Nick grunted and used a napkin to wipe a speck of feta cheese from his moustache. He said, “Dave, you can try to profile stupid all day long, but crazy is crazy. This guy is nuts, and he has a sick thing for Kim. Maybe I use him in my crab traps.” Nick took a bite of crab.

O’Brien said, “Kim, on the phone, you’d mentioned that you didn’t know who did this, but you had an idea. Who do you suspect?”

Kim folded her arms, glancing at a commercial fishing boat leaving the marina before shifting her eyes to O’Brien. “Remember when the old man brought you the picture of the woman, and I’d mentioned to you that I spent a day on the set of the movie, Black River?”

O’Brien nodded. “You were auditioning for a small part.”

“The casting directing and her staff were trying to cast hundreds of extras. I was hoping for a small speaking role. While I was on set, one of the extras, a re-enactor, kept staring at me. I was uncomfortable and I moved around the set, trying to avoid him. After I read for the role, I left the room to go to the craft services table for a bottle of water. This guy, dressed in a Civil War uniform, approached me and asked if I’d ever seen the movie, Shenandoah. I said I hadn’t. Then he said I reminded him of Katharine Ross, the lead actress in the film. And then he tipped his hat to me and walked away. Although he gave the suggestion of the southern gentlemen, he also gave me the creeps.”

Dave said, “But he never told you his name.”

“No, and I didn’t ask.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Did the dude get the part in the movie?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t called back to the set. So I just added the experience to my bucket list, auditioning for a part in a movie, and I left it at that…until the old man came into the Tiki Bar with the picture of the woman, and Sean started looking for a Civil War era painting.”

O’Brien opened the file folder and looked at the photograph. He said, “I mentioned I’d seen a rose or flower like that one.”

“Oh shit,” Nick said, sipping his wine. “Here it comes.”

O’Brien handed the photo to Dave and said, “It’s there in the photo. In the woman’s left hand. She’s holding a single rose, a rose that looks just like the one on the table.”

Dave passed the picture to Kim. She looked at it and held one hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Franklin Sheldon glanced out the window of his personal Gulfstream G650 jet as the pilot descended over Jacksonville, Florida. The interior of the world’s fastest private jet — jets that can fly nearly Mach speed — the speed of sound, was done in cream and light browns, cherry wood, burled walnut, soft leather chairs and couches, retractable lighting. A shapely, twenty-something blonde flight attendant refilled coffee cups and prepared plates of fresh fruits and exotic cheeses. Sheldon, traveling with his top international lawyer and his Senior VP of Design, was returning to the states after a two-day business trip to Beijing, China.

Sheldon, a self-made billionaire software developer, owned or controlled more than a dozen global companies. He bore a significant resemblance to Liam Neeson. Sheldon sat in a wide leather chair, laptop open, sipping green tea from a cup made in China. His two employees sat behind him, each man reading information on computer screens.

The jet dropped altitude, making a half circle over Jacksonville as the pilot readied to land. Sheldon looked down at the city. In a way, it reminded him of his hometown, San Diego — both near the sea, both with a long maritime and naval history. But it was in Jacksonville where one of the best yacht builders in the world was headquartered. Not only could Poseidon Shipyard custom-build state-of-the-art yachts, the company was one of the few in the world with the expertise to design and construct a wooden schooner from scratch — from yacht-building plans that went back to 1851 when the racing yacht America was launched. After his recent America’s Cup win in late summer, as challenger, beating New Zealand, Franklin Sheldon would be the only man in the world to own an exact replica of the famous race’s namesake, the yacht America.

He thought about that as the jet taxied from the tarmac and eased to a stop. A black CL65 Mercedes pulled up, the driver hidden behind darkened windows. He parked the car, kept the motor running, waiting for the men to disembark from the jet. He didn’t wait long. The door opened, ramp lowered to the asphalt, and the men exited the plane. Sheldon was last. The chief pilot, slender, silver haired, stood just outside the cockpit as Sheldon exited and said, “We’ll be right here when you get back, Mr. Sheldon.”

“It’ll be less than two hours.”

“She’ll be refueled, sir. Congratulations, again, on the America’s Cup win. You brought the trophy back home.”

“That’s the game, Ed. Claim the trophy. Hang the head on the damn wall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Twenty minutes later Franklin Sheldon was at Poseidon Boatyard inspecting the construction of the wooden schooner. It was solid wood, three-mast racing yacht, and almost finished. Sheldon crawled over every recess of the 101-foot yacht, examining everything for accuracy. His staff and two members of the construction team followed him, all the men, except Sheldon, wearing hardhats. The workers took a lunch break as the men made their inspection and tour.

Sheldon wasn’t completely satisfied. He rarely was. He barked suggestions or corrections, the yacht architect and master builder jotting down notes on clipboards, each man nodding as Sheldon went through the schooner, bow to stern. He said, “In September, I want to sail her from the states to England, making the same damn voyage the original yacht made in 1851. Will she be ready?”

“She should, Mr. Sheldon,” the builder said, scribbling a note and underlining a word.

“The word should means nothing to me. Either she will be ready or she will not. Which is it, Don?”

“She’ll be ready for the christening by the end of September, sir.”

Sheldon stood from examining the keel and started a slow smile. “Make it happen, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sheldon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the number of the incoming call and said, “I need to take this.” He stepped away from his party, pressing the receive button on his phone and standing near the bow of the yacht. He said, “I’m here. What do you have?”

“What you wanted.”

“It’s done.”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to me.”

“Not so fast, Mr. Sheldon. I know you want it because it was the last cargo carried by the predecessor of that schooner you’re building. However, it is of great value to its former owner.”

“How much?”

“That’s not a question for me to provide the answer. To the highest bidder.”

“You can’t auction it.”

“Yes I can, and I will. The question, even with your formidable wealth is this: can you out bid the Queen of England?”

“This is not acceptable!”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Listen to me, you worm!” The call disconnected. Sheldon gripped his phone, knuckles cotton white, the pupils in his eyes on fire and no larger than pinheads.

Professor Ike Kirby stared at the old photograph in silence. He sat at a table on Gibraltar’s open cockpit with Dave Collins, Nick Cronus and Sean O’Brien. Max sat near Nick’s feet, waiting for him to drop a piece of food. She didn’t have to wait long. The men watched, eating quietly as Kirby examined the picture. His silver hair was neatly parted, eyes puffy, a salt and pepper beard covered most of his long, weathered face. “She’s a striking woman. Definitely Civil War era,” he said, tilting the picture, catching the amber light of the sun setting beyond the mangroves, casting a tawny shimmer across the water in Ponce Marina. “I feel like I’ve seen that picture, or one like it, somewhere.”