“And the chick who slipped me a tricky mickey would be a hero.”
Dave shook his head. “No, outside of those she directly reports to, no one would ever know she had anything to do with its return.”
Nick grinned. “No wonder she has sexually repressed issues. Turn a man to stone, well sort of, and come on to him all because she wanted to search Sean’s boat.” He grinned. “My man, Sean, is popular. Recently, a tourist, least I freakin’ think he was a tourist, he was asking me about chartering Sean’s boat. That’s no big deal, but when he bought a round of drinks, and started asking me stuff like had I been following the news about the diamond and the Civil War paper? When he asked, ‘was Sean helping the widow of the dead guy find the stolen stuff?’…I said yassas in Greek, which means I’m outta here.”
“What’d the guy look like?” Dave asked.
“About Sean’s height. Probably six-two. Blond fella. Green eyes. Maybe early fifties. He looked in good shape for his age.”
“Did he have an accent?”
Nick nodded. “English or maybe Australian. The witch that slipped me her witches’ brew asked me if he had an accent.”
O’Brien said, “That’s because she knows the UK has someone over here trying to beat her to the punch, to find the diamond and the contract before she does.”
Dave blew out a long breath. “That’s true, but the fly in the ointment here is the description Nick just gave us.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asked.
“A British agent showed up here at the marina. The agent was assigned to this case from my former colleague in the UK. Sean and I spoke with him. We debriefed the agent. He’s doing his own investigation. The man we spoke with doesn’t match your description at all.”
“So, what the hell does that mean?”
O’Brien said, “It mean’s someone else is looking for the goods. And I’m betting the guy who bought you a drink was the same person who killed Professor Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk.”
Nick tossed another two aspirins into his mouth, chewed without blinking, cracked a beer and took a long pull. He cut his red eyes to Dave and said, “If I’d only known, Dave. I know you and the professor were tight. Had I known that was the guy who killed him, I woulda knocked the dude off the barstool.”
Dave shrugged and looked over the tops of his bifocals. “No sweat, Nick. Sean is making an assumption. He may be correct, but we don’t know that.”
O’Brien asked, “Is there anything else you can remember about the guy, Nick?””
Nick sipped his beer and started to answer when O’Brien’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The man on the line said, “Hey, Sean this is Larry Tiller at the jail.”
“Thanks for calling. What do you have?”
“That guy, Silas Jackson, his release papers are being processed right now. He ought to be hitting the streets soon. I saw the guy when he first arrived and got into his county-issued orange jumpsuit, you couldn’t help but notice the tat across the guy’s entire chest. It’s a tattoo of a human skull wearing a Confederate flag as a bandana. Below the skull is a red rose next to a hangman’s noose and letters that spell out, Southern Justice.”
SIXTY-FOUR
O’Brien parked his Jeep on the road beyond the razor-wire fence, just outside the Volusia County Jail Complex. He watched a parade of the exploited enter the jail. The users, losers, abusers — the trampled women with litters of dirty children in tow. Girlfriends with bruises as apparent as their tattoos — most visiting wife beaters and callous boyfriends conditionally remorseful because their rage was now trapped in a cage with them. When their freedom was entombed in a six-by-eight cell, sobriety was their first visitor. Guilt was a transient shadow.
Some were being held for violating parole, domestic abuse, selling or using drugs, theft and fraud — most riding the roller coaster track of the habitual offender in the macabre theme park of the criminal mind. Others were locked up and scheduled for jury trials on capital charges ranging from rape to murder.
O’Brien watched a heavyset bail bondsmen in a banana-yellow shirt stop on the sidewalk to light a cigarette. The bondsman waited as a man in a wrinkled gray suit joined him. The man had dark, hooded eyes, feral face and a small mouth. O’Brien recognized him as an attorney, a late-night infomercial king — an ambulance chaser: ‘In a legal jam? Call Sam — One eight-hundred dial Sam’s law.’
He thought about Silas Jackson, picturing the image of Jackson that the casting director, Shelia, had shared with him on her computer screen. He visualized Jackson in his Confederate uniform, eyes black, narrow and hard as marbles, 1950’s sideburns, and a scruffy handlebar moustache. Jackson’s attitude was captured in the photo as well. Go to hell.
When O’Brien glanced back at the entrance to the county jail, Silas Jackson was coming outside, squinting in the late-afternoon Florida sun like a hibernating animal rousted from its den of thieves.
It took less than five minutes. Silas Jackson stood on the corner a half block north of the Volusia County Jail Complex, smoked part of a thin cigar and in less than five minutes a black pickup truck pulled over to the side of the curb. Jackson dropped the cigar on the sidewalk, used the toe of his boot to crush it, and walked to the passenger door side of the truck.
From the opposite side of the street, O’Brien sat in his parked Jeep, watching Jackson and counting heads of those in the pickup truck. Three men, including Jackson. O’Brien could see the driver through the truck’s open window. Big guy. Baseball cap backwards on his head. Black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, the driver’s left arm resting out the window against the door. The muscular arm was filled with ink under the fur.
They pulled away from the curb and O’Brien started the Jeep’s engine. He waited for the truck to get a block away before following the men. The driver in the pickup truck drove another two blocks before making a left turn onto Jefferson Street.
O’Brien stayed as far behind the truck as he could, calculating the movement of traffic and the time it would take to clear stop signs and traffic lights. He knew Jackson’ pickup truck was back at the movie lot where Jackson had been taken in for questioning. He assumed the men were driving him to the set for his truck.
What he didn’t anticipate was that Jackson would be followed.
O’Brien spotted the BMW with tinted windows when the car first pulled out of a side street. It happened less than ten seconds after the truck with Jackson passed the first intersection away from the jail complex. The car’s windows were too dark for O’Brien to make out the driver’s face. He could tell that the man wore what appeared to be a traditional Scottish golf cap and sunglasses.
Maybe he was a detective, someone working with Dan Grant. Maybe they suspected Jackson of more than what Grant had said. O’Brien didn’t buy it. Something was wrong. Very wrong. What? Think.
It was something that Laura Jordan had said after Cory Nelson pulled the knife before bolting through the gate leading from Laura’s backyard. ‘He has a key to the front door, and he knows the alarm code. I have to change the locks.’
But before Ike Kirby was murdered, after Laura had been awakened when a man was standing in her bedroom in the dark and holding Paula sleeping in his arms, Laura said he’d whispered something. ‘It took me less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm your house alarm. How does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected.’