“A rare victory for the good guys.”
Being a bibliophile also meant he was a reader. He’d read plenty about Columbus and the century after his discovery. Cultures that had existed for many millennia were violently extinguished—hundreds of thousands died —all in the name of religion and fueled by greed.
“Who are you?” Simon asked.
“Harold Earl Malone. But everyone calls me Cotton.”
“Interesting nickname. How did you—”
“Long story.” He motioned with the package. “Why did you want this?”
“What do you know of Christopher Columbus?”
A strange answer to his question. “In 1492 he sailed the ocean blue?”
Simon grimaced. “I am not particularly fond of humor. From your accent, I would say you are from the American South.”
“Georgia boy. Born and raised.”
“That line you quoted,” Simon said. “It is from a poem written to commemorate Columbus Day, which for some reason Americans feel the need to celebrate.”
“I think it’s just an excuse to take a day off from work.”
“That actually might be correct, but the poem is fiction. Nearly nothing in it is true. Yet it has been used for decades as a teaching tool.”
“You don’t sound like a Columbus fan.”
“We know nothing of Christopher Columbus.”
This man clearly wanted to talk, which bothered Malone. He’d expected more action. And where were the Israelis? Nearby? He hoped so. For once he was counting on them.
“His birthplace, his parents, where he was raised, educated. His early life. All of that is unknown,” Simon said. “We don’t even know what Columbus looks like. Every portrait that exists was painted long after he was dead by people who never saw him. If you read many books on him, as I have, you would see that every account conflicts with the others. Columbus himself only added to the mystery, as he barely spoke of himself during his lifetime and the few mentions he did make were not consistent.”
“Maybe he had a reason to keep things confused.”
“That he did, Herr Malone. Truly, he did. But that reason is not important to our present situation. What is relevant is the book.”
He decided to stop playing games. “Why did you kill Scott Brown?”
“I suspected there was a connection. I appreciate your directness, so I will answer your question. Mr. Brown stole from me.”
“And what did he steal?”
“The book you bought. I had it in my possession, then Mr. Brown decided to take it, collecting the finder’s fee offered by its owner for its return.”
“So you stole it first?”
“The way of the world, as I am sure you understand. I had employed Herr Brown’s services as an intermediary, to secure the book, but he decided on another course.”
“Not out of character.”
“Indeed. But fatal this time.”
“So you killed him. Or, should I say, your associate killed him.”
“There are consequences to risks taken. I was aware of Herr Brown’s past. I do not do business with people I do not know. But I thought the fee being paid to him for his services would be enough. Sadly, I was wrong.”
“He had a wife.”
“Then she should thank me. Being married to someone so inherently dishonest could not have been pleasant.”
He agreed, but Ginger had loved the idiot. And this arrogant ass’s indifference was, like Schwartz’s earlier, pissing him off.
“I have spent the better part of my adult life studying Christopher Columbus,” Simon said. “I consider myself well versed in his peculiarities—”
“And the purpose of such a seemingly worthwhile endeavor?”
He saw Simon did not appreciate the rebuke. “Again, not something that is relevant to our current dealings.”
Simon stepped to the edge of the walk, near one of the low-voltage lights, and bent down. Malone watched as something was drawn in the soft sand.
The same strange letter combination from Scott’s letter to Ginger.
“This is the mark of the Admiral,” Simon said. “The way Columbus would sometimes sign his name. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”
