The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(53)

“We need to go,” I said. “We’ll head farther down this street, away from traffic, and find another way out of this neighborhood.”

We started walking again.

It wouldn’t be long before the whole area was cordoned off as a crime scene. I could see that Coleen was shaken. Hell, I was, too. That was another first for me. It seemed my week for them.

More emergency vehicles headed toward the scene. I imagined they’d have a local law enforcement convention here before the day was through. Not too many car bombs went off in Melbourne, Florida. Everybody would want to be part of the action. It wasn’t that cops wished for bad things, it was just that something out of the ordinary was exciting. Like TV weather people, who seemed genuinely upset when a hurricane veered out to open ocean, never making land.

We were now a few streets over from the burning car, heading out of the neighborhood.

A car wheeled around the corner behind us.

I turned.

A white Yukon sped our way. Not a police vehicle. Perhaps one of the residences leaving. The SUV slowed as it approached, then stopped. The driver’s-side window disappeared down.

“You need to get in,” a man said.

My instinct was to drop the case and reach for the gun beneath my shirt. But something about the guy telegraphed that he was no threat.

He displayed a badge. “I’m with the FBI. You need to get in the car.”

“Why?” Coleen asked.

“Because we’re on the same side. We know about Stephanie Nelle and her investigation. We also know about Juan Lopez Vadez and Tom Oliver. You’re out here, bare ass to the wind. I’d say you need a friend.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

I motioned for us to climb inside.

“Are you nuts?” Coleen asked. “This guy could be working for Oliver.”

I walked around and opened the passenger-side door. “Yep. That’s right.” I laid the case down on the asphalt and found my gun, which I tossed across the hood to her.

She caught it and understood.

Then she climbed into the rear seat.



We drove away from Melbourne, west toward I-95 from where we’d come earlier. But instead of heading south, we went north, for Jacksonville and home. I sat in the front seat because I wanted to be able to look this guy in the eye. Coleen was in the back with the gun, keeping watch and listening. I’d already passed the case over to her, and it rested on the seat behind me. I was hoping that my trusting her with both the gun and the case would count for something in her eyes.

“We learned of Valdez’s contact with Reverend Foster, then your contact, Ms. Perry, with Valdez.”

“How is Valdez able to prance around Florida like he’s a tourist on vacation?” I asked.

“That’s thanks to a few problems that remain both within and outside of the FBI. People Ms. Nelle is focused on.”

Whether any of that was true remained to be seen. All I knew was that we were headed away from Melbourne and Palm Beach and Coleen had a gun to this guy’s back if he tried anything stupid.

I asked a few more questions but received no replies. Our driver told us all would be explained shortly by someone who wanted to speak to us. I was beginning to learn that being a field operative meant making choices. Lots of them, in fact. One thing led to another, then to another, or at least that was the way it was supposed to happen. An agent’s job was to make the right choice and keep moving forward. By the time I left the profession, over a decade later, several agents I came to know died from making bad choices. Luckily for me, my mistakes were never fatal.

But they were nonetheless painful.

Like the one I was about to make.



We exited I-95 after a two-and-a-half-hour ride and made our way east into downtown St. Augustine. Whoever wanted to speak to us was apparently there. I knew the hype associated with what was supposedly the oldest European settlement in America. The town was already over two hundred when George Washington became president. The Spanish first settled here, on a narrow strip of land nestled close to the Matanzas River. Another stretch of thin, low-lying island to the east provided beaches as well as shelter to a superb natural harbor that drew not only the Spanish but eventually the French, the English, and pirates.

Its main roads ran north and south, the cross streets at defined right angles east and west, everything on a perfect grid. Many still retained their narrow width, first placed there as a means of internal defense. Most were named for either people or things from the past. Streets like St. George, Treasury, Cathedral, and Francis. Overhanging balconies and high stone walls were common, all of the stunted buildings made of wood, tabby, or coquina. Henry Flagler put the place on the modern map when he built a railroad down the East Coast to Florida. Along the way he constructed magnificent hotels that started the annual craze of the rich coming south for the winter. St. Augustine boasted three of his resorts, all of which were still standing, but only one remained a hotel.

We wound our way into the center of downtown, traffic typically congested for a busy summer afternoon. Past Flagler College we came to Government House, then the city’s main square.

The Plaza de la Constitución.

The oldest public park in America.

Once it was a community focal point. A place of progress and protest. Now the tall trees, shrubbery, and tight grass accommodated tourists enjoying the shade. Pam and I visited last Christmas when the trees, and the rest of the city, were illuminated with thousands of tiny white lights.