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.

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.”

“Detective Grant is thorough, and he has a good sense of justice. Did you tell them about the intimidating phone call?”

“Yes. They asked me if I recognized the voice. Unfortunately, of course, I didn’t. The call came in with the numbers blocked. The detectives said the guy might have used what they called a burner — a throw-away mobile phone. They’re going to pull my phone records. Maybe something will show up.”

“Here’s a suggestion: you can buy a recorder at Radio Shack. Place it on your phone, and if this man calls again, record his voice.”

“I can do that. I wanted to thank you for stepping in when that reporter got so pushy.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Goodbye, Sean.” She disconnected and O’Brien simply held his phone for a moment, the sound of a boat horn in the marina, a brown pelican sailing toward Ponce Lighthouse.

“Come on, Max.” O’Brien locked the Jeep and followed Max as she made a beeline to the Tiki Bar, running around a family of tourists coming out of the restaurant.

When O’Brien entered, Max had already caught Kim Davis’s attention. She smiled and said, “Maxine, are you gonna hang with me awhile?” She handed Max a small piece of crisp bacon and then wiped her hands on a bar napkin. She looked up at O’Brien. “I see you’re carrying that file folder the old man left with you.”

“I did share the information in this folder with a detective friend of mine.” O’Brien opened the folder and set the page from the coloring book on the bar.

Kim looked at the page and smiled. “That’s lovely. Who’s the artist?”

“I sketched the butterfly. A four-year-old friend of mine added the color.”

“Your little friend is good, she or he colored in the lines well.”

“She…and she’s the daughter of the man who was killed on the movie set.”

“Oh.” Kim looked at the boats in the marina for a second. “It’s reached that point, hasn’t it, Sean? Why would you contact the widow of the man killed on the movie set?” She folded her arms across her breasts.

“Because the man, Jack Jordan, and his wife Laura, bought that painting you saw in Crawford Antiques. They bought it and some old magazines a few months before he was killed. Inside the pages of one of the magazines was the Civil War contract and a letter by a man named Henry, written to his wife, Angelina. And I believe she’s the woman in the painting.”

Kim pursed her full lips, slowly letting out a deep breath. She motioned for O’Brien to follow her, walking to the far end of the bar where no customers were sitting. Kim said, “That’s what Dave and Nick were talking about when they were in here for lunch. Since you met that old man, you started out hunting for a painting, and now you have managed to stumble upon a murder, a Civil War contract, a letter, and the theft of a diamond. Not just any old theft of a diamond ring, but rather the theft of a diamond that was part of the Crown Jewels and belongs to the Queen of England.”