Dave puffed his cigar and looked over to Nick’s boat. “Yeah, I know. Nick tries to do that. Says it’s the old Greek way. Too bad his taste in women lean towards the ones who look like strip club employees.”
O’Brien pulled out his cell phone and turned on the flashlight app, examining the photo. Dave said, “I have a marine flashlight if you need more light.”
“This is fine.”
“Did you drop something on it?”
“No. I’m thinking about what Ellen Heartwell told me when she said her grandmother and the woman in this painting shared a secret of the river. I believe this is the St. Johns River. I think I’ve seen this section…I just can’t recall where.”
“I can see why. The river is more than 310 miles long. And it’s a good bet the old river has changed in 160 years — new twists and turns carved out from flooding and hurricanes.”
“No doubt, but the secret of the river is probably the secret of the St. Johns. So this mysterious woman, probably, at one time in her life, lived near the river or visited it during a family vacation.”
“You think if you can find this section of the river, this oxbow, you’ll be a little closer to this mysterious secret and the ID of the woman?”
“Could be.”
“The whole topography, the foliage, the terrain have to be vastly changed in a century and a half. How in the hell could you find that?”
“I probably can’t, but I know someone who can.”
Dave grinned, clenching the cigar between his teeth. “I presume that’s your Seminole friend, Joe Billie. And I surmise that this means you’re taking the case.”
O’Brien’s cell rang. He didn’t recognize the in-coming number. He answered, and a man said, “Mr. O’Brien?”
“Yes.”
“This is Carl Crawford. You visited my antique store…asked me to call you if I came up with a name of the person who bought the old painting.”
“Yes, what do you have?”
“Well, the only reason I remembered his name is ‘cause I just saw his face on the TV news.”
“I’m listening.”
“Damn shame, really. That fella was killed in an accidental shooting while they were filming a movie. He’s the one that was in here eight months ago and bought the painting. He was in with his wife. They seemed like a real happy couple, now that I think back. He’d left his card, and I filed it under C rather than his last name. I filed it under C as in Civil War ‘cause he’d asked me to let him know if I ever got any stuff in from the Civil War. His name is…or was…Jack Jordan. You want the number on the card?”
TWELVE
A sixty-four-foot Bertram sport fishing yacht cut through the marina, running lights ablaze, big diesels rumbling, a party of five mixing cocktails on the deck, the captain pushing the throttle a little beyond the courtesy, no wake zone. Within thirty seconds the rollers spread across the waterfront, causing moored boats to rock, tugging at their spring lines. Max barked one time, the yelp more of a protest than a bark.
Dave lifted his drink off the table and said, “I’d like to think that guy’s a new boat owner and he hasn’t learned the easy touch of getting in and out of the marina, but more likely it’s someone who can’t spell the word consideration.”
O’Brien had just disconnected from the call, jotting down the phone number at the bottom of the picture. He stared at the photo and said nothing. Dave puffed his cigar and studied O’Brien for a moment. “I’ve seen that look on your face too many times, Sean. Something’s happened or happening, and it’s beginning to suck you into the wormhole. Do you mind me asking who was on the other end of the line? If it was your stock broker, I’d infer that you lost a bundle.”
“It was the antique dealer, the guy who couldn’t place the name or face of the man who bought the painting of this woman.” O’Brien motioned to the picture on the table.
“What’d he say? Did he say how he suddenly remembered the buyer’s face?”
“He saw it on television, on the news. It was a picture of the man wearing a Confederate uniform.”
Dave’s eyebrows rose. He sipped his whiskey, cracking a piece of ice between his back teeth. “Was the unlucky fella, the guy who was shot and killed on the movie set, the buyer of the painting?”
“One and the same. The dead guy’s name is Jack Jordan. The antique dealer said the man came in the shop a few months ago with his wife and they bought the original oil painting of the woman in the photo and a stack of old magazines.”
Dave blew air out of his cheeks, his eyes watching the lighthouse. “This is unsettling, maybe a game-changer. It might be a good point in time for you to call your client and politely decline his open offer for you to find and retrieve the painting.”
“Why? Police are saying the shooting appears accidental. The deceased man’s widow may have the painting. Maybe, at some point, my client could buy it from her.”
“That’s possible. However, if you accept the job, your journey could take a fork in the road that may lead you to some murky places. I don’t say that without duly considering the hypothesis. What begins as a lost-and-found may reverse itself and turn into something found and lost. You’re helping an old man find something lost, and by doing so you find the evidence that proves his relative wasn’t a coward in battle…this noble effort may lead to a mystery better left in the past. Why? Well, ask yourself this question: is this chain of events coincidental or are there other forces, darker forces, at play here?”
O’Brien said nothing for a long moment, Gibraltar, rocking slightly in the changing tide. “It could be a fluke, nothing more or less. Like you suggested, if this guy, Jack Jordan, had a man-cave, maybe the painting is there.”
Dave finished his Irish whiskey, lifting Max to his lap, scratching her behind the ears. A salty breeze puffing across the harbor from the ocean, the moving beam from the lighthouse piercing a hole into the dark far out over the Atlantic. “And there could be a hibernating grizzly bear in that abandoned man-cave. You know, Sean, most of reason and deductive logic in life begins with a given — a postulate that can’t be proved or disproved, but the preponderance of reason sets the outer perimeter and everything works inward from there, sort of like working in from the borders of a known circle. That doesn’t exist in the shadowy world you often find yourself in because evil has no borders, no limits, and no presumed axiom from which to start. It’s just there, my friend. And your circle can grow outward because the criminal mind is without conventional reason. So you fight the fight, but never define the undefinable because it’s always just over the horizon…in any and every direction. And there lies evil.”
“Maybe there’s nothing criminal about this. You’re reading the tea leaves and there’s nothing in the bottom of the cup, at least not yet.”
“I’m not reading tea leaves, I’m reading the way that you’re looking at the face of the enigmatic woman in the photo. Don’t let it become the face of unreason, the image of Medusa. Want another drink?”
“I might need one after what you just said, but right now, I’m going to have a long walk with Max on the beach, then take a shower and hit the sack.”
O’Brien was in a dimly lit room, hot air rife with the stench of mouse feces, dead cockroaches in the corners. He sat, stripped to his waist, against a concrete wall, his hands cuffed to a chain locked to a large ring in the center of the floor. His face was bloodied, left eye swollen, lower teeth loose. He could hear them outside the door. He knew the sounds of their boots walking by, the slow stride of the heavier guard, and the lighter steps of the slender guard.