“They asked why I uploaded the video. I told them, told them I knew Jack’s death wasn’t an accident. Then most of the questions had to do with the diamond — had I seen or held it before Jack’s death? Did I think it was authentic? What had Jack and I planned to do with it? Where did I think it was? They asked about the contract between England and the CSA, specifically where the original copy was located, and if they could see it.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said both the contract and the diamond had looked real to me. I stressed that Jack wanted to have it shipped to England per the terms of the Civil War contract…but he was killed before he could do that. And I said I believed the diamond is with the person who killed him.”
“Did they ask to see the letter?”
“No. They did want to take video and pictures of the contract. I told them it was very old, fragile, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. In the meantime, it was secure and out of the elements in a safe deposit box.”
“But it’s really in a safe in your home.”
“Yes, but they don’t need to know that. Maybe no one will come for it if they think it’s in a bank vault.”
“That’s where it should go until this thing is solved. It might be a good idea to have an expert in handwriting analysis take a look at the contract. Better yet, my friend Dave Collins introduced me to an old friend of his who is recognized as one of the foremost authorities on Civil War history. He’s written books about the Civil War. He has a Ph.D. on the subject, and he teaches it at a university. His name’s Professor Ike Kirby. I had dinner with him. He knows his stuff. He should examine the contract.”
“That sounds good.”
“If it’s authenticated, that’s even more proof that the diamond could have been sent here directly from Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. And it would further suggest whoever killed Jack was well aware of that.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
An hour later, O’Brien paid the check for the lunch and walked with Laura and Paula out the restaurant door into the white wash of sun in the parking lot. A half dozen reporters were there to greet them. With TV cameras rolling, microphones extended, the herd closed around them. One tabloid TV reporter, a round, perspiring man, with pink skin and jowls that flapped when he spoke, said, “The British prime minister is saying the supposed contract, and the diamond, are both some kind of hoax. He’s suggesting that your allegations are an attempt to star in a reality TV show. How do you respond to that?”
O’Brien looked over at Laura, Paula huddled next to her mother. Laura said, “I have no response to a question so ludicrous. Please move. You’re blocking our way.”
The reporters and camera operators jockeyed for better positions. A tall, blond female reporter from Fox News asked, “When your husband first found the diamond, why didn’t he report it to police?”
Laura said, “Because it wasn’t stolen. It was discovered — like you’d find a lost treasure. And, according to the Civil War contract, it was on loan from England, not stolen from England.”
The flabby reporter wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grinned, winked at his cameraman and asked, “Is there any truth to the rumor that the BBC is flying you to London to do an exclusive interview with you if you bring the so-called Civil War contract? Is a movie and book deal in the works?” He stuck the hand-held microphone in Laura’s face.
O’Brien saw Paula wince, and then tears begin rolling down her face as she was being jostled against her mother. Holding tighter to her mother’s hand, almost wrapping her small legs around Laura’s legs, she struggled to find her footing without being knocked over or separated. O’Brien looked to his right. A garbage truck, seventy-five feet away, was stopping in an alley. The back end of the truck yawned and opened wide as a sanitation worker dumped the contents of a large plastic can into the truck.
O’Brien grabbed the microphone from the man and said, “This assault is over. I hear these things have great range.” He threw the microphone hard. It turned end-over-end, sailing across the parking lot, landing in the back of the garbage truck just before the worker pulled the lever. Hydraulic motors rumbled, the back closure moving down, plastic trash bags popping, the microphone buried in a crushed mountain of garbage.
The tall, bearded sound operator yanked the earphones from his ears. “Shit! That sounded like a bomb. Dude, that’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars.”
O’Brien gripped Laura by the elbow, pushing through the wall of reporters and production crew. He led Laura and Paula to their car when he heard one reporter say, “Hey, I recognized that man. He’s the same guy who took out some terrorists hell-bent on dropping a dirty bomb over Atlanta. What’s his name?”
“I recognize him too,” said a female producer gripping an iPad. “His name is O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”
“Son-of-a-bitch owes me a new microphone,” said the audio tech, watching the garbage truck move down the alley.
O’Brien walked across the lot, heading for his Jeep. He spotted the black Ford Excursion parked, the motor idling, dark windows up, condensation dripping from the air conditioner, a small stream pooling next to the front tire on the driver’s side. He could only see a trace outline behind the wheel. O’Brien kept walking. He didn’t know how many people were in the SUV. But when he glanced down at the license plate, he knew that whoever was in the big Ford, they were working for the federal government.
THIRTY-EIGHT
O’Brien drove from DeLand straight to Ponce Marina, the Jeep’s tires popping oyster shells and acorns in the gravel lot. He parked under the shade of a large banyan tree, the engine ticking as it cooled. He thought about what happened outside the restaurant — the media mob, the black government car, and what Laura had told him about the threatening call.
Max stood on her hind legs, head out the Jeep’s window, sniffing the ocean air. O’Brien watched a low-lying cloud above Ponce Inlet and tried to remember the last time it rained. He thought about the image of the man — the man carrying the rifle, standing next to a large cypress tree. If it rains, DNA, boot prints, even possible fingerprints could be compromised. Maybe Detective Dan Grant already inspected the site. Maybe not.
Max glanced back at O’Brien and barked once. “Okay, kiddo, I hear you. You have a lot of good dachshund attributes, but patience isn’t one of them.” O’Brien’s phone rang. He looked at the incoming call and recognized the number. He answered.
Laura Jordan said, “Sean, Detectives Rollins and Grant just left my house. They did a long interview with me. Detective Grant is compassionate to an extent. Not so much with Detective Rollins. I felt like they were doing a good cop — bad cop interrogation. Toward the end of it, after they’d asked me dozens of questions about Jack’s friends and business acquaintances, Detective Rollins wanted to know if Jack and I had been getting along…weird stuff like whether Jack was having an affair. He asked for our life insurance information. Why is the spouse always the prime suspect? I loved my husband dearly.”
“They have to cover the bases. Once they quickly rule you out, they’ll focus on others and look at motives and opportunities.”
“I just don’t want the trail to go cold and for this to turn into a cold case.”
“It won’t. Not now.”
“I hope not. And I hope these investigators are as good as you seem to believe they are.”