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.
SEVENTY-ONE
Laura Jordan waited for the third ring on her dead husband’s phone. She quickly pressed the END button and set it down on the kitchen counter, still holding her phone to her right ear. “Sean, who’d I just call?”
“Frank Sheldon.”
“Frank Sheldon! How do you know it’s his number?”
“Because I’m watching Sheldon being interviewed on live TV, and he touched the inside breast pocket of his sports coat at the first ring. I could faintly hear the buzz of the phone in his coat pocket.”
“What does this mean? Do you think Frank Sheldon was responsible for Jack’s death?”
“I think Sheldon’s a billionaire who’s used to getting anything he believes his money can buy. But I’m betting your husband couldn’t be bought.”
“Why would Jack tell him about the diamond?”
“Maybe he didn’t. You said Jack received the call from the number — a number I now know goes straight to Sheldon’s phone. Maybe someone else told Sheldon and he, Sheldon, called Jack to negotiate a deal. Maybe Jack refused and that started the chain of events into motion.”
“Do you think Frank Sheldon sent that man to my house the night of the break-in? Was he responsible for killing Ike Kirby and the hotel clerk?”
“Maybe.” O’Brien heard the subtle beep of an incoming call. He glanced at the phone screen, recognizing the number. “Laura, I have to take a call.”
“If Sheldon thinks I still have the diamond, what will he do? Are Paula and I safe?”
“Is there somewhere you can stay?”
“My mother’s house.”
“Go there. I’ll call you back.” O’Brien disconnected and answered the incoming call.
Detective Dan Brown said, “We found Cory Nelson.”
“Did you take him in?”
“Yeah, all zipped up in a body-bag.”
O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “What happened?”
“Someone used a piano wire garrote. Almost cut Nelson’s head off. Murder happened in his car. Looks like the killer was hiding in the backseat when Nelson got inside. From there, bam. It appears to have been one hell of a struggle. Nelson ripped a fingernail clean off trying to pry the wire from tightening around his neck. Bad damn way to die. The question is — who killed Cory Nelson and why?”
“Nelson had a key to Jack Jordan’s van.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“That’s why there was no sign of a break-in on the van the day Jordan was killed. With all the confusion that morning at the scene of the shooting, Nelson could have strolled to Jack’s van, unlocked the door and taken the diamond. He probably knew where Jack had it hidden until Jack could take it to the gemologist later that day.”
“So you’re saying whoever damn near sliced Nelson’s head off was after the diamond.”
“Most likely.”
“Maybe it’s Silas Jackson.”
“Possibly, but not likely.”
“Why?”
“Did a guy by the name of Paul Wilson contact you?”
“No, who is he and why would he contact me?”
“He works for the British government, and I told him you’re running the investigation into the murders.”
“Okay, O’Brien, I’m assuming he’s a field agent. Those guys play by no rules of engagement and jurisdiction. I doubt I’ll hear from him unless there’s something he needs and can’t find for himself. So the Brits want to get involved in this scavenger hunt. This must become real sticky across the pond.”
“A priceless diamond and a blood-stained Civil War contract with their name on it has a way of making things sticky.”
“Yes, so does four known deaths connected with what I’m calling the utter definition of a blood diamond — Professor Kirby, Don Roberts the hotel clerk, Jack Jordan, and now Cory Nelson. The slow-motion video damn sure indicates Nelson was the triggerman in Jordan’s murder…so who the hell slipped a wire around Nelson’s neck?”
O’Brien was silent.
“Gotta go, Sean. Looks like a fisherman found something near the river.”
O’Brien disconnected and turned toward Dave Collins. He was hunched over his laptop, punching the keyboard, white light bouncing off his bifocals. O’Brien said, “Detective Dan Grant said they just found the body of Cory Nelson, almost beheaded. The killer used a garrote.”
Dave said nothing for a moment. He looked up from his laptop. “If Nelson was complicit in the killing of Jack Jordan, and it looks like he was…maybe someone’s pawn…who’s the real mastermind behind the thefts, the killings, and presumably the blackmail of the Royal Family?”
“Did you locate that number Laura gave me?”
“Indeed.” He looked up over the top of his bifocals. “It’s a number connected to the British Consulate in Miami. Interesting. Did Jack Jordan dial it, or did he receive the call?”
“According to Laura, the call was made to his phone.”
“So who inside the British Consulate in Miami would be speaking with Jordan after the discovery of the diamond?”
“Someone who has access to Prime Minister Duncan Hannes.”
Dave eased back on the couch. He stared out the open doors to the cockpit, a forty-foot sports fishing boat was heading out of the marina into Ponce Inlet and the ocean. He said, “Looks like the proverbial excretion is about to hit the international fan. I’ll try Paul Wilson’s phone. He wrote his mobile number on the back of a charter captain’s brochure that Wilson picked up on the docks.” Dave pointed to a fishing brochure on the far end of the coffee table. “Sean, can you pass that to me? If I can’t reach Wilson, I’ll call Alistair Hornsby, my old colleague in London.” Dave glanced at his watch. “It’s about midnight London time.”
O’Brien picked up the card brochure, turned it over and looked at the hand-written number on the reverse side. He stared at it, concentrating.
Dave asked, “Something unusual?”
“Very. This is the number that was on Ike Kirby’s cell phone the night I found him.”
“What?”
“It was the last number Ike dialed before he died.”
SEVENTY-TWO
O’Brien caught movement on the port side of the boat. Max turned her head, ears cocked. Within seconds, tanned legs and worn flip-flops marched by the open windows on Gibraltar. Nick Cronus jumped straight from the dock onto the cockpit. He wore an unbuttoned tropical print shirt and faded orange swim trunks. “I swear to God—”