The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(4)

Two shots cracked in the morning air and Bob Weiler let out a groan, then his body crumpled to the ground. Blood poured from a pair of holes in his chest. My gaze darted toward Sue. Her gun was still raised, only now it was pointed at me.

Another shot exploded.

I dove into the Regal.

The driver’s-side window, where I’d just been crouched, exploded, spraying glass on me.

She fired again.

The front windshield spiderwebbed from the impact but did not splinter. I snapped open the passenger-side door and slid out onto the pavement. Now at least a whole car was between us. I sprang up, gun aimed, and screamed, “Drop the gun.”

She ignored me and fired one more time.

I ducked and heard the bullet ricochet off the hood. I came up and sent a round her way, which pierced Sue’s right shoulder. She recoiled, trying to keep her balance, then she dropped to the pavement, losing a grip on her weapon. I rushed over and kicked the pistol aside.

“You no-good piece of crap,” she yelled. “You shot me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

“You’re going to wish you did.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

Wounded and bleeding, but still venomous.

Three Duval County Sheriff’s cars with flashing lights and screaming sirens entered the complex and closed in fast. Uniformed officers poured out, ordering me to drop my gun. All of their weapons were pointed my way, so I decided not to tempt fate and did as they asked.

“This bastard shot me,” Sue screamed.

“On the ground,” one of the cops said to me. “Now.”

Slowly I dropped to my knees, then lay belly-first on the damp parking lot. Immediately my arms were twisted behind my back, a knee pressed firm to my spine, and cuffs snapped onto my wrists.

So much for favor number one.





Chapter Two


I sat in a white, windowless space made of concrete block. Interestingly, no one had read me a single constitutional right, nor taken a fingerprint, snapped a mug shot, or made me change into an orange jumpsuit. Instead, I’d been led into the Duval County jail and locked in a holding cell all by myself. I stared up at the walls and ceiling, wondering where the microphones and cameras might be hidden. The trip into town from the apartment complex had taken half an hour in the patrol car, my hands cuffed behind my back. Taking advice that every arrestee should heed, I kept my mouth shut, only providing a name and phone number for my commanding officer.

Sue Weiler had been taken away in an ambulance and, if the level of her shouts was any indication, her wounds were not life threatening. Bob Weiler died before his body hit the ground. There’d been a slew of witnesses, so trying to find out what happened would be a mess. What was the old Russian saying? He lies like an eyewitness? The deputies had not appreciated my staunch support of the constitutional right to remain silent. But too bad. I was still processing. Never once had I even struck someone in anger. Instead, I’d bypassed all of the various and sundry misdemeanors and gone straight to felony aggravated assault, shooting another person.

And I felt no remorse.

I’d also witnessed someone die.

Another first, which tore at my gut.

Bob Weiler was a friend.

The silence around me was broken by an occasional disembodied voice, the hollow echo of footsteps, and the soft whine of machinery. The jail was not unlike the many I’d visited before, each in their own way forlorn and depressing. My cell was about six by eight with a metal bench and a toilet with no seat. A single opaque window, recessed into the block wall at shoulder height, was protected by a steel grating. I’d never been a guest in a jail before, always a visitor. Being locked behind bars was definitely different. No freedom. No choices. Your autonomy surrendered to strangers. Certainly all of the powerlessness and petty humiliations designed into the building were intentional, there to sap away courage and strength, the idea being to replace any positives with a docile helplessness.

I knew I should call Pam, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear her moralizing. She’d told me more than once to stay out of the Weilers’ business, but you didn’t turn your back on a buddy in trouble.

At least I didn’t.

My own marriage hung in jeopardy, the warning signs all there. Short tempers, quick judgments, zero patience, lack of interest. Something Clark Gable once said had come to mind of late. Love is heading toward your house, knowing that on the other side of the front door is a woman listening for your footsteps. Pam quit listening two years back when I did something stupid and forgot that marriage was suppose to be monogamous. I’d violated her trust and hurt her deeply. I’d apologized profusely, and she’d supposedly forgiven me. But that was not the case. And we both knew it.

I’d screwed up.

Big time.

And changed a wife into a roommate.

A clang disturbed my thoughts, then one of the corrections officers appeared and opened the cell door. I took the cue and rose, following the woman down a sterile tile corridor. Her rhythmic stride, slow and steady, would have pleased any drill sergeant. Cameras bristled like gun emplacements over every door. A strong chlorine odor tickled my nose.

I was led to another brightly lit, windowless space, this one not a cell but an interrogation room, equipped with a long metal table and six chairs. Most likely for lawyers and clients. A woman waited. Middle-aged, thin, attractive, with short, light-colored hair and a confident face. She wore a smart-looking wool-skirted suit. She would eventually become one of my closest friends, but on this day we were perfect strangers.