The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(6)

I was impressed. “The sheriff himself?”

“I saw no reason to start any lower.”

That was my first of many later moments appreciating Stephanie Nelle. She was a person who could make things happen. On that day, though, I only saw her as a way to make an end run around the asshole waiting for me back at Mayport.

“Okay,” I said. “You did me a favor. I’ll do you one.”

My second in twenty-four hours.

And nothing was ever the same.





Chapter Three


I slid into a booth across from Stephanie Nelle. We’d left the jail and driven east in a rental car out Atlantic Boulevard toward the naval station, bypassing the road for the base and ending up in Neptune Beach. Pam and I lived nearby, and being the curious sort that I am, I’d learned that the name dated back to 1922 when an enterprising resident built a train stop next to his home and christened it Neptune. He’d been told that if he built a station the train would be required to stop, which would eliminate his walking two miles to Mayport every day in order to catch a ride to work into Jacksonville.

Smart guy.

It worked.

Now Neptune Beach was a lovely seaside community lined with brick-paved streets and lots of artsy shops and crowded bars and restaurants. A happening place year-round, but especially from Memorial to Labor Day.

The Sun Dog Diner was one of my favorites. It had the metallic, tinny look of an old-time roadside café decorated with the obligatory slick vinyl and shiny linoleum. Friendly, too. The people treated you like a neighbor, the kind of place where if they hadn’t seen you lately they’d pour you a free drink, offer a seat, and chat awhile. It sat on the main drag, across from another of my favorite places, The Bookmark, a local independent haunt. Its owners, Rona and Buford Brinlee, had become friends. I loved books, and always had. Eventually they would become a livelihood, but back then my collection was only beginning.

“Have you ever heard of a 1933 Double Eagle?” Stephanie asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s the rarest coin in the world. Ninety percent gold, ten percent copper. Millions of Double Eagles were struck from 1850 to 1932. They were America’s gold pieces, and they’re still prevalent in the coin market. But in 1933 something different happened. 445,500 Double Eagles were struck that year, but none of those were ever issued to the public. FDR banned the private holding of gold in April 1933. Since the coins had already been produced when that happened, they were simply held at the Philadelphia mint and eventually melted down.”

A waitress sauntered over.

“What’s good to eat?” Stephanie asked me.

“The meat loaf is top-notch.”

“Then we’ll have two,” she told the server. “I’ll drink water.”

“Iced tea for me.”

I could tell Stephanie Nelle was comfortable being in charge, so I let her be in charge.

The young girl left.

Out through the front window I watched as people walked in and out of The Bookmark. I could already see her problem, so I asked, “How many of the 1933 coins managed to escape the smelter?”

“That’s been a mystery for a long time.”

I listened as she explained how the 1933 Double Eagles had evolved into the Holy Grail of numismatists. Only two of the coins were intentionally kept back at the mint, both given to the Smithsonian. They should have been the only two in existence anywhere.

“But more surfaced,” she said. “Twenty that we know of. Best guess is they were stolen by an employee at the Philadelphia mint who sold them to a local jeweler, who sold them to collectors, until the Secret Service got wind of it in 1944. Eventually nineteen of the coins were reclaimed.”

“And the last one?”

“That’s where you come in.”

I liked the sound of that.

“The Secret Service has been tracking that coin for decades. It’s at the top of their most-wanted list. I know. I know. It seems silly. A sixty-plus-year-old gold piece. But they take their job as protector of the nation’s currency seriously. They hunted the others for decades.”

“What’s it worth?”

“That’s hard to say. Best guess is around $10 million. But remember, it would still be illegal to own it, as it’s stolen government property. So any buyers would be limited to rich collectors content never to show it to anyone. Right now, that last 1933 Double Eagle, that we know of, is in south Florida.”

She explained that it had been brought north by boat from the Caribbean two days ago. But the boat broke anchor and foundered on a reef, settling in about forty feet of water. The coin’s owner had learned of the sinking and was en route to try to retrieve his property.

“I want you to get it first,” she said.

I wasn’t quite sure if she thought me stupid, gullible, or just ambitious. I discounted the first one, since no one wanted to be considered an idiot. Gullible? I’d never been accused of that. My inclinations actually tended more toward highly suspicious to paranoid. Ambitious? That’s possible. I was young and hungry and eager for a change. I’d pondered for a long time what life had in store, hoping to God it wasn’t handling court-martials and kissing the asses of higher-ranking officers. Truth be told, I’d already had my fill of the Navy, and the prospect of working for some civilian law firm was simply not appealing. This woman, who’d come from DC just to see me, had obviously pegged me right. I wanted out. That meant, for the moment, I’d allow her the luxury of thinking that I didn’t realize she was playing me. What had Kenny Rogers said? There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealin’s done.