Black River

SEVENTY

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.