“I like what I represent. A little color in blue is good for everyone.”
I smiled. “So you’re a trailblazer. Like your father was long ago.”
She stood and brushed the moisture from her clothes. “I’m a good cop.”
And for the first time I heard the pride of a daughter trying to earn the respect of her father.
We walked back to the boats.
I carried the waterproof case. She seemed resigned to our uneasy truce. We left the inflatable and took the other boat back to the I-95 overpass. From there we walked through a neighborhood of boxy, single-family homes to a busy street, with exits on and off the interstate, that accommodated gas stations and a truck stop. It took only half an hour to find one of the long haulers willing to take us north to Melbourne. The rig’s main cab came with a sleeper compartment. I sat up front and chatted with the driver while Coleen occupied the sleeper, flicking through the files, reading every page. Every once in a while I glanced back and caught the surprise on her face.
Which I could understand.
It took just under two hours to make it to the Melbourne exit, where we thanked the trucker. I offered some money, but he refused. At a gas station I found a pay phone and learned the number of a Melbourne cab service. A car arrived a few minutes later and took us east, toward the coast, and the address we had for Bruce Lael.
Twelve years as a Magellan Billet agent would eventually teach me that people nearly always left trails. It’s human nature. Paper ones. Pictures. Bread crumbs. Doesn’t matter. There’s something. But I felt reasonably safe that no one could have possibly tracked us to this point. We’d made it away from Stuart with no one on our tail and I had laid down not a single speck that anyone could follow. Once we found Lael’s house, though, that could all change. It was entirely possible Oliver had the guy under surveillance. Of course, once Lael had served his purpose and led Oliver to Lake Okeechobee, they may have abandoned him. But then again, maybe not. So I had the taxi driver drop us off about a mile from the address, learning from him directions the rest of the way.
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.
He tossed me a measured glare. But his answer surprised me.
“Something like that.”
“Did you get it?”
“That’s none of your business.” He faced Coleen. “Does your father know you’re here?”
“No,” she blurted out before I could lie.
“I didn’t think so.”
All of this posturing was grating on my nerves.
“COINTELPRO targeted King. That’s old news,” I said. “There are books filled with unclassified FBI field reports on what you did. Okay, he had mistresses, he liked to smoke and drink. He told dirty jokes. Who gives a crap? I want to know what’s really going on here.”