The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(12)

“And what is that?”

He shook his head. “That’s above my pay grade. Not for either of us to worry about. Since we have the case, why don’t you take the place of the guy we have in custody and make a deal for the coin.”

“You’re going to give her what’s inside?”

“Hell no. I’m going to help the FBI arrest her. But first we need to know some things. Get her talking. Find out what you can. Can you handle that?”

Sure.

Sounded like a plan.





Chapter Seven


I hopped ashore on Loggerhead Cay.

The rain had eased, the clouds separated, and a harsh sun was now streaming down soothing the sea and warming my body. Jansen had eased to a dock that extended out past a narrow beach to drop me off, then motored on toward the north point of the island where he’d be waiting. We hadn’t seen the inflatable with the divers on our return.

Loggerhead sat three miles west from Fort Jefferson. The black-and-white conical tower of its signature brick lighthouse continued to flash, as did the one across the water, atop the fort, each winking to the other in the ever-brightening midday. The island’s landscape was flat and uninteresting, barely a few feet above sea level, covered in low scrub and thick stands of a short, squatty pine. A beautiful thin ring of white sand wrapped its edges, dissolving into the transparent water. The reef where I’d dived lay off the far side, toward the southwest. Here, on the east, a cluster of low-slung buildings guarded the lighthouse. Jansen had told me that only a few caretakers lived here. Birds seemed the main residents along with, I assumed, its namesake turtles, which surely used the beaches for nests.

Jansen also told me that a handful of campgrounds were scattered across the forty or so acres, concentrated at the south and north extremes. No food, fresh water, electricity, or medical assistance existed. Each person had to bring everything they needed and take everything away. The remote sites were first come, first served. The contact I sought waited at the north point.

I wore a Jacksonville Jaguars T-shirt, a pair of Nike shorts, and tennis shoes, projecting an image of island simplicity. But a clean-shaven face and a regulation haircut might give away my military status. I was in good shape, the dive had just proven that. My waist remained thin, my hair a sandy blond. Middle age was years off, and thankfully my metabolism burned more calories than I took in.

Weather here seemed to change in a blink of an eye. The storms from earlier were vanishing, replaced by clear skies and sunshine. But it was also hurricane season, and I imagined that this was the last place you’d want to be if one of those paid a visit.

A concrete walk led from the dock to the lighthouse, which sat roughly at the island’s center. I avoided that path and headed north, up the beach, following the wet sand. Thunder continued to rumble in the distance as the storm moved eastward. The only other sounds were the wind, a gentle lap of tiny waves, and the shrill cries from birds overhead.

I felt like a castaway.

The whole cay was only about two hundred yards wide. If not for the thick stands of pine, you would have been able to see from side to side and end to end. At the north point I spotted a green Sundome tent, its rain fly unzipped, set among what looked like foundation ruins. A weathered placard identified the site as the former Tortugas Marine Biological Laboratory, established by the Carnegie Institution in 1904. I had no idea what I was walking into, but since there was no choice I left the beach and followed a narrow trail through prickly pear cactus.

“Are you the person who made the dive on the wreck?”

The words were delivered in Spanish, and hearing a disembodied female voice where there’d just been nothing startled me. Thankfully, languages were familiar to me. It was a side effect of an eidetic memory that came courtesy of my mother’s side of the family. Not photographic. Just a mind that retained facts like a magnet, which had made it easy for me to learn Spanish, French, and some passable Italian. My hope had been that the skills might come in handy one day.

A woman emerged from the tent.

She was a little over five feet tall with shoulder-length dark hair and smooth brown skin. No makeup marred her attractive face. Her almond-shaped eyes sized me up with a tight, almost uncomfortable gaze. She was trim and fit with healthy curves concealed by jeans at the limit of their embrace and a loose-fitting blouse. Being a lawyer and asking a million questions had taught me that conversations hated a vacuum. If the questioner didn’t rush in to fill the silence, the subject usually would do it for you, often to their regret.

So I stayed quiet.

“Can you understand me?” she asked in Spanish.

The accent was American, with a touch of the South. Like my own. I said, “No Spanish.”

Better to keep my linguistic abilities to myself.

“Is this better?” she said in English.

“Works for me.”

“You can’t be Valdez. He sounded older on the phone.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you the fellow who dove the reef?”

I nodded. “You watched?”

“From the beach. I was wondering if anyone would come. I heard about the wreck yesterday when I arrived. But since I’m stuck here till later today, I had no choice but to wait and watch.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Coleen Perry.”

“I’m Cotton Malone. I came for the coin.”