“Are you hurt? Is Paula hurt?”

“No. But he slit the throat of the neighbor’s poor little dog. And he said he’d do the same to Paula if what I told him wasn’t true. I’m calling you from my neighbor’s phone because he smashed mine.”

“Have you called police?”

“I dialed nine-one-one before I called you. They’re on their way. Sean, I’m so scared…”

“Did you recognize this man?”

“No. It was too dark.”

“Could you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I don’t know. He spoke in a whisper. Thank God Paula never really woke up through the entire thing. He said it took him less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm my alarm. And he said how does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected.”

“What’d he want? What did you tell him?”

“He wanted to know what I did with the Civil War contract. I gave it to Professor Kirby from the University of Florida.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes. He was going to hurt Paula—”

“Does he know where the professor’s staying?”

“Yes. Professor Kirby is staying at a hotel. I’m afraid for him.”

“Which hotel, Laura?”

“The Hampton Inn on LaSalle. He said he was in room twenty-three. I have his card with his number.”

“Call him. Tell him to get out of the room. Tell him to go to a Waffle House or someplace well lighted. Then text his number to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Tell the responding officers that you’re working with Detective Dan Grant in an on-going investigation. They’ll call him immediately. Hug Paula for me.” O’Brien disconnected, slipped on jeans, a dark shirt — untucked, and running shoes. He shoved his 9mm Glock under his belt in the small of his back.

Max lifted her head from beneath a small blanket in her oval dog bed on the floor. She stared at O’Brien, puzzled. He said, “Sit tight. Gotta run, literally. Dave or Nick will walk you.” He stepped out to the cockpit, locked the transom door and jogged quietly from Jupiter to Dave’s boat, Gibraltar. O’Brien used his palm to bang on Gibraltar’s sliding glass doors.

Nothing. No movement. O’Brien looked east across the dark marina, the horizon black, the smell of creosote seeping up from the dock pilings. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial button. Four rings and O’Brien whispered, “Dave pick up.”

“And good morning to you.” Dave’s voice was guttural, filtered through sleep-congested vocal cords.

“Open the door.”

“The door? What door? Where the hell are you at…at this hour in the morning?”

“I’m standing on your boat. Cockpit door. Ike Kirby’s in trouble.”

Dave disconnected and came up from the master berth like a hibernating bear awakened before spring, the left side of his face creased from sleep. He stood at the transom door in boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He unlocked the door and snatched it open. “What that hell’s going on, Sean? Where’s Ike? What kind of trouble?”

“Maybe the worst. A man broke into Laura Jordan’s house. He threatened to kill her daughter if Laura didn’t give him the Civil War contract. She’d already given it to Ike.”

“And this perp knows where Ike’s staying, correct?”

“She had no choice but to tell him.”

“I understand.”

“See if you can reach Ike. I told Laura to call and warn him. Don’t know if she got through before the police arrived at her home. Call him, Dave. Tell him to get out of the room immediately. Walk Max for me, okay?” O’Brien turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Hampton Inn. Room twenty-three. Ike’s room.” O’Brien jumped from Dave’s trawler onto the dock. He ran hard down the length of the pier toward the marina parking lot. His thoughts raced even faster. Could Laura or Dave reach Ike on the phone before the perp got there? Or was the man already there? Maybe he simply broke into the hotel room and stole the Civil War contract while Ike slept. No one hurt.

Maybe not.

O’Brien ran under the light of a full moon high above the Atlantic Ocean, a burst of lightning hanging for a second in the gut of dark clouds. Dawn would rise above the Atlantic in about two hours. But now there was more than enough time for a nocturnal predator to come from the cloak of darkness and slip away quietly like the whispered flight of a bat in the night sky.

Professor Ike Kirby usually slept well. An early riser, he went to bed right after the 10:00 p.m. news and awoke each morning before sunrise. The last few hours had been different. After leaving Laura Jordan’s home, Kirby bought take-out Chinese food and ate in his hotel room. When he finished a hurried dinner, he spent another two hours analyzing the Civil War contract until his eyes burned from strain and fatigue.

He was so exhausted that he never heard the soft buzzing of his phone on the dresser as he slept. He never heard the sound of scraping, the metal against metal picking of the deadbolt lock on the hotel door. Had it not been for the siren as the fire truck and crew rushed to a car fire off Cherry Street, Kirby wouldn’t have awaken and seen the intruder standing in the room near the small desk and under the dim light coming through the blinds.

“Good morning, Professor Kirby,” the prowler whispered.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my room? How do you know me?”

“So many questions in one excited breath. I was about to leave the way I entered, through the door, silently and oh so quickly. But then you had that unfortunate happenstance of hearing the siren racing by the hotel.”

“Do you want money? My wallet is on the dresser. Take it! There’s four hundred dollars in it. That ought to be enough for you to buy drugs. I can’t see your face, so I can’t recognize you. Just take the money and leave.”

“Drugs? I think not, Professor.” The man held up the file folder containing the Civil War document. “This is my drug of choice. A Civil War contract and perhaps a matching diamond to add to the ecstasy. Let me ask you, is it real? The contract between England and the Confederacy. In your opinion, Professor Kirby, is it genuine?” He set the folder back on the dresser.

“It still must go through scientific testing, but, in my opinion, it’s authentic.” Kirby narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Why your interest into this Civil War contract? Are you some kind of collector?”

“Unfortunately, for you, I am the opposite of a collector. I am an eliminator. A terminator.” He lifted a 9mm Beretta, only the black tip of a silencer visible in the dim light.

“No! Don’t!” Kirby pushed back in bed, holding his hands in front of him. The round slammed into the center of his chest, his blue pajama top erupting in a flower of blood. He stared at the perimeter darkness, disbelieving, the room smelling of smoke and cordite. He touched the dime-sized hole in his chest, a half-inch above his heart, and felt the wetness of the blood on his fingertips. The second bullet hit him between the eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the white headboard.

The man slid the pistol back under his belt. He started to pick up the file folder, pausing. He lifted a mobile phone off the dresser, scrolled down to the last number received, a number listed to Dave Collins. The shooter played back the voice message. He heard Laura Jordan’s terrified voice. “Professor Kirby! Get out of your room now! You’re in danger. A man may be coming to you, and he’s coming for the Civil War document. He’s dangerous. Maybe insane. Please…” There was a breathy sigh and the called disconnected.

The man played the next voice-message. “Hey Ike…Dave getting back with you. Damn good news about that Civil War contract. On first pass, if you believe it’s the real McCoy, I’d bet the boat on it. As always, I’ll keep that news under my hat. I’m glad you got a chance to get to know Nick and Sean. Because of Sean’s search for that damn painting, he’s separated a few layers from the contract by sheer happenstance. However, if anyone can hunt down the whereabouts of the stolen diamond, it’s Sean O’Brien. His gift of human observation, in my opinion, is unmatched. Call me when your testing corroborates your deduction. Nothing like a chance rewriting American Civil War history to put a bounce in your step. Let’s discuss it at breakfast, if you can. In closing, let’s go fishing like we used to. Sean has an excellent boat near mine. Nick, though, will find the fish. Call me. Give Judy my love. Bye. ”