The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(27)

“I’m here for Coleen,” Foster said. “But also because I want those files destroyed. No offense to you, Lieutenant Malone, but I was hoping you might fail and all of this would remain at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Mind telling me what Stephanie explained?” I paused. “Especially since you’re trusting me and all.”

He caught my sarcasm.

“She seems to have a problem with the FBI. Which I can understand. I remember when it was the most corrupt organization in the United States. During Hoover’s time it routinely spied on all of us, violated our privacy, even engaged in active character assassination of Martin. It did everything we despise as Americans.”

I was not ignorant of that history. “That was another time and place.”

“Which doesn’t excuse it. Especially since I was a victim of their abuses.”

“All of that ended with the Church Committee. The legacy of J. Edgar Hoover is in the toilet.”

“He should have died in prison.”

“What does that have to do with here and now?”

“Remnants of that corruption remain, which you and Stephanie Nelle now find yourselves in the middle of.”

News to me. “Does that involve the death of Martin Luther King Jr.?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

I was working at a huge disadvantage. Not only thanks to Stephanie’s silence, but because I knew precious little about the King assassination, other than what I’d read in books, newspapers, and magazines. Foster was right. Conspiratorialists abounded on what may or may not have happened, which was no different than the tragic murders of both Kennedys. Anytime a public figure was suddenly gunned down, the word conspiracy immediately became attached. Congress had not helped matters, either. Twice it investigated the King assassination, concluding that James Earl Ray pulled the trigger all by himself. But true to form, it also hinted at a possible broader conspiracy—without offering a shred of proof.

“It’s important to me that my daughter never reads those files you obtained.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Call it the wish of an old preacher.”

Not an answer. But I didn’t really expect one. “That’s not a problem. Those files are going to Stephanie Nelle.”

“I would prefer we burn them.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What are you, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

“Something like that.”

“A lieutenant in the United States Navy, who has no idea what he’s dealing with.”

“I catch on fast.”

“I hope so. Because the men you’re dealing with will kill you.”

Those words grabbed my attention.

But before I could probe further a car entered the cemetery from the far side and cruised toward us down one of the graveled lanes that bisected the many graves. A dark-blue, late-model Taurus with tinted windows. I reacted to the potential threat, but Foster grabbed my arm.

“It’s okay. I was expecting him.”

The vehicle wheeled to a halt, the driver’s-side door opened, and a man emerged. Short, well built, with dark restless eyes set deep in a sunburned face. His grayish-brown hair was trimmed close and at odds with a thick beard. He took a few steps toward us, then stopped.

“You couldn’t leave this alone, could you?” the man said.

“My daughter is the cause of this. Not me.”

“You need to know he called me. He knows all about what’s happening with Valdez.” The man’s voice alternated between highs and lows. “Valdez contacted him, too. You should have left this alone. They’re not going to let it rest. All these years have passed, but they’re still out there. They haven’t gone away.”

“This gentleman here is from the Justice Department,” Foster said. “I’ve also spoken to his superior. You’re right. This is not going away.”

“Are you deaf? He’s active again, Benjamin. And all because Valdez decided to come north from Cuba.”

The voice had risen in anger.

“Valdez is apparently in financial trouble,” Foster said. “That’s why he wanted to deal the files for the coin. I told him no. My daughter is the one who made the deal, behind my back, unbeknownst to me. I’m as upset by this as you are.”

The guy stretched out his arms. “And yet here I am, just as you wanted. Are you crazy? You know what you’re dealing with. Have you forgotten? They said one to another, behold here cometh the dreamer, let us slay him and we shall see what will become of his dreams.”

Foster gave a slight nod of his head. “Genesis 37:19–20.”

“What became of his dreams?” the guy asked.

“That’s not for me to answer.”

“It seems to me you’re the only person in the world who can answer that question.”

These two men had experienced something together.

Something not good.

“All I wanted was to live out my retirement in peace,” the man said. “To go fishing. I never wanted to deal with this bullshit again.”

Thirty feet separated us from him.

“I haven’t ever been able to let it go,” the newcomer said. “I think about it all the time.” The voice had drifted lower. “What about you, Benjamin. How’s your conscience?”