Mark of the Devil (27 page)

Even after crossing the Acosta Bridge into downtown Jacksonville, the telephone call to Hannah that morning was still on Matt’s mind. That and one-way streets, the glare of auto lights and street lamps on rain-slick asphalt, hard-to-read street signs, and the back-and-forth swish of the Grand Cherokee’s windshield wipers against the light drizzle seemed to make everything just that much more difficult. Matt had been driving around the unfamiliar area for at least twenty minutes, looking for a parking space, before Park said, “Give it up, man. Half of Jacksonville must be down here tonight.”

“They should’ve stayed home on a night like this,” Matt grumbled. “Even the self-parking garages are full.”

“Probably a concert or something at the Times-Union. Finding a parking place, you might as well hang it up.”

They turned back onto Water Street and cruised slowly between their ultimate destination, the fifteen-story Omni Hotel, and the Times-Union Center for Performing Arts. For the first time, Matt noticed more closely the lighted marquee to his right on the front of the building:
“Phantom of the Opera,
Moran Theater.”

“Okay, you win,” Matt said with a sigh, “but you know what that means? Getting some flunky to park the car, then having to tip him to get it back. I hate that. Always have.”

Park laughed. “Either that or park a mile away and hoof it in the rain.”

“Shish!” Matt hissed through clenched teeth before slowing and turning left toward the short driveway leading to the Omni’s entrance and well-lighted porte corchere. Just as he turned, a low-slung, light-colored BMW convertible whipped in front of him, causing him to slam on the brakes, sending the Jeep in a sideways spin past the entrance. “Goddamn it!”

By the time Matt put the Jeep in reverse and backed to a point where he could turn toward the hotel, the convertible with a midnight-blue soft-top was still under the porte corchere, but the driver was gone. As one of three valet attendants was getting into the car, Park said, “Oh, no!”

“Oh, no, what?”

Park pointed at the BMW as it moved forward out of the light. “That car. The ice-blue BMW convertible. I haven’t seen it with the top up, but if it belongs to who I think it does, this little get-together you’re dragging me to is probably not going to be a real fun time.”

“Who is it?”

“Bruder, the guy from Tallahassee.”

A bell rang, just loud enough to be heard over the piped-in music, and the floor indicator lit up with the numeral
2
flashing as the elevator doors opened. “According to the floor plan in the lobby,” Matt said, “the Jacksonville Room oughta be to the right.”

Matt stepped out of the elevator with Park on his heels, both making a right turn before stopping, eyes searching for meeting room names. To their left, Pensacola Rooms A, B, and C.

To their right…

“Bingo!” Park said. “Jacksonville Rooms A and B. Which do you think?”

“Let’s go with A,” Matt answered, turning the knob and opening the door onto a mixture of fifty to sixty well-dressed men and women. Many were gathered around a large, built-to-scale model of a wooden hulled, two-masted side-wheeler, rigging, and sails in place with a Confederate flag rigid at its mainmast.

A heavyset man with a beard and mustache held the group’s attention. “She is said to have been loaded with supplies from a British ship in the harbor of St. George, Bermuda. Painted the color of what the Confederates romantically called ‘Hatteras Fog’ and burning smokeless anthracite coal, she and others like her would make their way undetected into Southern ports on moonless nights or in fog.

“Unfortunately, the
Port Royal,
as we think she was called, never received word the port of Jacksonville had been sealed by Union forces in March, eigthteen sixty-two. Though successfully evading the seaward blockade by several Union gunboats, she was fatally wounded in the St. Johns River, just south of what we know as the I-Ninety-five or Fuller Warren Bridge.

“Now, if you’d like to refresh your drinks and taste the delicacies the hotel has prepared for us, we’ll take a few minutes before we unveil some of the artifacts brought up from the river, thanks to our generous benefactors from Antiquity Finders.”

Matt jerked his head in Park’s direction and in a low, but angry voice, said, “Damn it, Steve! Why didn’t you tell me this was AFI’s party?”

“Hey, man, don’t growl at me. Your buddy Dr. Mason never said.”

As the group broke up, their appetites carried them toward tables laden with trays of hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and cold drinks. It was then that Matt caught sight of Brandy Mason in an ankle-length, brightly colored caftan of interwoven purples, silver, and gold, the neckline an embroidered starburst design. “Brandy,” he called just loudly enough to get her attention. “Dr. Mason.”

Matt caught Brandy’s eye, and she nodded in Matt’s direction before excusing herself from the man called Bruder, state Senator Raleigh Jameson, and one of the most ravishingly beautiful women he had ever seen. In a gold and white pantsuit, the gold matching the color of her straight, shoulder-length hair, the woman looked like someone who had just stepped from the cover of
Vanity Fair.

There was a second woman, shorter than the other, with her back to him. Broadly built but shapely, she wore a silky, form-fitting, black dress that offset her reddish blond hair. Something about her seemed familiar, but what? And from where? And when? If she’d turn around, perhaps he could identify her—but at that moment he saw Eric Bruder turn in his direction, an arrogant sneer on his face.

“You were right, Steve,” Matt said, focusing on Bruder as Brandy approached, stopping here and there to speak briefly with several other attendees. “The BMW convertible—Eric Bruder. And there’s that fat-assed sonofabitchin’ senator I told you about. But who the hell is the woman they’re with?”

“In the pantsuit? That gorgeous-looking lady, my friend, is Starla Shoemaker. Quite a looker, huh?”

“Looker’s not the half of it. And the other woman? Something familiar about her, but—”

“What other woman?”

When Matt looked back, the woman in black was no longer there. Nor was Bruder. He looked around the crowd, but could find neither. “She’s gone. Bruder, too. Anyway, the Shoemaker woman? How do you know it’s her?”

“Her picture’s on the
Florida Times-Union
fashion page or in the society section at least once a month.”

“Whose picture’s in the paper?” Brandy asked, finally arriving and giving Matt a quick embrace and the breeze of a kiss on the cheek. “Was wondering if you’d make it. Mr. Park told me about Ashley—a terrible thing—and what happened to you. He said you’d been released, but didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Turning to Park, she repeated, “Whose picture? Certainly not mine.”

Park nodded in Starla Shoemaker’s direction. “Mrs. Shoemaker’s.” Extending his hand, Park added, “And I’m Steve Park, Dr. Mason. Been looking forward to meeting you.”

Brandy briefly took Park’s offered hand. “Likewise, I’m sure. Matt’s often spoken of you.” Turning back to Matt, she said, “You certainly don’t look like you’ve had the problems I’ve heard about.”

“I hide them well, and you look different. The dress. The colors, and your hair. I’ve never seen you so lovely. Not the conservative Brandy Mason I know.”

Smiling, Brandy clasped the sides of her skirt with her fingers and spread the material to show the colors. “A caftan, the colors to remind me of my West African heritage. Decided it’s time for me to break out of my shell. Places to go; things to do and see. I’ve handed my resignation to the governor, effective first of December.”

Matt’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “Resignation?”

“Let’s just say my uh…ship has come in, and life is about to take a turn for the better.”

Giving Brandy the old Berkeley evil eye, he said with a certain amount of deliberate concern in his voice, “I trust it’s not the AFI ship that’s come in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that life’s too short to get in a rut, and when fate smiles…A life of my own, doing what I want to do.”

“How’s that?”

“You might say, I’ve had certain offers that I couldn’t refuse, offers I’m not at liberty to discuss at the moment, even with you, Matt. One thing’s for certain, no more day-in, day-out state politics.”

Matt let out a huge sigh of relief. “I thought…” He laughed at his suspicions. “I thought you were in cahoots with the Shoemakers, AFI, and that bootlicking state senator over there. Thank God I was wrong.” Matt put both arms around Brandy and gave her a quick hug. “But getting back to my problems, other than what Steve might have told you, what problems have you heard about and from whom?”

Brandy clasped Matt’s hand in an affectionate squeeze. “Come now, Matt, the archaeology community is so small and close-knit, it’s difficult for word not to get around. I was terribly sorry to hear about Ashley. But there were also the deaths of your friends, in Washington I believe. And your being held by the police, out on bail. All that has happened. That’s really why I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“As I said, I hide it well. As for who’s been telling you, Bruder’s my guess.” From the corner of his eye, Matt took in Senator Jameson and Starla Shoemaker across the room, drinks in hand, the two of them looking in his direction and talking among themselves.
About him?
he wondered. Returning his attention to Brandy, he continued, “I have an idea Bruder knows more about a lot of things—things he’s not telling you. I think he’s using you and the state’s Division of Historical Resources.”

Matt saw Brandy give him a sideways glance that signified
What do you mean?

“He’s Henry Shoemaker’s man, and if not, he’s hers.” Matt nodded toward Starla Shoemaker.

Matt could see an immediate frown of annoyance on Brandy’s face as she said, “That, Matthew Berkeley, is ridiculous.” Touching Park’s arm, she said, “Hope you’re not listening to him, Mr. Park. Matt’s imagination has a tendency to run wild at times.” To Matt, she added, “It’s the same way you acted toward Senator Jameson in my office. Uncalled for and, in that case, inexcusable.”

With Park a few feet behind, Matt took Brandy by the arm and not too gently led her closer to the door. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Brandy. More to the point, Steve and I’ve been inside the submarine.”

Brandy tore her arm from Matt’s grasp and whirled around, her face in Matt’s. “You’ve what?” Heads immediately turned in their directions at the sound of her voice.

“Damn it, Brandy, hold it down. Steve, show her what we found.”

Brandy’s eyes glared with anger at Matt, then at Steve, her voice lowered but just as sharp. “What did you find?”

Park took a five-by-seven-inch envelope from inside his jacket, opened the flap, extracted several color photographs, and handed them to Brandy.

After a cursory glance at each of the pictures, she asked, “What are you showing me?”

Park pointed to the first photograph and explained, “Emblems on the side of the conning tower of a WW Two German U-boat Matt’s pretty sure is the U-Twenty-five thirty-seven. The second photo, a gold ingot we found inside the submarine.”

“You have it?” Brandy demanded, her eyebrows furrowed in both surprise and anger, each word fired through clenched teeth like a blunt-nosed bullet. “You have this gold ingot?”

“Yes, we have it, Brandy,” Matt answered, his eyes locked on hers. “Evidence, which will be turned over to the right people.”

“Right people?
I
am the right people, Matthew.”

“Normally, I’d say yes, but this is a German warship. The Abandoned Shipwreck Act of Nineteen Eighty-seven states it very clearly. Even within the three-mile limit, the Feds continue to hold title to sunken U. S. warships and other shipwrecks entitled to sovereign immunity. You know that as well as I do.”

In an obvious effort to at least limit the confrontation, Park inserted himself verbally between Matt and Brandy. “Unfortunately, from the looks of the wooden cases broken up and lying on the deck of the torpedo room, somebody else got there before us. Antiquity Finders, we’re sure. It’s apparent at least one, maybe more, of the wooden cases holding the gold was broken open. The ingot in the photograph was all that was left. Probably accidentally kicked under one of the torpedo racks, and they missed it.”