The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(5)

My first impression of her was never in doubt.

Law enforcement.

And not local.

“My name is Stephanie Nelle,” she said.

The corrections officer left, closing the door behind her.

“What are you? FBI?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I was told you were intuitive. Give it another shot.”

I tried to think of a clever retort, but couldn’t, so I simply said, “Justice Department.”

She nodded. “I came down from DC to meet with you. But an hour ago, when I showed up at the naval station, your commanding officer told me you were here.”

I was in my second year of a three-year tour at Mayport. The base sat a few miles east of Jacksonville beside a protected harbor that accommodated aircraft-carrier-sized vessels. Thousands of sailors and even more support personnel worked within its fences.

“I’m sure he had nothing good to say about me.”

“He told me you could rot here. It seems he considers you nothing but a problem.”

Which, believe me, I’d tried hard not to be. I’d served at bases in Scotland, Connecticut, and Virginia. I knew the word was out I was a maverick, tagged with stubbornness, arrogance, even a little recklessness, with an occasional confrontation with authority. But by and large I toed the Navy line, and my service record was exemplary. Next up for me was sea duty, which I wasn’t looking forward to. At least three years’ worth, if I ever wanted to advance to commander. Pam, God bless her, followed me to each duty station, finding a job, making a home. Which made my past idiocy even worse. We’d talked about her going to law school. She had an interest and I liked the idea. Or having a baby? Maybe one of those, or both, might save us. Bob Weiler’s death had brought into sharp focus the horror of divorce.

I slid one of the chairs away from the table and sat. The sleepless night was catching up to me. My visitor remained standing.

“Nice aiming out there,” she said. “You could have killed her, but you didn’t.”

I shrugged. “She didn’t appreciate the favor.”

“Your first time shooting someone?”

“Does it show?”

“You look a little rattled.”

“I watched a friend die.”

“That would do it to anyone. Sue Weiler wants to press charges against you.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that one.”

She chuckled. “My thought, too. I was told you can handle yourself under pressure. It’s good to see the intel was correct. You flew fighters, right?”

That I had. For a while, at least. Until I was talked into a career shift by friends of my late father. Two admirals and a captain who seemed to have made it their life’s mission to look after me. My father would have been flag-rank-eligible by now, too, if not for his submarine sinking with all hands lost. No bodies had ever been recovered, little known about the mission. In fact, the whole thing was stamped classified. I knew that because I’d tried, without success, to access the court of inquiry’s investigative report. I’d been ten when the men in uniforms came to the house and told my mother the bad news. Nothing about it made sense then, and it would be many more years before I learned the truth.

“I read your personnel file,” she said. “You specifically requested flight training, and your skills were top-notch. Mind telling me why the shift to law?”

I trained my eyes on her like gun barrels. “You already know the answer to that question.”

She smiled. “I apologize. I won’t insult you like that again.”

“How about you get to the point.”

“I have a job for you.”

“The Navy has first dibs on my time.”

“That’s the great thing about working for the attorney general of the United States, who works for the president of the United States, the commander in chief. Jobs like yours can be changed.”

Okay. I got the message. This was important.

“The job I have in mind for you requires skill and discretion. I’m told you possess both qualities.”

I decided to do a little testing on my own. “Was it the two admirals or the captain who told you about me?”

“All three, actually. One led me to another to another. They sang your praises. But the question is, do you live up to that advance billing? Your CO doesn’t think so.”

Screw that idiot. He was an ass-kissing paper pusher and always would be. A career officer focused on doing his twenty years, then retiring out with a pension while he was young enough to double-dip in private practice.

That path had never interested me.

But over the past few years I’d started to wonder if that might be my fate, too. Those friends of my father always liked to tell me they had a plan. Just go to law school, get the degree, then opt for JAG. Which I’d done. But I’d been beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten about me.

Now here was an opportunity.

Sent by them.

What did I have to lose?

Most likely my CO was going to strap me to a desk for at least the next month as punishment for drawing attention to his command. Forget about the fact that a friend died and the other person fired first.

“Am I off the hook for Sue Weiler?”

She nodded. “I had a talk with the sheriff. No charges will be filed.”