The director lifted one eyebrow, touched the tip of his nose like he was swatting a gnat. “Client? Are you a lawyer?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Which means you’re not a legitimate police detective. You’re costing me time and money. We have a film to shoot. Leave now or we’ll call security and escort you off the property we’re leasing.” The director turned his back and walked over to the director of photography.

O’Brien glance up at the wall behind the piano, placed the photo back in the folder, and walked out the door. On the porch, he stepped to one side as six actors — four women and two men, dressed in Confederate uniforms and period gowns started to climb the steps. Personal assistants, a publicist, and hair and make-up people followed them. A behind-the-scenes photographer snapped a candid picture of the ensemble before they entered the cavernous mansion.

O’Brien started for his car, his thoughts replaying what Mike Houston had said about how he discovered the painting was missing when he looked at the scene takes. O’Brien’s mind raced. Now I know the painting exists. It was caught on camera…but the camera can’t reveal what was inscribed on the back of the canvas.

O’Brien was almost to his Jeep when heard footsteps coming from behind him, walking faster. “Pardon me,” came a man’s voice.

O’Brien turned around, expecting to see a security guard. A man wearing a Confederate uniform came closer. He was unshaven, dark whiskers, elongated face damp from perspiration. He said, “Couldn’t help but overhearing you back there on the set. Heard what you said about the painting. Name’s Cory Nelson.”

O’Brien looked at the man’s medals. “Do I call you Captain Nelson?”

“Only if you’re doing a reenactment with me.” He grinned. “When I’m wearing my Confederate uniform I’m a captain. When I’m dressed as a Union soldier I’m just an enlisted man.”

“So are you a re-enactor who can fight for either side, the blue or the gray?”

“You work more in the movie and TV biz that way. I’m more of an actor than a re-enactor. I’m pretty good at accents, especially Scottish and English. Hell, I’ve even worked in theater.” He glanced to his right and left. “That painting belonged to a friend of mine. He was the one killed in that freak accident on set.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

“You said your client is looking for the painting. Mind if I ask why?”

“It would prove that a relative of his wasn’t a deserter during the Civil War. And at my clients advanced age and health, it’s important for him to know.”

“I understand. Too bad somebody walked off with it, especially considering what happened to Jack.”

“Were you there when he died?”

“Yeah…but not right where he was killed. By the time I got there, they had a sheet over Jack’s body and the cops were on the scene.”

“And no one knows which rifle fired the fatal shot, correct?”

Nelson raised his blond eyebrows. “No, at least I don’t think anybody knows. Jack didn’t make enemies. It was the first battle scene filmed…just carelessness. Somebody not checking his firearm thoroughly. It’s sad. Jack left a wife and little girl.”

“Do you know where Jack found the painting?”

“He and his wife, Laura, bought it at some antique shop. Jack showed the painting to Mike, the art director you just met. Mike loved the painting. He wanted to buy it, but Jack told him it wasn’t for sale. Mike wasn’t the only one who had a fascination for the painting.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a re-enactor who couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He was one of the first hired on the movie. Jackson lasted a little more than a week. He began questioning how the filmmakers were doing their thing.”

“Questioning?”

“This guy’s a purest. He lives and breathes Civil War reenactment like a religion. If he didn’t like the way the assistant director was lining things up, he questioned it for realism. The film folks were patient at first, but that changed and they had security walk him off the set.”

“Does he portray Confederate and Union soldiers as an actor or re-enactor?”

Nelson shook his head. “Never. For him, it’s the gray all the way. He has rebel blood flowing in his veins.”

“Where do I find Silas Jackson?”

Nelson grinned, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “He’s about as close to the Aryan Brotherhood that you’ll come across. Hell, maybe a lot worse. Some call him a radical anarchist and prepper.”

“Prepper?”

“Yeah. He’s always preparing.”

“For what?”

“Civil dissolution in the country. He says he wants to take the nation back. He has a trailer deep in the Ocala National Forest. Hunts and traps. Lives off the land, for the most part. He makes the dudes on Duck Dynasty look like boy scouts. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

He nodded and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know for sure that Silas Jackson stole that painting you’re hunting for, Mr. O’Brien, but he’d stare at it and say stuff like he could feel the presence of the woman in the painting. He said she was reawakened in another woman, and when he found that other woman, he’d know it. Crazy stuff.”

O’Brien said nothing for a long moment. “You said he lives deep in the forest. How deep?”

“Near the headwaters of Juniper Creek.” Nelson pulled a watch out of his pocket. “I need to get back to the set.” He dropped his cigarette and used his boot to crush the hot ash.

O’Brien looked at the boot print a second and then lifted his eyes to Nelson. “Thanks for the information.”

“No problem. Maybe you can find that painting somehow, help get it back to Jack’s wife, Laura. Cops haven’t found it. Probably won’t.”

As Nelson turned to leave, O’Brien said, “One last question.”

“Sure.”

“Where’s the casting department?”

“It’s in a trailer near the grassy lot where most of the cars are parked.”

“Thanks.”

“If you do go into the forest looking for Silas Jackson, you’d better take some men with you. He’s got a like-minded group of followers who meet with him from time to time. They camp, ride horseback in the woods, shoot at cutout targets of politicians. Silas is always armed. And he was born dangerous.”

The casting trailer was parked in the shade under a live oak. O’Brien knocked on the door and entered. A middle-aged woman with full lips, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat behind a modular desk, one hand on a computer mouse, eyes trained on the screen. She wore tight faded jeans and a T-shirt that read: Black River — The Movie. She looked up at O’Brien and said, “If you’re here to read, I’m sorry. All the parts are cast.”

O’Brien grinned. “Darn, I guess I missed the cut.”

She leaned back in her chair a moment and smiled. “Hardly, you most definitely would have made the cut, but you missed the casting deadlines.” She glanced at her computer screen and then raised her eyes back up to O’Brien. “I’m casting for a TV series in two months. You could be just what the director is looking for in one role. You ever play a bad guy?”

“Only if I’m forced to.”

She smiled. “Do you have a headshot, resume?”

“Maybe I can come back with that. In the meantime, you might have a headshot on file of an actor who auditioned.”

“What’s his or her name?”

“Silas Jackson.”

“Let me see.” She typed on her keyboard for a few seconds, squinting. “Umm…I do have a head shot. But it’s not one that he carried in here. I remember when I met him. He brought half a dozen of his Civil War reenactment buddies with him. I hired them all. Wardrobe department actually took the shots to keep for continuity purposes, mostly. But with these guys, you don’t have to worry about realism. They know period clothing better than just about anyone.”