The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(42)

“And that’s all you’re going to get. What about your issues at the FBI and within Justice? And there’s more going on here than you think.”

“You want to explain that?”

“Not at the moment. You’re just going to have to trust me that there is much more involved. I need some time to see where this leads.”

“I want those files,” she said.

And I was beginning to see why. “I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth. I know I have no way of knowing if you’re lying, but could you humor me and give it a shot?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you know what’s in those files?”

“I really don’t. But I’ve read an old FBI intelligence assessment that speculates about what might be there. Juan Lopez Valdez is a former asset of both the FBI and the CIA. He may even still do some work for the CIA. I don’t know. Officially, he’s attached to the Cuban secret police, but he’s a man for hire, with no loyalties other than to himself. There are people here who want to know why, besides the coin, he chose to contact Foster. And those files could provide the answer.”

“They do.”

“You’ve read them?”

“Enough to know this is not going on 60 Minutes. This gets its own one-hour, prime-time special report.”

“Cotton, listen to me. You’ve been doing this for all of one day. You’ve done a great job. I really appreciate the effort. But let me handle this from here on.”

“You’ve yet to say a word to me about you talking to Benjamin Foster.”

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“It wasn’t necessary for you to know that. But I had to judge the man for myself.”

“He set me up to take the fall with Jansen and Oliver. He wanted them to take the files. He was able to do that, thanks to you.”

More silence.

“You wanted me out here because you said you liked the fact that I didn’t play well with others and I improvised. It’s bad enough that you gave me half the story, which led me into a trap. So how about you let me do this my way now.”

“And you’re not going to tell me a thing?”

“Let me play this out. If it leads nowhere, I’ll bail and turn it all over to you.”

This was the beginning of a pattern that would mark our relationship for many years to come. Sure, it was flawed, but we came to accept that rarely did either of us tell the other everything. My working relationship with Stephanie Nelle ran smooth but never straight. It also delivered results because we both possessed an iron purpose, and we were good at what we did.

“What do you want me to do about Tom Oliver?” she asked. “My inclination is to arrest him.”

“Leave him be. Give ’em a long leash.”

“And if that leads straight to you?”

The prospect of that was not encouraging, but I knew the correct answer to her question. “I’ll handle it.”

She didn’t like the situation, but finally agreed to my conditions.

“One day,” she told me. “That’s all I’ll give you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Keep in touch.”

I ended the call.

I stood for a moment and listened to the noise emerging from the restaurant where I’d left Coleen. The tinkle of laughter, the clink of glasses, the dozens of meshed conversations. Streetlamps pushed weak yellow light down over the black asphalt. I debated whether to make the next call, but decided it was the right thing to do.

I dialed my house.

Pam answered.

“I wanted to let you know I’m still okay,” I said to her.

“You sound tired.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Where are you?”

Stephanie had instructed me that no one was to know my mission or my whereabouts. “You know I can’t say.”

“How convenient. Too bad you didn’t have that excuse before.”

I closed my eyes and bit my tongue. I’d become accustomed to her not-so-subtle reminders of my infidelity. “I assure you, I’m on the job and it hasn’t been fun.”

“And what you did before was fun?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I called to tell you I’m okay and that I love you.”

“Both are always nice to hear. When will you be home?”

Never did she return those three words. Not once since all that had happened had she uttered them to me. More of my punishment. “I don’t know. But I’ll try to keep in touch.”

“Are you lying to me, Cotton? Again?”

Looking back, it was foolish to think that I could ever make amends. When you’re barely thirty, cocksure of everything, you tend to think that all can be made right.

But it can’t.

“I’m not lying to you, Pam. I’m working. Something important and hush-hush. You’re going to have to understand.”

“I understand, Cotton. I understand perfectly.”

And a click signaled she was gone.

I hung up the phone.

That call had been a bad mistake.



I returned to the restaurant where Coleen had ordered a seafood feast. I laid the waterproof case on the booth’s bench and slid in beside it, opposite her. Sure, I was here with a woman, but this was anything but sexual.