The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(50)

I paid the driver and we walked down the quiet street, the air filled with the sweet, sticky smell of freshly mowed grass. The houses were small, single-story, concrete-block rectangles, most with tile roofs and painted either white, pale blue, or yellow. Lots of tall trees signaled that the neighborhood had been here awhile. An enormous brown-and-white dog pounded across one of the front yards, charging with a canine friendliness, a light in its eyes, paws upraised, tail flailing like a whip. Coleen showed the animal a little attention, but it quickly lost interest and padded away.

The address we sought was at the end of a long street, another ordinary sort of place, one of the white-painted houses. The same dark-blue, late-model Taurus with tinted windows and the correct Brevard County tag sat parked on the street, the short driveway filled with a flat-bottomed bass boat on a trailer.

We walked to the front door and I knocked. It was answered a few moments later by the same man from the cemetery.

He appraised me with a careful gaze.

But his words sent a chill down my spine.

“What took you so long?”





Chapter Thirty-one


Bruce Lael seemed like a man who still breathed the past. He wore a pair of dirty cargo shorts, a loud Hawaiian shirt, and tattered flip-flops. His house cast a measure in simplicity, everything neat and orderly. The living room reminded me of the one at my grandfather’s house back in Georgia, complete with an upholstered sofa, high-backed chairs, flat beige walls, and a brick fireplace. The cool rush from an overhead AC vent was particularly welcome.

“Were you expecting us?” I asked.

The warm grin slipped from his face. “You’re with the Justice Department. I figured you’d eventually run me down and come for a chat.”

“You didn’t seem real happy back in Port Mayaca?”

“I did what Foster wanted.”

“Leading Jim Jansen straight to me?”

The guy nodded. “I thought it was nuts, too. But that’s what he wanted.”

“You do everything he wants?”

I could see he did not appreciate my sarcasm.

“I don’t want those files going anywhere near Washington, either. I saw the wisdom in involving Oliver. He’d take care of things.” He paused. “And I don’t give a crap about you.”

I noticed he hadn’t offered us a seat or anything to drink, which meant this was going to be a short conversation. So I came to the point. “What is it you and Foster know about the King assassination?”

“Aren’t you the impatient one. No romance? No dinner beforehand? No foreplay? Just get right to it. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. You’re awful young. How long you been on the job?”

“It’s his second day,” Coleen pointed out.

Lael looked me over with a grin. “So we got ourselves a genuine rookie.”

I did not like the label.

“Tell me, rookie, why would I say anything to you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve got a conscience? Unlike Tom Oliver and his group of Merry Men.”

“Now, on that we see eye-to-eye. Oliver was a Hoover man, through and through. His whole career was geared to making that creepy bastard happy. We had six thousand FBI agents back then, every one of us expected to cater to Hoover’s whims, obey his rules, and satisfy his every need.”

“That include you?” I asked.

“If you wanted a long career, that was part of the job description.”

“You worked for Oliver?”

“Oh, yeah. In COINTELPRO. I was one of the bagmen.”

Which meant he handled break-ins, most of which were done without search warrants. Congress later determined that the FBI routinely engaged in thousands of illegal burglaries as a way not only to obtain information, but also to plant listening devices.

“Our motto was Do unto others as they are doing unto you. And believe me, we did. I was assigned to the Bishop himself.”

I recalled the code name Foster had mentioned for Martin Luther King Jr. “Did you break into King’s house?”

He nodded. “I planted microphones everywhere. In the SCLC offices, King’s home, his office, and too many hotel rooms to count. I was good at it.”

It was one thing to read about all of those constitutional abuses. But here was a living, breathing participant.

“Did you testify before the Church Committee?”

Lael shook his head. “A bunch of pansies. I may have hated Oliver and Hoover, but I was still FBI through and through. I actually believed what we were taught. To lead a careful and disciplined life. Easy on the alcohol, no drugs ever, and keep your pants zipped as much as possible. Stupid me just thought we ought to obey the law, too.”

“Yet you didn’t,” Coleen said, finally joining the conversation.

“No, little lady, we didn’t. But we were the exception. The vast, vast majority of FBI agents did their job, and did it right.”

“So what is it you and Foster think about all the time?” I asked, bringing him back to what I’d heard in the cemetery.

“You’re the preacher’s daughter?” Lael asked Coleen.

“How do you know my father?”

“We met about ten years ago, and we’ve stayed in touch.”

“Are you looking for forgiveness?” I asked.