Black River

“But uncovered when an elderly man with a Civil War photo approached you out of the blue.”

“It was partially revealed when Jack Jordan was killed on the movie set. At least the window into the past was cracked. The video of his discovery on the river could send it into the stratosphere. I’m putting in a call to a friend of mine at the Volusia County Sheriff’s Department, Detective Dan Grant. I’ll point him to what I have, the shadowy video of the man with the rifle aimed at Jack Jordan when he pulled the strongbox with the diamond out of the river. And there’s the cigar stogie lying next to a dropped Minié ball and twelve cents in change. Could be prints, DNA, maybe even a ballistics match with the round that killed Jack Jordan.”

“Even if you never recover the painting, Sean, you’ve earned your compensation. Is his widow, Laura, uploading the video of her husband opening the strongbox and finding the diamond?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she should wait until police have finished their investigation?”

“She’s convinced they’re all but finished. She gave them a flash drive of the video.”

“Did they spot the stalker with a rifle?”

“If they did, no one told her. The investigation continues, but at what pace and what price?”

Dave exhaled into the phone. “Well, your discovery on the bluff overlooking the river, and on the video, definitely shows motive and probable cause in the death of her husband. The video will, no doubt, light a fire under the DA’s butt. The question is…who did it? Who knew about this fabled diamond and its co

“Jack Jordan’s documentary production crew. There was a cameraman, a sound guy, and Jack’s dive buddy who was working as his producer. According to Laura, her husband has worked with this team for years and all are trustworthy.”

Dave grunted. “That, of course, means nothing when a priceless diamond is found.”

“There was apparently one person outside of Jack Jordan’s i

“Who?”

“Frank Sheldon. Sheldon is the software billionaire who’s building an exact replica of the schooner that beat the English in what became known as the America’s Cup Race. That sailboat was sunk during the Civil War in a deep tributary to the St. Johns River.”

“I never heard that story. Is this the Frank Sheldon who won the last America’s Cup?”

“That’s the guy. According to Laura, he’s an investor in the movie, Black River. Jack was hired two years ago as an historical consultant when Sheldon began designing plans for building the replica of that fabled schooner. Sheldon is a Civil War buff, someone who spends money on collectable relics. She said he’s pla

“Did he invest?”

“Laura wasn’t sure.”

Dave was silent a moment and then said, “There’s always some kind of puzzle piece, mosaic irony, in these things, even things that have been sleeping quietly in the gut of the old river for a century and a half. As the puzzle pieces come together, we get insight into how greed causes some men to crawl into the muck where it breeds. When you first mentioned the diamond, Koh-i-Noor, since I’m sitting at my computer, I pulled up a history of this rock.”

“What’d you find?”

“Well, let me scan and surmise at the same time. It’s the only multi tasking I find that I can do with some decorum of efficiency anymore. If it’s the real one, the Koh-i-Noor…it’s, no doubt, priceless. At one time, it was the largest known diamond in the world. It was cut down to 106 carats. Koh-i-Noor means Mountain of Light. It gives a whole new definition to the words blood diamond. The diamond was mined out of India in the eleventh century and has changed hands in a bloody history within Indian dynasties. A half dozen leaders of these dynasties have owned the Koh-i-Noor, including the Sikh Empire where it was taken when the British raised their flag over the citadel of Lahore in India. After the diamond was smuggled to England, Prince Albert personally supervised the cutting. When finished, it was kept in Windsor Castle, not in the Tower of London, until after Queen Victoria’s death.”

O’Brien said nothing.

Dave grunted. “Sean, I can almost hear you thinking through your phone.”

“I’m thinking about that picture puzzle you mentioned. The pieces, at least the edges, are aligning and an image is begi

“Maybe it’s a good time to contact your client and call it a day, because now the trail of the painting you’ve been following has led to a movie set where it was stolen — a painting owned by a couple who found it in an antique store. One half of the couple is dead. Yeah, I’d say it’s gone far beyond a simple case of locating a missing painting. Add apparent murder to the mix along with the unearthing and theft of the world’s most valuable diamond, and toss in the exhuming of a contract between the Confederacy and Great Britain, you’ve got an international stage. The question is, Sean, when that video goes viral — and it will — when that curtain opens on this global stage, will you be there…or will you exit before all hell breaks loose?”

THIRTY-ONE

Silas Jackson opened the door to his weather-beaten trailer and stepped outside under a canopy of cypress trees deep in the Ocala National Forest. He carried a metal coffee pot, dented and stained from years of use. Three chickens pecked at the hard, barren ground, scattering as Jackson walked to a circle of rocks, the trace of smoke from last night’s fire a ghost in the morning air. Roosters and a dozen fighting cocks paced in A-frame coops built under a large live oak tree. A leaden dawn hung over the forest like a gray shawl, thick and humid as the dew-stained Spanish moss sagging from the trees in the still morning.

He wore his Confederate slouch hat pulled low, just above his thick, dark eyebrows, tufts of dark hair sprouting and curling up from under the hat. His sideburns were long and heavy. Black eyes hard as polished stones. His uniform unkempt, worn ragged from the elements and hundreds of Civil War reenactments.

Jackson threw kindling pieces and split wood into the pit, unscrewed the top from a mason jar, tossing gas on the timber. He lit a wooden match on the side of his boot and lobbed it into the pile. Orange flames erupted. He sat on his haunches in front of the crackling fire, white smoke swirling up through the cypress limbs. He set the coffee pot on top of the flames and waited for the water to boil.

Jackson watched the chickens, yellow flames reflecting off his eyes, the call of a mourning dove coming from somewhere deep in the Ocala National Forest. He poured coffee into a tin cup, steam rising off the black coffee. He pursed his lips and blew across the open cup. Jackson sipped and thought about the events of the last few days.

Beyond the perimeter thicket came the sounds of horses snorting, hooves in the mud, and a whi

“Mornin’ Captain,” said the tallest man. Both were dressed in Confederate uniforms. They dismounted and tied their horse’s reins to low hanging tree branches. They were in their early thirties, unshaven, lean, wearing scuffed boots. Jackson turned toward them as the men approached. He said, “Ya’ll boys keep on eating food on that movie set and you go