He placed the call to her. When he identified himself, she said, “I heard what happened when you visited my friend Oscar Roth in post-production. You almost got him fired. Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Shelia, listen to me, please. Jack Jordan was murdered on the set of Black River. The killing was caught on camera. That piece of evidence is helping police find the killer who left a widow and a little girl in his wake.”

“Are you a detective? If you are, why didn’t you just come out and tell me?”

“I’m not a detective. I’m a private investigator. I need to reach one of the production assistants, Katie Stuart. It’s urgent.”

“Hold on. Let me see if I have her number…here it is. I’ll text it to you.”

“Good. One last question…the day I met with you in your trailer, I saw one of your re-enactors riding a horse. Maybe he was preparing for a scene. He was about a quarter mile away from the plantation mansion and the movie set. In the area of a cemetery. Older man. Distinguished looking. Clean-shaven except for a white handlebar moustache. He was dressed as a Confederate officer.”

“Let me check the shooting schedule.”

O’Brien could hear her tapping on a keyboard. She said, “There were no scenes with horses that day. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any Confederate re-enactors with white handlebar moustaches. The scenes with Confederate officers were shot the day before you were here. Maybe you were mistaken. Sorry, but I have to go. The film’s almost wrapped and the first assistant director is having a coronary.” She disconnected.

O’Brien stepped over to the open port window facing the inlet. He watched a flock of sea gulls following a shrimp boat up Ponce Inlet from the Atlantic, the breeze delivering the scent of drying oyster bars and brackish water.

Nick said, “Sean, you look like your head hurts almost as much as mine. Maybe it’s catching.”

O’Brien turned toward Nick. “High body counts have a way of causing headaches. Nick, if you were having the ultimate fishing boat built, where would you have the work done.”

“Athens, Greece.”

“Here in the states.”

“Maybe Jacksonville. Place called Poseidon Shipyards. It’s named, of course, after the ancient Greek god of the sea, my man, Poseidon.”

O’Brien looked at the phone number just texted from Shelia Winters, the number to production assistant Katie Stuart. He tapped the number. When she answered, he said, “Katie, this is Sean O’Brien. I met you on the film set the day they were shooting some scenes on the mansion.”

“Hi, I remember you.”

“Maybe you can do a big favor for me.”

“I’ll try.”

“You mentioned that part of your job was shipping and receiving props.”

“Now it’s more sending because the movie is winding down a lot. I’m not sure how many shooting days are left.”

“Can you recall shipping a prop to Jacksonville?”

“Hold on. I’m in the production art trailer. I can look at the records.” After a long moment, she said, “Yes, but only one time. It was something already wrapped. I’m not sure what it was, though. Mike Houston, the art director had it ready to go one morning.”

“Where in Jacksonville was it shipped?”

“The waybill says it was UPS ground-shipped to Poseidon Shipyards.”

“One final thing, Katie. The death of the re-enactor on the set, Jack Jordan, was not an accident. It was murder.”

“Oh my God…”

“You can help. What’s Mike Houston’s mobile number?”

“I…I…I’m not supposed to—”

“Katie, trust me. This is a case of life and death.”

She blew out a hard breath into the phone. “Okay, but you didn’t get it from me.” She gave O’Brien the number.

“Thank you. Katie. I hope to see your name credited as a director someday.” O’Brien disconnected. He remembered his conversation with art director, Mike Houston. “It was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes, Unfortunately. After the third day of shooting. We became aware it was gone when we were playing back scenes for continuity.”

O’Brien shook his head. “You lying bastard.”

Dave said, “Lying bastard…who’s that?”

“The art director on the set of Black River.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he secretly shipped the painting to billionaire Frank Sheldon.”

Nick sat up, setting Max on the floor. “How’d you figure that?”

“When I remembered what Sheldon said when I saw the behind-the-scenes video of the day Sheldon and his rat-pack arrived on the set. He’d stared at the painting and said, ‘The face that launched a thousand ships might have been Helen of Troy…but the face of that woman in the painting is a face for a man to defend to his death.’ Earlier, on the news, Sheldon mentioned that he had America II built at a boatyard in Jacksonville called Poseidon Shipyards. Sheldon just launched his personal ship, identical to the one that beat the British a decade before the Civil War. So what would be the ultimate souvenir to include in the launching? Maybe the portrait of a beautiful woman whose face embodies the Gone with the Wind mystique of Old South femininity.”

Dave said, “And that’s why Sheldon’s private quarters on the new boat were off limits to the news crew.”

O’Brien nodded. “Because that’s where he hung or plans to hang the painting stolen by the art director from the film set. That’s where I’ll finally find the painting.”

The rumble of twin diesels approached Gibraltar’s stern, the loud pulse of music, Bad to the Bone, carried across the marina. Nick stood, glanced out the open doors leading to the cockpit and shook his head. A fleshy, pink-faced man stood in baggy swim shorts behind the wheel, a can of beer in one hand. Nick turned back toward O’Brien and said, “Sean, you start trying to break into that yacht and Sheldon will have you walk the plank.”

Dave exhaled a long breath. “The ship sets sail to England in two days. Did you see the news clip? Frank Sheldon employs bodyguards to keep his privacy. He’s got a wife and two teenage kids. Any of them would bring millions of dollars in ransom money if they were ever kidnapped.”

O’Brien said, “Absolutely, but I don’t think the show of muscle at the launching of his ship was related to that. Billionaire’s have bodyguards, no doubt. But those guys carried a more mercenary look.”

Dave sat in a leather chair. “How do you mean, mercenary look?”

“Former Seals or Special Forces guys. Sheldon is sending a message to someone. I think he’s setting sail to England with more cargo than the painting.”

Nick grinned. “So he’s got some real booty aboard, eh?”

“Priceless booty, as in the diamond.”

“The diamond?”

“What if Sheldon wants to carry the same cargo back to England that was originally brought to the states during the Civil War? A billionaire’s fantasy could be to have possession of the diamond and the Civil War contract on his maiden voyage back to the nation that originally sent them. The same sailing ship, the same precious cargo.”

Dave said, “That’d probably be the ultimate display of wealth and narcissism.”

“Unless, upon delivery, he plans to quietly sell them both back to the great granddaughter of the woman who originally possessed them, Queen Victoria, the woman who first wore the Koh-i-Noor diamond in her crown.”

Dave’s phone buzzed. He answered it, handed the phone to O’Brien and said, “Alistair Hornsby, the head of M16, would like a word with you.”

O’Brien took the phone and Hornsby gave him an assessment and background of James Fairmont. Then he added, “Mr. O’Brien, my old friend and colleague, Dave Collins, speaks highly of you and your talents. Time is of the essence here. Perhaps you’d consider helping us.”

“Who is us?”

“Great Britain collectively. Her Majesty the Queen and the Royal Family specifically.”