Malina stared at the picture. “In a black and white photo, his eyes are unreadable. I wonder if it is the same way in person. What is his background?”

“We know he was in U.S. military intelligence. Served in Delta Force…Afghanistan and Iran, but that’s about all we know. Whatever he did, and whoever he reported to, his records are buried, as if two years of his life did not exist.”

“Why is he involved with the widow of the man who found what might be the real Koh-i-Noor?”

“We don’t know. That is your job to find out. Perhaps they have a relationship. Maybe they killed the husband and are planning to sell the diamond on the black market. O’Brien probably has the expertise to accomplish that. You must learn the extent of his involvement, and to make sure, above all else, that you can recover the Koh-i-Noor before England does. This is a very serious race. You are to leave tonight.”

Malina stood. She placed the photo of O’Brien in her file folder, raised her eyes up to Goda and said, “I will not fail.”

Goda nodded. “If it is the Koh-i-Noor on the video, it means the diamond has been buried in a locked box in the mud of an American river since it was taken. Find it, Malina. Recover and return it the country of its birth, and once again the Mountain of Light, like a star in the heavens, will radiate its ancient light over India.”

O’Brien made the call from the galley. Dave and Nick continued watching the world news as the thunderstorm slacked off, the heavy rain passing. When Detective Dan Grant answered, O’Brien asked, “Dan, did anyone make it to the river bluff?”

“Do you mean the place seen on the video where somebody was sighting down on Jack Jordan’s boat when he pulled the strongbox from the river?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on, Sean. I’ll check.”

O’Brien watched the lightning in the distance over the ocean. Grant returned, exhaled, and said, “Looks like that area hasn’t been examined yet. It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning. Larry Rollins is driving out there.”

“In the meantime, the evidence might be getting washed in a hard rain.”

“Hold on, Sean. First of all, we don’t know if it’s evidence. We don’t know if a crime has been committed.”

“But you know someone had sighted rifle crosshairs on Jack Jordan from that riverbank before he was killed.”

“And that’s the prime reason the investigation ramped up. We’ve interviewed every actor, extra, and crew member on the movie set. Even that pompous ass director. We do know this…Jack Jordan’s wife is the beneficiary of a half-million dollar life insurance policy. Accidental shooting or murder, she gets the payout.”

“When did coverage on that policy begin?”

“Gimme a second, I’ll pull the file.”

O’Brien watched a Bertram yacht, bone white, running lights reflecting from the dark water, enter the marina. Its big diesels purred as the captain piloted the boat toward an open slip on N dock.

Dan Grant came back on the line. “Looks like the policy was taken out about ten years ago.”

“It wasn’t long after Laura and Jack Jordan were married. So why would she kill him now? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Murder, if she did it, isn’t supposed to make sense…if you’re sane. People change, Sean. You know that. Maybe she was seeing somebody else. Hell, maybe she grew to hate the guy and waited for the right time to have him taken out.”

“That would mean one of the re-enactors was a hit man.”

“Or maybe her lover turned hit man. We checked her phone records. She made and received a lot of calls from a guy named Cory Nelson…a man she calls a family friend.”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “Were all of the re-enactors questioned?”

“Of course. For the most part, nothing even smelled like intent. All the guys shooting the rifles that day had the same story: they believed they were shooting blanks. And out there on the film set with moving troops, there’s no way to figure trajectory of a bullet. We’re either talking about one hell of a marksman, or Jack Jordan was simply in the wrong place at the wrong damn time and got in the way of a stray bullet nobody even knew was in one of those old rifles. Laura Jordan may be innocent, but a half-mil could be incentive if things were rocky at home.”

“A half-million isn’t even pocket change compared to the value of that diamond. We know this, Dan, Jack Jordan found the diamond and now it’s gone — apparently stolen. There’s your incentive. Now all you have to do is find out who was motivated to pull the trigger.”

“Stay dry, Sean. Gotta go—”

“Wait…you said for the most part nothing smelled like intent. What might you have?”

“That’s part of the investigation. Suffice to say that a witness said he saw one of the re-enactors in a heated argument with Jack Jordan, on the movie set, and it was the day before he was killed.”

“Did you question the guy who had the argument?”

“Sean, only because we go way back am I even talking with you. Of course we questioned him. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He’s a long time Civil War re-enactor. He said the argument was about Civil War trivia, and it was spirited only because this guy, Silas, and Jordan had running debates through years, but they never took it personal.”

“For some, the Civil War was personal. Jackson was fired from the film set.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because the painting I’m looking for was on the set. A few months before he was killed, Jack Jordan and his wife bought it from an antique dealer in DeLand. Jordan loaned the painting to the filmmakers to use as a prop for scenes they were shooting in an antebellum house called Wind ‘n Willows. Someone stole the painting. It might have been Jackson because a witness said Jackson was enamored by the image of the woman in the painting. He told a re-enactor that he thought the woman would be resurrected and found among the living.”

“Too bad his brain isn’t living. Another thing about this guy. He was busted a few years ago for dealing crystal meth. He did a nickel stretch in Raiford. Half the time he was in solitary confinement. FBI has him on their watch list. In addition to playing Civil War games, he’s a known underground militia leader with a suspected fifty or so paramilitary followers. He’s a highly skilled survivalist and a prepper. They meet and train deep in the Ocala National Forest.”

“What did the autopsy show about the caliber of the bullet — the Minié ball that killed Jordan.”

“It was a .58 caliber. Shot through a rifled bore. About half the re-enactors were using Springfield model smooth bore muskets firing .69 caliber rounds. The other half was using Springfield models .58 caliber, rifled bore.”

“Which musket did Jackson use?”

“He says he fired blanks or nothing but black powder. Regardless, he was using a rifled bore .58 caliber.”

“Is there enough left of the Minié ball to match it with a ballistics test to Jackson’ gun?”

“It’s doubtful. Bullet was pretty well torn up. We’re testing it”

“Dan, the place on the river bluff where Joe Billie and I found the Minié ball, loose change, stogie and boot print with the crack in the heel, may not have been soaked by the rain. The huge cypress tree was full of foliage and Spanish moss. Maybe the stuff is still there. And maybe it came from Jackson.”

“We’ll see.”

“I saw a wardrobe photo of Jackson. He was wearing a Confederate officer’s uniform. The image on the video of the man with the gun is low resolution, but from a distance it looked like he might have been wearing a period hat and clothes. Could be the same.”

“You hunt for that painting, Sean. We’ll look for the killer, if there is one.”

“If I find the painting, I’ll find the killer.”

Dan Grant blew out a long breath into the phone. “I hope this new PI career you’re doing doesn’t cross paths with our investigation. We’re old friends, not new partners.” He disconnected.