He kissed her. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”
Pilate drifted away for a moment, entranced by the carousel and the memory of last night. He was startled by a female voice behind him.
“Mr. Pilate?”
“Yes?”
She was tall, about twenty-five, wearing a stylish black suit and white blouse with her brunette hair cut in a pixie style. She extended her hand.
“Monique Fraley,” she said, shaking his hand. “Sorry I’m a little late. Couldn’t get a cab.”
“No problem,” he said. “Nice to meet you. John Pilate.”
“I know,” she said, smiling. “I have your book.” She patted a pricey-looking leather messenger bag that hung over her shoulder. “Is your luggage here?”
“Huh?” Pilate said. He had stopped looking. He turned back. “Don’t see it yet.”
“What does it look like?”
“Black bag with a red, white and blue ribbon on the handle.”
“Clever,” she said, peering at the carousel. “Especially if you have a black bag like half a million other people.”
“My wife is smart that way.” He looked; at least eighty percent of the luggage on the carousel was black. “Yes, well, I’m looking for the ribbon now…”
“There!” she pointed at the bag as it rode the belt toward them.
“Good eye,” he said, grabbing the bag. “Okay, where now?”
“I’m to take you to your hotel and get you checked in. We have you at the New York Towers. It’s not fancy but it’s close to Times Square and a couple of the various TV interviews we have set. After you get checked in and get a chance to freshen up, I’m to take you to lunch. Your agent will be there and so will Mr. Frechette from the publisher.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Here, let me take your bag,” she reached for his carry-on.
“No, thanks, I’m good. You have your own bag to carry.”
“Thanks,” she smiled and gestured. “This way.”
She didn’t sound like she was from New York; at least, to Pilate’s Midwest-tuned ear, her accent didn’t match the voices of New York City presented on TV.
As they sped toward the hotel in a yellow cab, Monique asked “This your first time in New York?” She slipped on some heavy-framed black glasses and looked at her Blackberry.
“How did you guess?”
“Oh, just the way you’re craning your neck and looking at everything,” she said.
“Yes, I’m what you’d call Midwestern. A denizen of flyover country.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” she said. She leaned closer to him for a second. “Don’t tell anybody, but I’m from Ohio.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yellow Springs.”
“Do I want to know why the springs are yellow?” he said.
She laughed. “Ha. I’ve never heard that one before.” She looked back at her Blackberry. “Oh, good. The Today Show will send a car for you in the morning. It will be there at six forty-five.”
“Ugh,” he said.
“Early, huh? That’s five forty-five your time,” she said. “I’ll be at the hotel at six-thirty to make sure you’re up and ready.”
“Great. I’ll ask for a wakeup call or ten just to be sure.”
“Good,” she said. “Do you know what to wear?”
“Clothes?” he stammered. “I really hadn’t thought about it.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks,” she said. “I’ll take a look at what you have when we get to the hotel, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” he said. “I brought my plaid sports jacket and striped tie.”
“And that’s why I better take a look,” she said.
“I was kidding,” he said, looking out the window as they came out of the Queens Midtown Tunnel entering Manhattan.
“I know, but some things look better than others on TV,” she said. “You don’t want to wear a white jacket - it will look washed out. You also want to stay away from herringbone or small checks. They can look weird and make viewers feel woozy. They’ll spend more time thinking about what you’re wearing than thinking about what you’re saying.”
“I see,” he said. “Well, I have a grey jacket and a light blue shirt. I don’t plan on wearing a tie.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll check it out at the hotel.”
Pilate noticed she had a nice scent, probably something expensive. She was also attractive in a sophisticated way.
“She’s got that sexy librarian thing going on,” Simon said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pilate barely had a moment to think about the fact that an attractive young woman was looking at clothes laid out on his hotel bed before she put the blue shirt, grey jacket and navy trousers together. “The black jacket you’re wearing now is a little less nice. Wear the grey and you’ll look smashing,” she said.
“Smashing,” he repeated. His British ex-wife Samantha had said that word a fair amount. She also said Pilate looked “quite smart” when he wore a jacket or suit. But usually she just said he was a “git.”
“Okay, do you want to freshen up before lunch?” she said. “Take a shower?”
“With you?” Simon said.
“Do I need one?” he asked, unsteady.
“Well, not that I can tell,” she wrinkled her nose and smiled. “I just meant I can wait for you, in the lobby, while you freshen up.”
“How about you give me fifteen minutes,” he said. “I should call my wife.”
“How is she? I hear she’s preggo.”
“Yep, she’s certainly…preggo.”
Monique picked up her bag and walked to the door. “Lobby in fifteen, Mr. Pilate.”
“John,” he said.
She smiled. “John it is. See you downstairs.” The door closed behind her.
“She has a nice little ass, too,” Simon said.
Pilate dialed Kate on his cell. Her voice mail picked up.
“Hi babe,” he said. “I made it. I’m at the hotel. Going to meet Angie and some of the publisher’s people for lunch,” he looked around the room. “Nice room. It’s so big here. New York, I mean. Lots of people and stuff. Well, okay. Talk to you later. Call me if you want, or I’ll call you back. I’m on the Today Show at six forty-five. I mean, I have to be ready by six forty-five AM. My interview segment is later. Okay, bye.”
“Must you ramble on voice mail messages?” Simon asked.
Pilate used the bathroom and turned on the tap, running it as hot as possible. He soaked a washcloth and pressed it to his face, inhaling the steam.
The elevator doors dilated, revealing Monique standing with her Blackberry to her ear. She held a manicured index finger in the air in a “stop” gesture to Pilate. “Okay, got it.”
“Hi. Are we…”
“Sorry, the big lunch is canceled,” she said. “We bagged an interview with the Post,” her eyes danced with excitement.
“The New York Post?”
She nodded excitedly, like a kid at Christmas.
“Wow.”
“They’re not the first paper we imagined you’d get, but hey, they’re huge. They want to do an interview today so I told them we could meet the reporter anywhere. He suggested here in the lobby; he’ll be here in half an hour.” She grabbed his wrist. “Come on. You need to eat something first.”
He let her drag him through the lobby to the hotel restaurant, where Monique requested a semi-private nook. She needn’t have bothered, as the restaurant was virtually empty.
Once seated, he ordered a club sandwich, Monique an endive salad. She opened her bag and removed a copy of the book.
“I hate that title,” he said.
“Do not say that to the reporter,” she said, looking mildly alarmed.
“I won’t,” he said.
“Do you need talking points?”
“What?”
“Talking points. Do you need some things to say?”
“About my own book?”
“I’ll give the reporter a fact sheet,” she said. “You’d be surprised how many details they can get wrong.”
“No, no I wouldn’t,” he said. “A couple of publications had whole chunks of the story wrong after it broke.”
Monique nodded. “Well, it’s part of the game. Have I told you how cool it is to meet an actual hero?”
“Oh my god,” he said. “I’m not a hero, Monique.”
She tugged absently at her small diamond stud earring. “Yes you are, it says so right here.” She pointed at the back cover of the book jacket. Below his photo was a headline that read “The Hero of The Cross College Conspiracy Tells All!”
“That is such crap,” he said, irritated. “Sorry, I’m just not accustomed to that sort of thing. Following your self-preservation instinct doesn’t make you a hero. It just means you’re alive.” Pilate flagged down a waiter. “Can I get an iced tea?”
Monique looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Sorry.”
“No, Monique, I didn’t mean anything. Ignore me. I’m tired, I guess.”
She brightened. “No problem. I think you need to eat something and relax,” she said.
“A drink would be great,” he said.
She shrugged. “That’s your prerogative, though I’d ask that you abstain until after the Post interview. They’ll write that you’re ‘sipping cocktails in the hotel bar’ at noon. Not the image you want, right?”
“True, though it’s already one o’clock.” Pilate said. “But as soon as he leaves I’m getting a martini. You can join me if you want.”
“Like the one you did for that foodie blog?”
Pilate looked up, trying to recall what she was referring to. “Oh, right, the ‘Mystery Martini.’ That blog. They hate being called foodies, as I recall. It was a hoot. Let’s get one.”
“Well, actually,” she looked at her Blackberry, “I’ll be joining you for drinks and dinner with Angie and Mr. Frechette tomorrow night at eight.”
“Where?”
“Ever heard of Sardi’s?”
“No way!” Pilate said. “I mean come on, Sardi’s? With the caricatures?”
She nodded. “It’s famous, but maybe not as cool as it used to be. Mr. Frechette loves it.”
“He sounds interesting,” Pilate said.
“You have no idea,” Monique said, doing her best Jeremy Irons imitation. “He’s not an actor, but he produced a Broadway play about twenty years ago. It closed in two weeks. He’s also very dramatic, so leave it to him to pick a restaurant in the Theater District.”
Gerald Lamb looked the part of a newspaper reporter for a major metro daily. Middle-aged, overweight, with a sallow complexion, he wore baggy pants, a plaid shirt and a knit tie hanging carelessly around his neck. He had dark circles under his eyes and yellow teeth.
After the perfunctory greetings, he mentioned that he had seen the 60 Minutes piece. Pilate made a joke about hoping it would be Andy Rooney interviewing him.
Monique looked at her Blackberry, though Pilate didn’t doubt for a second she was listening to every word.
After a few softball questions, Pilate relaxed. This didn’t look like it was going anywhere interesting.
Lamb scribbled Pilate’s answers, looked away a moment, then back at his notebook. Without looking up, he asked, “So where do you think Jack Lindstrom is?”
“I beg your pardon,” Pilate said, nearly spitting out a sip of iced tea.
“Lindstrom,” Lamb still looked at his notebook.
“Do you have the cast of characters mixed up?” Pilate said, setting his water glass down, shooting a quick glance at Monique. Her gaze remained on her Blackberry. “Jack Lindstrom is dead. Killed himself.”
Lamb’s eyes remained on his notes. “You were in Florida when he killed himself, right? That’s what they said on 60 Minutes. You were both in Florida.”
“Yes,” Pilate said. “But they didn’t specifically say that on 60 Minutes. Either way, Lindstrom skipped bail and ended up at his summer place in Naples. I was in Key West.”
“Not too far away,” Lamb said, looking up at Pilate.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Pilate started.
“Just wondering if there’s something more than a coincidence at work here,” he said. “You might say my Spidey sense is tingling.”
“I couldn’t care less about whatever’s tingling on you, buddy,” Pilate said.
“Now let’s calm down,” Monique said, but both men ignored her.
“Mr. Pilate, I’m just asking questions. You were perfectly happy to answer the ones about your heroism. Now I’m asking you something that apparently bugs you. I wonder why.”
“Because you’re impugning my character,” Pilate said.
“I’m doing my job,” Lamb said, shrugging. “Look, just tell me what happened in Florida and I’ll be on my way.”
“Fucking New York Post. Brought to you by the same folks who bring you Fox News….” Simon rattled in Pilate’s brain.
“I was in Key West writing the book. I got a call—”
‘Why Key West? Had you been there before?”
“Yes, once. But I went there because my friend…”
“Trevathan. Your boss has a home there,” Lamb said. “He was also interviewed on 60 Minutes.”
“Yes. He was kind enough to let me crash there to get away from…” Pilate stopped himself.
Lamb raised his eyebrows. “Get away from what?”
“Reporters. No offense, Mr. Lamb, but you people can be a real pain in the ass.” Pilate leaned forward, smiling.
“No argument there,” Lamb shrugged again. “People digging for the truth can be a real inconvenience to people who have something to hide.”
“Nice,” Pilate said. “Look, let’s get to the point, shall we? I was in Florida. Writing. Getting some sun.”
“Getting anything else?” Lamb said.
Monique touched Pilate’s leg under the table. “Mr. Lamb, where are you going with this?”
“Just wondering if our hero was getting anything besides sun.”
“Drunk. I was getting drunk. How’s that?”
“You were also getting into trouble. Didn’t you witness a murder down there?”
“Yes, yes I did.”
“So, you’re in Cross Township and several people you know die, one by your own hand. You go to Florida and a man known to be your enemy dies under bizarre circumstances with you just a few miles away…”
“Hundreds. At least two hundred miles away.” Pilate felt nauseated, like he had been kicked in the balls.
“Then another man dies in a restaurant, a man you were seen talking to moments before his throat was cut…”
Monique jumped a little in her seat, surprised. She looked at Pilate, his face crimson.
“Easy, John. He’s trying to bait you,” Simon said.
“Go on,” Pilate said.
“Well, there it gets a little murky. The cops won’t say much more about it, but a friend of mine down there says you nearly got hauled in for public drunkenness, and that a fishing charter you were on had to be towed in after being in some kind of mess that resulted in several bullet holes in the deck. Coast Guard won’t say shit on the record, but a source with the Coasties tells me you were up to your ass in trouble down there. How come there’s nothing about that in your book?”
“None of that is true,” Pilate said.
“You want to go on record with that?” Lamb said.
“This Lamb guy intends to take you to the slaughter,” Simon said.
“There’s nothing to go on record about. And we’re not in court. You talked to the authorities. They told you what happened. I have nothing to add, except that I did write about Lindstrom’s death in the book.”
“A cursory epilogue about him shooting himself? Please.” Lamb said, flipping to the back of the advance press copy he had in his bag. “‘I think, in the final analysis, t
hat nobody truly knew Jack Lindstrom - least of all Jack Lindstrom himself.’ Come on, man.”
“What more do you want me to say? The man was a con artist responsible for the deaths of several people. He faced life in prison and took a way out. I hardly knew him.”
“He nearly killed you. As well as Trevathan and the woman you later married, Kate Nathaniel.”
“True.”
“Maybe you heard he was out and in Florida and you tracked him down for a little payback?”
Pilate laughed, partially from nerves. “Oh for the love of - Mr. Lamb, do you think I somehow heard he was alive, tracked him down in Naples and killed him, then made it look like a suicide?”
Lamb shrugged yet again, his tired eyes boring into Pilate’s.
“Ridiculous.”
“That’s right, it is,” Monique added, weakly.
“Said the flack,” Lamb said.
“Go fuck yourself, Mr. Lamb,” she said, standing. “This interview is over. Come on, Mr. Pilate.”
“That’s hot,” Simon said.
Pilate rose to his feet, throwing the cloth napkin on the table in a gesture of masculinity that was spoiled when it knocked over his glass of iced tea. “Shit.”
“Look, there’s nothing to be gained by you walking out,” Lamb said, still seated. “Answer a couple more questions and I’ll go. I just want your side of the story.”
“Oh, I get it. Fair and balanced, huh? When will you people get it that your job isn’t to tell two sides of every story as if each side is right? Your job is to report the fucking news.”
“Then tell me the news from your perspective,” he said, impassive.
“Perspective? There is no perspective, there’s the truth. Who besides you are asserting that I did anything criminal?”
“I can’t say just yet, other than that we have a credible source who says you may not be telling the entire truth,” Lamb said.
“Well, when you tell me who this asshole is, I’ll be happy to entertain your questions,” Pilate said.
“Let’s go,” Monique said, grasping Pilate’s arm.
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