“So I have to tell her?”
“You misunderstand,” she said. “You have to forgive yourself. Once you do that, everything will change.”
She gathered the cards and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Thank you. Come again.”
“Forgive myself?” he said. “I wish I knew how.”
Pilate walked amidst the most heavily populated part of the celebration, looking for a place to sit. He found a spot on a curb not far from a handsome man in his late twenties, who was strumming an acoustic guitar.
“This is a song I wrote last night,” the young man said, scrubbing a hand through unruly hair and squinting for a moment at the burgeoning sunset. He launched into an acoustic folk-rock hybrid song about missing someone.
The musician had a disarming way about him, and Pilate observed that both women and men were drawn to his playing and banter. A few women moved to his music.
He finished the song—a catchy, fun tune—then nodded to his guitar case. “My name’s Dan. If you liked that song, please consider slipping me a buck or two,” he said. “And if you didn’t like it, how about ten bucks so I can spend more time working on my songwriting?”
The small crowd laughed, and a few people dropped some dollars and change into the open instrument case; Pilate followed suit, and the singer took notice of his donation.
Strumming a trilling chord, he said, “Well, this guy liked the song. That’s nice. Are you sure you liked it? Couldn’t it use a little more work?”
There were more laughs and hand claps as Pilate smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at the singer and angled through the crowd, back toward Front Street.
A hush, then cheers drew Pilate’s attention back to the view from the dock. The orange ball slowly descended, then produced a brief, brilliant green flash before it faded into the Gulf of Mexico.
Pilate felt a pang of guilt. Kate would love this.
“She would, you lout,” Simon said.
“Lout? What are you, British?”
“I guess Samantha rubbed off on me,” Simon said.
Pilate moved on, walking to Sunset Lane, then Greene Street. He gave Sloppy Joe’s a miss and ended up getting exceptionally drunk at a small bar on Duval.
Exhausted, a bit tipsy, and still curious about what the card-reader had told him, he decided he would finally go to the police.
“You’re lucky I was off tonight,” Kay said, her hand gently cupping his sex after their frantic lovemaking. She kissed him.
“Indeed I am,” he said, kissing her back. “I had a long day and was hoping I’d catch you.”
“Well, you could’ve called,” she said, gently stroking him.
“Sorry. My cell battery was low,” he said.
“Your cock isn’t.” She smiled, kissing his ear, neck, and lips, stroking him harder under the sheets.
“Again?” he said.
“What? Too old?” she mocked, slowing down her stroking.
“I never said that,” he said, moving atop her.
“Get up, old man,” Kay said, poking him with something hard and metal.
“What the hell are you poking me with?” he said, his head under a pillow.
“Hey! I never complain when you’re poking me,” she joked. “It’s my baton.”
Pilate heard a loud, sharp snick and rolled over.
Kay was in full uniform: a white polo shirt with a sewn-on badge, shorts, and her belt with gun, cuffs, radio, and a collapsible nightstick. Her hair was tied back. “I gotta get to work,” she said. “You too. Go write something.”
“Okay, okay. You got me, Officer,” he said, but he didn’t move a muscle.
“John, get up.”
“What, no coffee?”
Pilate showered quickly, dressed, and followed Kay out the door.
She kissed him abruptly and waved. “See you soon,” she said. “Oh, and I’m still checking on that autopsy report. My buddy in CID is making some inquiries.”
“Thanks, Kay,” Pilate said, patting his pockets for a cigarette.
Kay hopped in her car and drove away.
“Huh? I guess her bike’s at the police station,” Simon said.
Pilate found his smokes, jabbed one in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. “Now for coffee.”
“And forgiveness?” Simon echoed. “You have even more to forgive yourself for, old chap.”
“Shut up.”
“Entitlement. That’s what this is about,” Simon said.
Pilate swatted the thought away in a haze of cigarette smoke, then legged it to the nearest café.
After filling up on coffee, Pilate summoned a cab. “Blue Marlin,” he instructed the driver.
The cab dropped him at the Old Town Key West motel. The Blue Marlin reminded Pilate of a place out of a 1960s detective movie. He looked at his watch: It was nine a.m.
He leaned against a telephone pole on Simonton Street, drinking his coffee and smoking.
“What are we doing here, John?” Simon asked.
“Just making sure she leaves,” he said.
He didn’t have to wait long before Samantha waddled out of a first-floor room, checked out at the front desk, and dropped her overnight bag in the passenger seat. She lowered herself into the driver seat, and Pilate thought the effort looked painful.
He walked to the car and rapped his knuckle on the window.
Startled, Samantha rolled down the window. “What do you want?”
“You flying out of Key West airport?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Well, have a safe flight,” he said.
“That’s all you’ve got to say to me?” she said, her hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Hell no. I have an awful lot of things I’d like to say to you—”
“And a lot of awful things,” they said in unison.
“That one never gets old,” he said.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Samantha said. “John, let’s see if we can come to some sort of accommodation on this.”
“An accommodation? Yeah.” He looked at the Blue Marlin swimming pool. “Remember that night in the pool?”
Samantha looked at her belly, then straight ahead through the windshield. “It was something.”
“Yeah. That it was,” he said. “Have a safe flight.”
“What about the baby?”
“Him or her too,” he said.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“Up to you,” he said. “If you want to wreck your marriage to Dave, go ahead and tell him you think it’s mine.”
“Look, let’s just get a paternity test,” she said. “That will settle it.”
“I’ll think on it,” he said.
She started the engine. “I’m going to miss my flight,” she said.
“Please don’t,” Pilate said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You look like shit,” Taters said from the cluttered galley of the TenFortyEZ.
“I actually feel better than I look, “ Pilate said.
“Good to know,” Taters said. “We’ll be getting underway soon.”
Pilate nodded. “Good.”
“So we’re heading out to the Marquesas—doing a little fishing?”
“Yup,” Pilate said.
“Okay. I have the tackle and gear all set.” Taters looked him over. “You gonna wear that?”
“What?” Pilate said, looking at himself.
“Well, you’re just wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a linen shirt,” he said. I’d advise you get a hat and t-shirt, your swimsuit—that sorta thing.”
“Okay,” Pilate said. “I’ll be back. There’s a souvenir shop over there. Need anything?”
“Well, it’s customary to bring beer,” Taters said, checking the pantry for food.
Properly outfitted with a straw hat, swimsuit, and t-shirt that read I Do What the Voices in My Wife’s Head Tell Me to Do. Key West, Pilate boarded the boat and helped Taters cast off into the harbor.
> “We’ll be headed between Wisteria and Sunset Key,” Taters said.
A few miles out, Pilate noticed a large ferry moved in a northerly direction. “What’s that?”
“Ferry to Fort Myers,” Taters said, “the one you declined to take in favor of hiring me the other day.”
“Well, the TenForty looked like a more comfortable ride,” Pilate said.
“Yeah, and only one tourist onboard,” he said, laughing over the hum of the V8 engines.
Pilate stood beside Taters, delighting in the way the Chris-Craft bow split the azure sea, throwing spray and white foam in its wake. “God, do you ever get tired of this?” Pilate said.
“Only never,” Taters said. “Sure, there’re some drawbacks to anything. Gotta make a living, have to dodge the occasional hurricane, deal with pushy, dumbass tourists—present company excepted—and idiots like that one.” He pointed at a jet ski pounding up and down on the waves.
“What?”
“Well, he’s out too far. He’s leaving a nasty wake,” Taters sighed. “Just bad form. Anybody with a credit card can be called captain around here.”
“Well, you get that kind of thing anywhere you go,” Pilate volunteered.
Taters nodded, correcting the steering. “Right. Well, we’ll be in the Marquesas by midday,” he said. “It’s kinda tricky getting in there. It’s all shoal, but there’s a good opening at the southwest end. Gonna be a little hot out there.”
“That’s okay. I brought beer,” Pilate said.
“Modelo?”
Pilate smiled.
“How long you wanna be out? I mean, you rented the boat for ten hours,” Taters said.
“Sounds about right,” Pilate said. Pilate looked at the controls beside the wheel of the boat; there were some modern add-ons mixed in an oddly natural way. “What’s that?”
“Humminbird depth finder there,” Taters said, pointing. “GPS there, radio there.”
“So if you had coordinates, you could find them?”
“Well, that’s what coordinates are for,” Taters said.
“In that case, I have a spot I’d like to check out,” Pilate said. He removed his cell phone from his pocket, opened the contacts folder to Simon, and handed it to Taters.
Taters scrutinized it. “Well, it appears you’re fishing for something other than seafood after all,” he said, whistling through his teeth. He handed the phone back to Pilate, turned, and throttled the engines to idle.
“What’re you doing?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” he said, his face reddening. “Those coordinates are a fair piece north of the Marquesas. There’s nothing much up there except for sandbars and shoals that will rip my boat’s ass to pieces. Is this something to do with that business up in Naples? Tell me straight, or I’ll chuck your butt overboard.”
“Yes and no,” Pilate said. “Probably more no than yes, actually, but it is part of my research.”
“Well why couldn’t you be straight with me before we got fifteen miles outta the harbor?”
“Because I didn’t want to risk anyone finding out where we were headed,” Pilate said.
“You were afraid I’d say something to somebody? Even after our little adventure in Naples? That’s mighty damn nice, let me tell ya.”
“Sorry, man,” Pilate said. “Things have been pretty heavy lately, and I just wasn’t thinking straight.”
“How about now? You got your head on straight?”
“Yes,” Pilate said, looking Taters Malley in the eye. “I know what I’m doing.”
“What are you after here?” Taters said. “Better spill it, because this boat isn’t gonna move another inch toward the Marquesas till you do.”
“If I tell you, do you promise to keep going?”
“No.”
“Well shit, Taters—and really, do I have to keep calling a grown man that, by the way?” Pilate said, opening the ice chest and fetching two Modelos.
“Up yours,” Taters said, taking the beer from Pilate. “What is it you got such a hot nut for? Talk.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. I was just minding my own business the other night over at the Hog’s Snout Saloon, and…” Pilate related the story of the man, the poker chip, and the real reason he was wearing clothes he had slept in when he showed up to the boat that morning and had to put together a souvenir shop ensemble.
“You’re banging a cop?” Taters said, whistling. “Man, I don’t know one man in twenty who hasn’t had that fantasy—a woman with handcuffs.”
“Kind of a cliché, don’t you think?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who banged the lady with the handcuffs,” Taters said, holding his beer out for Pilate to clink with his own bottle.
Pilate obliged, assuming a little manly bonding might prove helpful at the moment. He didn’t need Simon to tell him that. “She’s great,” Pilate said.
“And you were making up the part about your pregnant ex-wife being here then?”
“Oh hell no,” Pilate said, drinking deeply. “That’s happening too. In fact, I just saw her broad ass off to the airport this morning.”
“Jeeeee-suuuuussss! You are having quite a time, Mr. Pilate,” Taters said. “This doesn’t even include all the crap with the dead guy in Naples, does it?”
Pilate shook his head and fished in the plastic bag from the souvenir shop for some sunscreen.
“All right, listen,” Taters said, throttling the engines halfway, “I’ll follow this course, but from what you say, I think it might be a good idea for us to pull a zigzag.”
“What?” Pilate asked, rubbing the coconut-scented lotion on his face.
“Like the ships did in World War II—take a zigzag course to confuse submarines trying to follow and sink ‘em. Saw it in a John Wayne movie once. A great flick, by the way—In Harm’s Way I think.
“You think we’re being followed?”
“Well, considering your main reason for your sleepover with Officer Hot Pants was to avoid getting rolled by whoever wants those coordinates, I’d say the chances are pretty good, wouldn’t you?”
Pilate looked around. There were numerous pleasure crafts on the horizon, most of them closer to Key West than the Marquesas, though a few fishing boats were clearly headed that direction. “If we get into trouble we have the radio, right?” Pilate asked.
“Yep. We can just ring up the good ol’ Coast Guard,” he said, taking the phone from Pilate to write down the coordinates on the back of a map.
“Good, because my cell phone’s about to die,” Pilate said.
“You see any cell towers out here?” Taters said, guffawing.
“Good point.”
“Here,” Taters said. “Take the wheel a minute. Steady as she goes, no sudden movements.”
“Gotta take a leak?”
“Nope,” he said, disappearing into the cabin. A few moments later, he came back on deck, brandishing a .45 automatic. “You know how to use one of these?”
“Sadly, yes,” Pilate said, his mind casting back to the bullets he’d lodged in the former mayor of Cross Township.
“Well, I have a full clip and a few extra rounds down below, just in case anybody gets frisky.” Taters placed the pistol in a small cubby beside the boat controls and covered it with a beach towel.
Taters grabbed another beer. “Keep heading the way you’re going. I’ll take over when it’s time to start giving ‘em the slip.”
“Okay,” Pilate said, exhilarated by the vibration under his feet and the wind and spray blasting past.
“You think it’s treasure? Some kinda Mel Fisher thing?”
“Taters, I don’t know,” Pilate said over his shoulder.
“Probably something pretty valuable I bet.”
“Well, whatever it is, somebody thought it was worth slitting a man’s throat,” Pilate said, gulping down the rest of his beer.
Taters turned on the CD player, blaring a mix of Bob Marley, Johnny Cash, Jimmy Buffett,
and the Beatles.
“Can I talk to you?” Kate said, darkening Trevathan’s Cross College office doorway.
Trevathan put down the newspaper he was skimming and smiled. “Sure, Kate,” he said. “Want some coffee?” He stood with his mug in hand, turning to the coffee pot behind his desk.
She shook her head, and her dark blonde hair fell in her eyes. She brushed her bangs away and cast her gaze on Trevathan’s good eye. “I’m worried.”
Trevathan poured the remains of the morning pot in his cup. “I should switch to tea at my age,” he said. “Coffee makes my hands shake.” He sat heavily in his chair, holding the mug in both hands. He blew air out of his mouth in the general direction of his desk, as if he were blowing out a birthday cake. He avoided Kate’s look.
“You heard what I said.”
“Yes, Kate, I did. What’re you worried about?”
“You know,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s so…so distant.”
“Well, that’s because he’s more than 1,000 miles away,” he said, instantly regretting his smart-ass answer. “Sorry.”
“He barely talks to me,” she said, leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees. “When I call, he doesn’t call back. He’s consumed by something, especially since the news about Jack.”
Trevathan’s good eye looked up, but the glass one lagged behind, still pointed at his mug. “Well, it’s given us all pause. I mean, all that crap you guys uncovered, then John nearly gets his head shot off—”
“This is different. He was fine a couple of weeks after he recovered from his wounds. Then the book deal came through, and I thought it was a good thing for him to get out of this ice and snow,” she said, glancing at the sparse patches of melting snow on the quad outside Trevathan’s window. “It was good of you to offer your vacation home.”
Trevathan sniggered. “It’s really more like a shack, but thanks.”
“Well, he needed to get his head together, and the book was a good excuse for him to take a break and get some space,” Kate said, “but ever since he got the news about Jack, he’s been…just distracted somehow.”
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