The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(33)

Glasses led the way to a pair of carved wooden doors that opened into a spacious library. But a quick perusal showed it was in name only, the shelves stocked with the kind of nondescript leather bindings that interior decorators used to make a room appear important.

Scores of framed photographs dotted the walls, all of the same man posing with others. I caught Ronald Reagan, George Bush, Warren Burger, J. Edgar Hoover, Robert Redford, Charlton Heston, and Walter Cronkite. Most mere poses in an office or at some gathering. Others while holding drinks. One on a golf course, another a sailboat. But at the center was always the same man looking equal to whomever he was with. His hairline progressively lightened and receded through the years but was always immaculate. I had a sense of an indexed life, collected and stored right here on this trophy wall. The whole room seemed a suffocating display, overloaded with nostalgia, like stepping back in time with someone who lived around their possessions.

A cluster of wingback chairs and a sofa, all in creamy leather, dominated the center of the room atop a hardwood floor covered with a pale-blue rug. Fading sunlight managed to find a way in though the curtained French doors. A man rose from one of the chairs and waited for our escort to bring us to him. The face was identical to the man in the pictures, but a small potbelly had grown against the tall, commanding frame. He was pushing seventy easily, but the hard and uncompromising expression from the photos remained. He wore fashionable wire-rimmed spectacles with a fawn-colored sport coat, vintage jeans, and shiny penny loafers, which gave him the air of an aging academic, the persona surely not random.

My eye caught a clock on the wall, which read 7:10 p.m.

“Uncuff him,” he ordered.

Jansen complied.

“My name is Tom Oliver.”

His attire, impeccable posture, and poorly restrained confidence came straight out of the FBI manual. But not his manners. No hand was extended for me to shake, which was fine by me.

“Please, have a seat. You and I need to speak. Alone.”

Jansen and the other guy got the message and left, closing the door behind them. Oliver assumed a position in one of the wingback chairs and reached for a pipe on the side table, lighting it up, puffing out acrid smoke. I had already caught its lingering odor in the air.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked me.

I sat. “Not a clue.”

“I worked for the FBI my entire career in law enforcement, retiring a few years ago as deputy director.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

“Is this amusing to you.”

My patience was reaching its end. “What’s not amusing is your lapdog out there, who wants to kill me. And the fact that I’ve been kidnapped and brought here against my will.”

“I doubt it was all against your will. After all, you are on a mission.”

“You know who sent me.”

“I do. Which is why we’re talking, instead of your corpse floating in the Everglades waiting for the alligators to eat it.”

He gave a grunt of satisfaction at his threat, his words and wealth seemingly enough for me to believe him.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You married money. Because a career FBI agent couldn’t afford the power bill on this place.”

He reached for a drink on the side table and swirled the clear liquid in the glass, then downed it in curious little sips.

“My wife’s family has owned this house for generations.”

I knew that this guy was going to be nothing more than a mine of misinformation. Every movement was measured, calm, and resolute. His goal was to suck in far more information than he let out. Best guess? The subject of the hour was Stephanie Nelle. He knew about her, just not enough. So why not corral the new guy, stick a gun in his face, then drag him into this sorry excuse for a library and wait for him to crack.

Yeah. Good luck with that plan.

I’d rather take my chances with the gators.

The study door opened and Jansen appeared.

“They’re here.”

Oliver nodded.

“Are we having a party?” I asked.

He grinned, still trying to rattle me.

“Something like that.”





Chapter Twenty-one


Jansen laid the waterproof case on the hardwood floor a few feet from where I sat. Atop it rested the 1933 Double Eagle inside its plastic sleeve. That coin was certainly making the rounds. Jansen left again, closing the library door behind him.

“He’s well trained,” I noted. “You do it yourself, or send him to obedience school?”

“Are you always so disrespectful?”

“Only to those I really like.”

“Your new friends have arrived,” Oliver said, ignoring my humor. “Foster, his daughter, and her husband.”

Good to know.

Like with Desi and Lucy, the reverend had some ’splainin to do.

“Did you make a deal with Foster?” I asked. “To get that case and coin?”

“Reverend Foster understands the gravity of this situation. He wants this contained, as I do. I’m hoping we can all come to an understanding and end this matter quickly and quietly.”

“You have the files, which makes you and Foster happy. You have the coin, which will make Valdez happy. What will make Stephanie Nelle happy?”

Oliver laid his drink down and continued puffing the pipe.