The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(48)

But shooting at my new boss?

That might be a problem.

I sympathized with Coleen’s agitation. Her father was someone she surely admired. Once he’d been a warrior in a great struggle, close to Martin Luther King Jr. himself. But his insistence that the past be forgotten was frustrating. I was frustrated by his deliberately leading me into a trap. I could partially understand his duplicity toward me. But to her? Why would he not want to tell his own daughter how he helped change history? And there was one other curiosity. Based on what I’d read last night, I could not understand why he’d want those files burned. On the contrary, it would seem he’d want every word to see the light of day. They revealed truths that the public should know. Nothing was incriminating toward Foster. So far I’d shared nothing with Coleen, thinking I was honoring not only her father’s wish but Stephanie’s, too. But for the life of me I could not fathom why.

The river began to narrow.

Houses remained on the east side, but marsh appeared to the west, with only a few residences scattered at its far edges toward higher ground. The river’s wide-open expanse was gone, the width here more like a canal, the banks tight. Coleen still had a solid half-mile lead, but I had her in my sights. This wasn’t so much a chase. More a following. At some point she’d run out of either water or gas.

She veered left.

Now heading due west.

I kept pace, entering some sort of human-made canal. I knew that south Florida was littered with them. A way to divert fresh water inland where it was needed for agriculture and helped with coastal flooding. We passed under a pair of bridges for a highway. Had to be the Florida turnpike. Then, a couple of miles later, another pair of viaducts streaked with speeding cars. Interstate 95. We were heading inland. Subdivisions of single-family homes gave way to flat farmland, stretching as far as the eye could see. Here the canal fed off into a multitude of non-navigable irrigation channels. This was a path to nowhere, and I saw that Coleen realized that, too. She stopped, then leaped from the boat to shore, the waterproof case in hand. I motored up, killed the engine, and jumped onto the low grassy bank. She was waiting for me, her forehead twisted into a scowl and bathed in a light sheen of sweat. She sat on the ground, knees to her chest, rubbing her arms as if she were cold.

“Dammit, Malone. I have as much right to read this stuff as you do. More so, maybe.”

We were alone. Nothing but cleared land in every direction, the grass beneath us close-clipped and damp with dew.

“Can’t you just go away,” she asked me. “Can’t you just let me take these files and leave? This isn’t your fight. It doesn’t concern you.”

I heard the anger and frustration and stayed quiet, letting her vent.

“You don’t get it,” she spit out. “I admire my father more than any man alive. He’s been there for me every day of my life. He taught me about right and wrong, good and evil. He showed me how to live. But the one thing he’s never spoken about was that day in Memphis. Never. Not once.”

I knew the rest. “Until recently.”

She nodded.

“And I could tell that he was holding back. He dodged my questions and avoided answers. He finally got angry and went silent. So when Valdez called and wanted to make a deal, one he’d refused, I decided that was my chance. I went behind him and set up the meeting in the Dry Tortugas.”

“Why there?”

“Valdez made the choice, and I wasn’t in a position to argue.”

“There’s more happening here than just you and your father,” I pointed out. “There’s some kind of current corruption going on inside the FBI. What’s happening to us is bringing that to light. That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t give a damn about the FBI. They can all go to hell. I want to know what happened to Martin Luther King Jr. and what my father has to do with it.”

I suddenly realized something. “You can’t discuss this with your husband, can you?”

“To a point. For Nate this is about changing history. Like me, he came along long after King was dead. We grew up in a different world. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s not the 1960s, either. Nate’s a good man. Don’t get me wrong. He loves me. But he’s a fourth-year associate in a law firm with a long way to go before he’s a partner. He’s got a black woman for a wife, which shouldn’t matter. But we all know it still does. He volunteered to work with the King family in the Memphis civil trial. My dad made that happen. He’s still close with the family. But Nate was more errand boy than lawyer. He thinks my father knows things, and he wants to be the one to discover them. He wants to change history. Make a name for himself. But this isn’t about him. It’s about me and my father. So no, I can’t discuss this with him.”

“So I got nominated?”

She looked up and for the first time smiled. “Something like that. You seem to be my only choice.”

Exactly what her father had said to me.

“I never thought all this would happen,” she said. “I had no idea. I was going to trade the coin for the files and pick Valdez’s brain. Simple as that. But after I found that coin in his drawer, I did some research and learned all about it.”

“I imagine that was a shocker.”

“To say the least. Which created even more questions I knew my father wasn’t going to answer.”