Black River

SEVENTY-THREE

Max stared at Dave standing at the open cockpit door. She sat up on Nick’s lap, cocked her head, her face inquisitive. Nick glanced at Max and looked up as Dave walked to his leather chair next to his reading lamp. He lowered his large frame into the chair as if his knees ached.

Nick said, “Dave, you see a ghost out on the deck? You look like I felt when I realized Malina had put an evil spell on my Johnson.”

O’Brien watched Dave and asked, “What’d Hornsby tell you?”

“The name of the man who killed Ike Kirby.”

“What?” Nick asked, sitting up. “How’d he know?”

“He didn’t, at least not originally. It became evident in the last part of our conversation.” Dave looked at O’Brien. “You knew, Sean. You just didn’t know his name. You were right about the killer making the call to Paul Wilson as a set-up ploy. What you didn’t know was the killer’s name. It’s James Fairmont. At one time, he was one of M16’s best field agents. Prime Minister Hannes reassigned Fairmont to the consulate in Miami, hence the displeasure on Fairmont’s part. Paul Wilson was trained by Fairmont and used by Fairmont. Alistair called it ‘leading a steer to the slaughterhouse.’

O’Brien shook his head. “That implies that Fairmont will take out Wilson. Why doesn’t M16 simply hunt them both down?”

“They can and will, but maybe not before the Royal Family blackmail goes down. Perhaps, for Fairmont, the international scandal, the embarrassment of Hannes and the Royals is worth more than the sale of the diamond.”

“What’s Hornsby going to do?”

Dave blew air out of his cheeks. “He’s going to call you?”

“Me? Why?”

“Because they know of your track record. Because you’re right here…deep in the middle of this defecation. You can always turn them down.”

O’Brien glanced out the port side window for a second. “But I can’t turn you down, Dave. I made a promise to you — I said I’d find Ike’s killer. Now, it looks like I’m a lot closer.”

Through his open shirt, Nick touched the bronze cross that hung from his neck. He scratched Max behind the ears and made a silent prayer.

O’Brien reached for his wallet. “Wait a minute…Frank Sheldon.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“It was something that Sheldon said on television.”

Dave folded his arms. “He did a lot of boasting.”

“Something he said just made me think back to the behind-the-scenes video I’d seen in the editing suite the day I watched the slow-motion playback of the musket-firing scene from the set of Black River.” O’Brien pulled a business card out of his wallet. The title read: Shelia Winters — Casting Agency

He placed the call to her. When he identified himself, she said, “I heard what happened when you visited my friend Oscar Roth in post-production. You almost got him fired. Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Shelia, listen to me, please. Jack Jordan was murdered on the set of Black River. The killing was caught on camera. That piece of evidence is helping police find the killer who left a widow and a little girl in his wake.”

“Are you a detective? If you are, why didn’t you just come out and tell me?”

“I’m not a detective. I’m a private investigator. I need to reach one of the production assistants, Katie Stuart. It’s urgent.”

“Hold on. Let me see if I have her number…here it is. I’ll text it to you.”

“Good. One last question…the day I met with you in your trailer, I saw one of your re-enactors riding a horse. Maybe he was preparing for a scene. He was about a quarter mile away from the plantation mansion and the movie set. In the area of a cemetery. Older man. Distinguished looking. Clean-shaven except for a white handlebar moustache. He was dressed as a Confederate officer.”

“Let me check the shooting schedule.”

O’Brien could hear her tapping on a keyboard. She said, “There were no scenes with horses that day. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any Confederate re-enactors with white handlebar moustaches. The scenes with Confederate officers were shot the day before you were here. Maybe you were mistaken. Sorry, but I have to go. The film’s almost wrapped and the first assistant director is having a coronary.” She disconnected.

O’Brien stepped over to the open port window facing the inlet. He watched a flock of sea gulls following a shrimp boat up Ponce Inlet from the Atlantic, the breeze delivering the scent of drying oyster bars and brackish water.

Nick said, “Sean, you look like your head hurts almost as much as mine. Maybe it’s catching.”

O’Brien turned toward Nick. “High body counts have a way of causing headaches. Nick, if you were having the ultimate fishing boat built, where would you have the work done.”

“Athens, Greece.”

“Here in the states.”

“Maybe Jacksonville. Place called Poseidon Shipyards. It’s named, of course, after the ancient Greek god of the sea, my man, Poseidon.”

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.”