“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.
So I kept listening as she dealt away.
“Your personnel file says you’re a certified diver. This one’s simple. Forty feet of clear, warm water down to that wreck.”
“And what am I after?”
“A black waterproof case, about eighteen inches square. I want it brought up intact.”
The waitress arrived with the food, which looked delicious. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.
I dug in.
“We’re confident the Double Eagle is inside, but that will be for me to determine. The case should not be opened. Those friends of your father’s told me that I could count on you to follow instructions.”
I enjoyed the meat loaf and noticed that she was ignoring hers. “Why me? You must have plenty of other agents at your disposal.”
“This job requires an element of independence, outside normal channels. It’s a sensitive, internal matter within the Justice Department. One I’m handling. So I need a fresh face. One nobody knows.”
Which tickled my lawyer bell big time. Three years of law school and six years at JAG hadn’t taught me much, but they both ingrained a healthy curiosity. A host of questions popped into my brain, none of which, I realized, this woman was going to answer. Not now, anyway. So I kept my inquiries to myself. Besides, I wanted the job. So why antagonize the new boss?
Still, I couldn’t resist. “What if I say no?”
“Now who’s underestimating who?”
I grinned. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this a long time.”
She knew me. Which was scary.
“You just didn’t know when it was coming. Guess what. Moving day is here. Lieutenant Commander Harold Earl ‘Cotton’ Malone, your time has finally arrived.”
“What about my command at Mayport?”
“Your CO told me I could have you. Apparently, you don’t play well with others and you like to improvise far too much for his taste. For him, that’s an impediment. Lucky for you, both of those qualities appeal to me.”
Chapter Four
I parked near the docks, the time just before 7:00 a.m. The drive south down I-95, from Jacksonville to Key West, had been a long one, which I’d endured yesterday after leaving Stephanie Nelle. I’d been able to get my car back from the Duval County impound lot without even having to pay a fee. Good to have friends in high places. My first stop after we parted had been home, where I packed a bag, telling Pam that I’d been dispatched on a special assignment. I was unsure how long I’d be gone, but would call when I knew more. She wasn’t happy, to say the least, which I added to the growing list of our woes. I told her about Bob Wieler, shooting Sue, and going to jail, which elicited only the obligatory I told you so. I accepted her rebuke, not wanting to argue, and conceded that she’d been right all along.
I hated what was happening between us.
A Navy career was not conducive to good marital relations. Its hit-and-run existence added nothing but strain. The divorce rate was sky-high, and not just with enlisted. Misery stretched all the way up the ranks. The closer you got to retirement, the greater the chance of a split. But my self-inflicted screwup had only poured salt onto that potential wound. A friend of mine liked to say that once you leave the marital bed, you never return. He might be right, because returning came with a host of heavy baggage. Truth was not a one-way street, and it really did take two to tango. For Pam and I the truth would be a long time coming between us. Many years would pass before we both learned the whole story, eventually ending our marriage first as bitter enemies, then as friends. But back then I genuinely hoped Pam and I weren’t finished.
Stephanie told me to get a good night’s sleep and be at the Key West Bight at seven. Last evening I found a nearby motel and took her advice, the same one Pam and I visited last year on a long weekend. A truly enjoyable three days for us. We’d played, talked, and there’d even been sex.
Good times.
Laid back, free-spirited, artsy, quirky, scenic, you name it, Key West definitely shifted left of center. Pirates once made it the wealthiest place in Florida, at a time when Miami remained an uninhabited swamp. The town sat at the end of a rocky chain of low-slung islands. Its tropical climate lingered year-round, along with a seemingly continuous happy hour. People came to fish, escape, carouse, and rejuvenate. Nonconformity seemed a religion. Hell, it even seceded from the Union back in the 1980s, declaring itself the Conch Republic, then promptly surrendered to the United States and requested a million dollars in foreign aid.
You had to like that spunk.
I was told to find one boat among the charters that called the historic harbor home. Today not that many people buzzed about, probably thanks to a clinging canopy of gray sky, which looked ugly and threatening. A steady breeze swept in from the sea carrying a tide of warm moisture, the air thick like being submerged. A storm was definitely coming. Not a day for deep-sea fishing.
I found the boat, the Isla Marie, at the end of a dock, a forty-footer with a wide stern, twin inboards, and an enclosed upper bridge. A sheltered rear deck offered sun protection for any fishermen, and a spacious forward cabin accommodated overnight stays.
A man emerged onto its rear deck.
Short, stout, square-shouldered, thick-necked. His tanned skin contrasted with thin, silvery hair. He was potbellied, dressed in khaki shorts, a dark Key West T-shirt, and a battered ball cap. Around his neck hung a gold doubloon on a chain. Just as with Stephanie Nelle, I knew the look.
More law enforcement.
“Trying to fit in?” I asked the guy from the dock.
“I’m retired. What do I care?”
Good point. “You Captain Nemo?”
The guy smiled. “I don’t miss all the stupid intrigue.”
Stephanie had told me to use the code name.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Cotton Malone.”
Which sounded like a code name in and of itself.
“Where’d you get a name like Cotton?”
“It’s a long story.”
He flashed me an amiable, toothy smile. “That’s good. ’Cause we have a long trip. Hop aboard.”
“Where we going?”
He pointed a finger out toward open ocean.
“Seventy miles that way.”
We stood in the enclosed bridge, the Isla Marie fighting hard against a stiff headwind, the beat of the engines steady under my feet. The farther west we cruised, the worse the rain became. Windblown spray and gusts of bright foam flew up from the bow as we knifed a choppy path through the churning water.
“Nobody will be fishing today,” my host said.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?”
No name had yet been offered. At the docks I’d understood. Loose lips sink ships. But we were long gone from Key West.
“Jim Jansen, once with the FBI.”
“Now with the Justice Department?”
“Hell, no. I was asked to help Stephanie out. A favor. Like you, I’m told.”
The entire boat shifted like a seesaw. Thank God I wasn’t prone to seasickness, otherwise I’d be tasting my breakfast twice. Jansen seemed to have a good pair of sea legs, too.