Laura said, “Okay kids. Let’s get ready to eat. Everyone wash your hands. You’ve all been playing in the dirt.
“I’ll take them inside to wash up,” said a tanned woman wearing a sun-visor hat, T-shirt and khaki shorts.
Laura smiled. “Great! Food will be ready in a minute. We’ll cut the cake and sing Happy Birthday after lunch.” She bit her bottom lip, blinking quickly, eyes moist, seeing Paula and the other children laughing and running toward the back door.
O’Brien watched her for a moment, turned to the adults and said, “Since everyone here knew Jack well, I wanted to give you some news I just received as I was parking out front.” O’Brien stood so he could see faces, body language. “Looks like police have caught the man who killed Jack.” O’Brien scanned each face, each reaction to the news he just delivered.
“Oh my God,” said the woman called Katie. She held her hand to her lips.
“Where’d you hear this?” asked one man in a floral print shirt holding a bag of potato chips.
“From a contact at the sheriff’s office. The man they’re questioning is Silas Jackson. He was a re-enactor who was employed by the film company for about a week. He was eventually asked to leave.”
Laura slowly sat down. She let out a deep breath, her face flushed. “Are they sure, Sean? Are they sure he’s the one?”
“He was the person on the video pointing a rifle at the pontoon boat that day on the river when Jack and you guys on the crew found the diamond.”
The man holding the potato chips said, “Silas Jackson didn’t like the fact that we wanted to do a documentary on the last days of the Confederacy. He’d argued with Jack the first time Jack began trying to raise funds for the project.”
Cory Nelson used a spatula to set a burger to the front of the grill and said, “Did they find the Civil War contract or the diamond?”
“No.”
“Did they find him with that painting you were looking for?”
“No.”
Nelson raised his shoulders, nodded toward Laura and said, “Too bad the film company didn’t have security cameras in that plantation house. If they had, they could see who stole the painting. My money’s on Jackson.”
O’Brien was silent a moment, and then he said, “Good point. But they did have motion picture cameras all over the outdoor set the day Jack was killed.”
Nelson nodded. “Yeah, but the news media said police couldn’t see anything on camera out of the normal battle scenes.”
“Maybe it’s because they didn’t know where to look.”
No one said anything, the musical jingle of Pop Goes the Weasel coming from an approaching ice cream truck on the next block.
Laura stood and managed to forge a wide smile. “Come on everyone, let’s eat. A little girl is having a birthday today.”
“Sounds good,” said a woman picking up a paper plate.
O’Brien stepped over to Laura. “I’ve got to go.”
“But you just got here.”
“Something’s come up since they took in Silas Jackson — something I need to check.”
“What is it Sean? Please, tell me?”
“It might be nothing. If it’s something, I’ll call you. Can Max stay for a couple hours?”
“Yes, of course. It’ll give Paula a real chance to play with her. Can’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”
“No. Not yet.”
FIFTY-THREE
She could have been a tourist. Maybe someone looking to buy a condo in Ponce Inlet. She dressed in casual clothes. White cotton slacks. Matching top. Wide-brim sun hat. Sandals. She wore tortoise shell dark glasses on a striking oval face. The woman carried a straw handbag as she strolled the boardwalk around Ponce Marina, sea gulls squawking overhead, watching the charter boats unload fish and tourists. Watching people.
Searching for Sean O’Brien.
Inside the handbag, buried beneath a change of clothes, passport and sunscreen, was a 9mm Beretta. She could have been a tourist.
But she wasn’t.
Malina Kade was, perhaps, the best female intelligence agent India had produced in the last twenty years. Fearless, persuasive, and deceptive — her talent for finding and retrieving covert intelligence was exceptional. She’d been in the states a week. Back on holiday to visit close friends, she’d told immigrations when she arrived in Miami.
She glanced at a sunburned, heavy-faced man under the shade of a thatched palm frond roof above a small fish-cleaning station. He scraped a serrated knife down the back of a red snapper, fish scales flying in his gray hair, a cigar wedged in one side of his wide mouth, smoke curling under the dried palm fronds. Three pelicans squatted on the dock in front of him patiently waiting for handouts. She said, “Excuse me.”
He looked up, used the tip of his tongue to flick a fish scale from his cracked lower lip. “Hi, what can I do for you?”
“Looks like you have some hungry friends.” She smiled and gestured toward the sitting pelicans.
“Nothing goes to waste around here. But those birds are smart. They won’t touch a catfish. But ol’ Joe, the dock cat, will. Haven’t seen him today.”
“What kind of cat is Joe?”
“Looks like a calico…but male calico cats are rare as a blue moon. Joe spends more of his time over on L dock. Nick the Greek kinda adopted him.”
“Are you a fishing guide?”
“Oh, no. I just came back from a half day of bottom fishing on the Ponce Pirate. Great boat if you don’t mind people. It can get a little crowded, especially on the weekends.”
She smiled. “I was thinking of buying a fishing trip for my husband’s birthday. Maybe hire a smaller boat that accommodates a couple of people and the crew. Any recommendations? How about Nick the Greek?”
“He fishes commercially. No tourists. But knowing Nick, I’d wager he’d make an exception for you.” He grinned, white smoke spiraling out of the tip of his stogie.
“Maybe Nick the Greek can recommend someone.”
“I heard Nick does sign on from time to time with a fella who’s tryin’ his hand at guiding. I think Nick is the real fish finder. His pal appears to be learning the ropes.”
Malina inhaled deeply, her breasts rising. “What’s his friend’s name?”
“I met him once. Looks like he’d be a better hunter then fisherman. Big, strong guy. Name’s Sean O’Brien. His boat is down on L dock. You know, your best bet is to check with the marina office. They have a list of charter boat captains. Or you can ask over there at the Tiki Bar. You’ll usually find a captain, first mate or two, shootin’ the breeze there.”
“Thank you.”
She approached L dock, stopped and glanced down the dock, tethered sailboats and powerboats rocking in unison with the breeze and slight chop on the surface of the water. Somewhere amongst the boats is where Sean O’Brien moored his boat. Maybe within a few meters of where she stood. Malina looked over at the waterfront entrance to the Tiki Bar and started walking that way.
It was the wide-brim sun hat that first caught Kim Davis’ eye. Most of the lunch rush was past when the woman entered the Tiki Bar from the dockside of the building, found a stool at the center of the bar and sat. Kim set three drinks on a tray for a server to carry to a table, stepped to where the woman was sitting and said, “Hi, here for lunch?”
“Yes, please.”
“Today’s menu is on the board behind me.”
The woman looked over Kim’s shoulder. “What do you recommend?”
“The grouper sandwich is delicious. The fish comes from the ocean right behind you, caught by local fishermen.”
“The sandwich sounds fine. Water with lemon, please.”
“Got it. Anything else?”