The smell of fresh human blood and gunpowder met him at the threshold. The body of a middle-aged man lay sprawled next to a desk, face and hands ashen, more than a quart of blood on the floor near what was left of the man’s head.
O’Brien glanced up at the bank of security monitors. No images. Nothing but black. He turned, picked up a paper napkin near a coffee pot, and ran out of the lobby, ran quietly down the cement walkway near the ground-level rooms. Within thirty seconds, he stood in front of room twenty-three. He leaned closer, placing his right ear on the door. Listening. Silence. The only sounds came from a tractor-trailer rig changing gears on a freeway entrance ramp.
He looked to his left, then to his right. Moths flew in and out of the light from a flood lamp on one corner of the hotel. O’Brien placed the napkin gently on the doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked. He stepped back and kicked hard, the heel of his shoe striking near the handle. The door flew open, wood splintering. O’Brien stepped inside, leveling his Glock, sweeping around the small room. There was the same smell of death. Burnt gunpowder and spilled blood. The odor of copper pennies, urine and feces.
O’Brien felt the rush of adrenaline-fueled blood pumping through his temples. He looked at the body of Professor Ike Kirby lying in the bed, his head back against the headboard, shot between the eyes, his lifeless eyes open and staring at the ceiling. O’Brien stepped into the bathroom, Glock extended, his heart pounding.
No one.
He searched the room, careful not to touch anything, looking for the Civil War contract. He looked in drawers, the professor’s open suitcase. Nothing. Then he hunted for the dead man’s cell phone. It was on the floor. O’Brien used a handkerchief to pick up the phone. Had the killer scrolled through emails, text messages or phone calls? That would give him access to Ike’s immediate circle of friends, including Dave Collins. O’Brien scrolled to the last number called. It wasn’t Dave’s number…it was someone else. O’Brien looked at the time of the call and the length. Odd. Less than five seconds.
Sirens. Police and emergency vehicles racing to the scene.
O’Brien set the phone down. He ran from the room. Ran from the horror — the reek of death. He drove east toward a steely sunrise, the illusion of dawn squinting through charcoal gray clouds. Three squad cars, two unmarked cars, blue lights spinning, engines roaring, sped past O’Brien’s Jeep. He knew they were responding to the information they just got from Laura. Maybe Detective Dan Grant was en route. O’Brien could turn the Jeep around, drive back to the hotel and tell Dan or officers what he found. But that would create unnecessary complications. The killer had vanished. They’d find nothing but bodies. It was too late for the police cavalry. Too late for a genteel history professor and a middle-aged hotel clerk simply trying to pay the bills. Both killed by someone they didn’t know, and for reasons they’d never know.
O’Brien knew that whoever killed Ike Kirby left no evidence behind. Taking out the security cameras meant having to take out the hotel night clerk. It was the work of a pro. Who was he? A hired gun, or someone working for himself? Why was the Civil War contract so valuable to someone that it was worth killing three people to get it? Could the executioner have the stolen diamond as well? Who did Ike try to call before he was killed?
O’Brien thought about that as he drove through the dim morning, a misty rain spraying the windshield. He was exhausted but could feel the current of adrenaline in his body. He glanced down at his phone on the Jeep’s console. There was no way he’d deliver the horrible news to Dave over the phone. Soon the pendulum swing of the wipers and the hypnotic drone of the engine helped evaporate some anxiety from his mind. He’d be back at the marina in forty minutes — forty minutes to think of a how he’d tell Dave that his friend of forty years was dead.
FIFTY
O’Brien wished he could have made L dock a mile longer. Maybe that would buy a little more time as he walked in the rain before reaching the end. Because near the end of the dock, beneath the glow of a security light, under a black umbrella, stood Dave and Max. Dave holding the umbrella in one hand, Max in his other hand. “Good morning, Sean. My next gift to you will be an umbrella. You’re soaked. Miss Max and I just returned from our nature walk. I’m almost afraid to ask where you’re returning from because your face looks gloomier than the grimy dawn that’s breaking around us. Tell me you found Ike sleeping soundly.”
“I found him…but I was too late…Ike had been shot.”
Dave said nothing for a moment, the sound of raindrops plopping against the umbrella. “Is he dead?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
Dave closed his eyes, his jawline hardening, his thoughts secluded. He blew air out of his cheeks and looked toward the lighthouse. Then he cut his eyes back to O’Brien. “Ike’s daughter recently gave birth to his first grandchild. A little girl…she was his pride and joy.” Dave’s voice softened, the sound of rain falling against canvas over Jupiter’s cockpit. He was silent for a long moment, staring at black clouds in the east, his blue eyes wet. He looked over to O’Brien. “Why? Why kill Ike over a relic from America’s past?”
“Maybe the contract — proof of England’s connection to the Civil War, along with the diamond from the Crown Jewels, is worth killing at least three people.”
“Three people?”
“Yes. Jack Jordan…Ike Kirby…and a night clerk at the hotel where Ike was staying.”
“I need to sit down, Sean. My head is pounding. Let’s retreat to Gibraltar. ”
O’Brien stood next to the bar in the trawler’s salon as Dave brought up a white towel from the head and handed it to him. “Dry off before you catch pneumonia. You can use that towel to dry Max too. Why the hell did the assailant shoot the night clerk?”
“Because he wanted to take out the surveillance cameras before he made his way to Ike’s room. There was a round fired into the hard drives of the camera’s back-up system. After that, he either had a key or picked the lock to Ike’s room. I found Ike in his bed, shot at least once. I couldn’t find the Civil War document. Unless he had stored it in a hotel safe, the contract was stolen from his room.”
Dave lifted a bottle of Jameson from behind the bar and poured three finger’s worth into a glass. “Care to join me?”
“I still have work to do.”
Dave nodded, swirled the whiskey and sipped. He stared out the port side window across the tranquility of the marina, his thoughts sequestered. “I was best-man at Ike and Judy’s wedding. Godfather to his first daughter. He was a brilliant, good and kind man.” Dave turned toward O’Brien. “Ike was simply doing a favor for me. Checking the authenticity of the document. It’s the kind of thing that he was very good at doing — tracking down histories’ mysteries. Always curious. Suffice to say, the Civil War contract and its probable relation to an infamous Crown Jewels diamond, a diamond that now appears to have been used as collateral in America’s bloodiest war, was Ike’s Super Bowl. Or it least might prove to have been, had he lived.”
“There’s something else. I found Ike’s phone in the room. On the floor. It looks like he was trying to make call when the killer entered the room.”
“Maybe it was to 911.”
“No, another number. It didn’t look like the call went through before Ike was killed. The perp may have looked at Ike’s recently dialed numbers, his text messages or voice-mail.”