do the same to Paula if what I told him wasn’t true. I’m calling you from my neighbor’s phone because he smashed mine.”

“Have you called police?”

“I dialed nine-one-one before I called you. They’re on their way. Sean, I’m so scared…”

“Did you recognize this man?”

“No. It was too dark.”

“Could you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I don’t know. He spoke in a whisper. Thank God Paula never really woke up through the entire thing. He said it took him less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm my alarm. And he said how does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected.”

“What’d he want? What did you tell him?”

“He wanted to know what I did with the Civil War contract. I gave it to Professor Kirby from the University of Florida.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes. He was going to hurt Paula—”

“Does he know where the professor’s staying?”

“Yes. Professor Kirby is staying at a hotel. I’m afraid for him.”

“Which hotel, Laura?”

“The Hampton Inn on LaSalle. He said he was in room twenty-three. I have his card with his number.”

“Call him. Tell him to get out of the room. Tell him to go to a Waffle House or someplace well lighted. Then text his number to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Tell the responding officers that you’re working with Detective Dan Grant in an on-going investigation. They’ll call him immediately. Hug Paula for me.” O’Brien disconnected, slipped on jeans, a dark shirt — untucked, and running shoes. He shoved his 9mm Glock under his belt in the small of his back.

Max lifted her head from beneath a small blanket in her oval dog bed on the floor. She stared at O’Brien, puzzled. He said, “Sit tight. Gotta run, literally. Dave or Nick will walk you.” He stepped out to the cockpit, locked the transom door and jogged quietly from Jupiter to Dave’s boat, Gibraltar. O’Brien used his palm to bang on Gibraltar’s sliding glass doors.

Nothing. No movement. O’Brien looked east across the dark marina, the horizon black, the smell of creosote seeping up from the dock pilings. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial button. Four rings and O’Brien whispered, “Dave pick up.”

“And good morning to you.” Dave’s voice was guttural, filtered through sleep-congested vocal cords.

“Open the door.”

“The door? What door? Where the hell are you at…at this hour in the morning?”

“I’m standing on your boat. Cockpit door. Ike Kirby’s in trouble.”

Dave disconnected and came up from the master berth like a hibernating bear awakened before spring, the left side of his face creased from sleep. He stood at the transom door in boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He unlocked the door and snatched it open. “What that hell’s going on, Sean? Where’s Ike? What kind of trouble?”

“Maybe the worst. A man broke into Laura Jordan’s house. He threatened to kill her daughter if Laura didn’t give him the Civil War contract. She’d already given it to Ike.”

“And this perp knows where Ike’s staying, correct?”

“She had no choice but to tell him.”

“I understand.”

“See if you can reach Ike. I told Laura to call and warn him. Don’t know if she got through before the police arrived at her home. Call him, Dave. Tell him to get out of the room immediately. Walk Max for me, okay?” O’Brien turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Hampton Inn. Room twenty-three. Ike’s room.” O’Brien jumped from Dave’s trawler onto the dock. He ran hard down the length of the pier toward the marina parking lot. His thoughts raced even faster. Could Laura or Dave reach Ike on the phone before the perp got there? Or was the man already there? Maybe he simply broke into the hotel room and stole the Civil War contract while Ike slept. No one hurt.

Maybe not.

O’Brien ran under the light of a full moon high above the Atlantic Ocean, a burst of lightning hanging for a second in the gut of dark clouds. Dawn would rise above the Atlantic in about two hours. But now there was more than enough time for a nocturnal predator to come from the cloak of darkness and slip away quietly like the whispered flight of a bat in the night sky.