“Fine,” Lamb said, closing his notebook. “It’s going to be a real shame for your pregnant wife when I print the story of the lady cop you banged in Key West.”
Pilate launched himself across the table at Lamb, who moved quickly for a fat guy. He dodged Pilate, who hit the floor along with the plates, forks, spoons and glasses. Lamb grabbed his bag, shoved his notebook in it and bolted.
Monique helped Pilate to his feet. A waiter appeared.
“What happened?”
Monique, looking around and answered, “He tripped. He’s okay. Aren’t you, John?”
Pilate smoothed out his jacket and nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’ll pay for the stuff that broke,” she said, opening her purse.
“I’m in room 1013,” Pilate said.
“Very good sir,” the waiter said. “Sir, were you on 60 Minutes?” he said. His accent was African; Pilate surmised Ethiopian.
“Um, no, that was my brother,” Pilate said.
Monique snickered, covering her mouth with her hand.
Monique parked Pilate in the hotel bar. He ordered a Mystery Martini (two parts vodka, half part Lillet and a twist of lemon) while Monique called her boss. Pilate sipped his drink, watching the pixie-haired woman gesturing as she paced back in forth out in the lobby.
“You handled that well,” Simon said.
Shut it.
Pilate downed the martini in three gulps. The freaking New York Post was after him for something he didn’t do. They wanted to paint him as some weirdo bent on revenge. And a philanderer to boot. Well, that part at least he had done, though…
“Need I remind you that you and Kate were not married—” Simon started.
Doesn’t matter. Perception is everything. The hero of Cross College is a guy who has dirty hands and did some naughty things.
“How dare you be human! My goodness, John. You create the most impossible standards.”
No, I don’t. Other people do.
“And you allow yourself to be judged by people who sit in their own glass houses? It’s nobody’s business.”
But it will be.
“Well, the good news is that this story will probably boost sales,” Monique said, without a trace of humor.
“That what Frechette said?”
“That’s what he said,” she slid onto the barstool beside him. “You okay?”
He signaled for another martini.
“And there’s my answer,” she said, ordering a diet Sprite.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Pilate said. “So don’t worry. Not your typical drunken writer. Just a guy in a tight spot.”
“Not my place to judge if you are,” Monique said. “My daddy was a drinker. Not a very good one.” Her voice was low and hesitant. “I don’t see that in you.”
“Keep watching.”
“Any of that stuff Lamb said true?” she sipped her soda.
“Parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
“Well, let’s just say I didn’t kill anybody in Naples.”
“I see,” she said, looking at their reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
“See, that’s supposed to make having a fling with a young lady cop sound innocent by comparison.”
“It should,” she said.
“But it doesn’t, huh?”
“Kind of a dick move, yeah,” she said.
“Young lady, you had to be there,” he said. “Okay, enough of this. It would seem we have some damage control to do here.”
“Well, yes, unless the reporter was bluffing, which I think he was,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think he tried some things out on you. Yeah, your response gave him some ammo, but I suspect he’ll sit on it until he gets more confirmation. If he had hard proof, he wouldn’t have asked you about it, he would just have run the story. I doubt it will come up tomorrow on the Today Show, but be prepared.”
“I’ll just tell the truth,” he said.
“Okay, but don’t take a swing at the host, okay? He’s pretty fit.”
“True.”
“Maybe the weather guy. Take a swing at the weather guy.”
“Well, Taters, what do you expect me to say?” Pilate said, sitting in his room. Monique left for the office with Pilate’s promise to return to his room and stop drinking until dinner.
“John, somebody down here dropped a dime on you,” Taters shouted over the roar of his charter boat’s motor. “You know it wasn’t me, so who else could it be? That pretty little cop?”
“Kay? Nah. Why would she? We parted on good terms,” Pilate’s mind drifted to her nude body amidst the sheets of her bed for a moment. “No, not Kay. But one of her fellow cops might have.”
“That sergeant. What do you wanna bet it was her boss? That guy did not like you.”
“Could be,” Pilate said. “Though I don’t know why he’d want to bring up anything that would embarrass the department.”
“True,” Taters barked. “Well, what about asking Buster?”
Buster was a private investigator friend of Trevathan’s who had helped get them out of their troubles in Key West.
“Good idea,” Pilate said. “I’ll ask him. How’s it going down there?”
“Just another day in paradise,” Taters said. “When you get tired of being a media sensation you need to get back down here and relax.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there for a quick visit soon. Can’t linger, though. I got a kid on the way,” Pilate said.
“Oh yeah. When is she due?”
“He’s due in November.”
“A boy?” Taters asked. “You gonna have a son?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“Congrats, man. Boys are great. Hell, I’m a boy, and I’m great.”
“No doubt. Look, T, I gotta run, but I’ll be in touch,” Pilate said.
“Okay, just remember Jordan and I are looking forward to seeing you,” he said.
“Well, turn on the Today Show tomorrow morning.”
“Honey, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Kate. How are you?”
“Good. My ankles are swollen, but Kara and I are managing. We miss you.”
“You too.”
“How was the flight?”
“Uneventful, but after I got off the plane things started to get a little crazy.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Well, the New York Post sent a reporter over,” he said, picking at a thread on the arm of his chair.
“Wow!”
“Yeah, wow,” he said. “Look, I’m just going to lay this out for you, Kate. He started making some wild accusations. He claimed that he has dirt on me and that I had something to do with Jack’s death.”
“That’s…Jack? That’s ridiculous,” she gasped.
“I know,” he said. “But he thinks that trouble following me around isn’t a coincidence. He claims he has a source in Key West who said I was involved in criminal activity down here, among other things.”
“Criminal activity? Like what?”
“That murder at the Hog’s Snout? He thinks I was tied up in that somehow.”
“Who would tell him that?”
“No idea. I have a call in to Buster to see if he can find out.”
“Well, John, it’s just dumb,” she said. “Let him write that story and we’ll sue his ass.”
Pilate loved Kate with all his being at that moment, and he wasn’t going to spoil it. He would just take the chance that the Post reporter was bluffing.
“Just go get some rest and do a good job on TV tomorrow.”
“Screw TV. I’m coming home tonight.”
“No. Absolutely not. You go on TV. Answer the questions. If they ask about this crap, you tell them to go to hell.”
“Kate, I love you,” he said.
“I know that, John,” she said. “And I love you. Now go have a good night in the big city.”
Pilate removed some hotel stationery from the small d
esk drawer in his room. He propped up the ultrasound photo of his son, found his best pen buried in the bottom of his carry-on bag and started writing.
Dear Son,
It’s 12:43 p.m. Eastern time and you’re not here yet. You’ll be along in a few more months, and that gives me precious little time to get myself together and figure out this “dad” thing.
So, as you no doubt know by now (or maybe not - only time will tell) your father accidentally wound up being a writer.
Anyway, I’m writing this in a hotel in New York City, a place I want to take you someday. I’m here to go on television to talk about my first book, which is the story of how your mother and I helped fix a big problem. More about that later.
By the time you read this, I will hopefully be alive, healthy and still in love with your mother. I think I will be. If you get this after I have passed away…well, maybe it will be a nice keepsake. Either way, it will give you a peek inside your dear old Dad’s psyche or whatever in the years before you reached adulthood, basically the time from when I went from being your father to being your friend.
Okay, so we’ve established that I’m writing you, that it’s a few months before your birth, anxiously awaiting that magic moment when I see your face.
Your face…okay, at this moment, I really hope you look like your mother. Kate (that’s Mom to you) is a beautiful, elegant woman whose only failing is settling for me as her husband. I hope you look like her, as much as a boy should look like his mother.
I have been thinking about you for a long, long time. Since I was a little boy in fact - though you would think I was more of a thinker than a “doer” because it took me nearly 40 years to help bring you into the world. You see, I was kind of an adventurer in my own way. Not like a super spy or globetrotting archaeologist, but I have had a lot of experiences in my life, some good, many not so good, and I wanted very much to absorb as much as I could before I had children. There was also the bit about finding the right partner, which took a while, too. We’ll get into all that later.
So, your mother tells me about four months ago that she thinks she’s pregnant, and I am flat-out dubious.
“You are not,” I thought. “No way.” But I told your mother how happy I was.
Don’t get me wrong - it wasn’t that I did not want you, it was just that all my life I had learned hard lessons about getting my hopes up.
I would believe it when I saw the ultrasound.
I’ll never forget that day. We had to go through a round of “genetic counseling” for older parents, which scared the crap out of us as every possible genetic mishap imaginable was presented with the probability stats as to what our chances were of having a baby with problems.
The ultrasound would clear up a few of the potential mysteries, not the least of which being, are you a boy or are you a girl?
Well, I should tell you that I had been lobbying God pretty hard for the weeks preceding the ultrasound for a health baby boy or girl. When the technician told us that you looked healthy and were definitely a male, I shed the first of what may be many tears on your behalf.
Guess what, though? I think I’m still a little in denial. I need you to get here. I need to hold your little self in my arms. I need to see your mother’s profile in your face.
Then it will be real. Then I will allow myself to feel the joy.
CHAPTER NINE
Being on the Today Show should have felt like a big deal, but Pilate couldn’t think of anything but Kate.
After a few moments in the makeup chair, where a man touched up his puffy eyes and the shotgun pellet scars on his cheek, the production assistant showed Pilate and Monique to the green room – which Pilate had heard, and was distantly amused to have validated, was not green at all - and told them to “sit tight.”
“You okay?” Monique said.
“Great,” he said.
“The Post didn’t print anything about you in print or on their website,” she said.
“Yet,” he snapped, scowling. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” she said. “Look at this spread—fruit, coffee, breakfast sandwiches…”
“Not hungry,” he said. “Well, maybe some coffee.”
A middle-aged man with a familiar face walked in with the production assistant. He had thinning hair and an eye that wandered, though not quite as dramatically as Trevathan’s glass eye.
The man sat down. A younger man followed behind, carrying a guitar case.
“Oh my.” Pilate said.
“What?” Monique said, handing Pilate a coffee and nibbling on a croissant.
“That’s…”
The production assistant came back in. “Mr. Hay?”
“Yeah?” he said, pleasant though a little foggy – it was clear this wasn’t his best time of day.
“Makeup is ready for you,” she said.
“All right then,” he said. “Could I get a coffee?” he said, his interesting accent, a mixture of Scot and Aussie, confirmed Pilate’s identification of the man. Colin Hay followed the assistant out to makeup.
“Absolutely,” the PA said. “I’ll bring it. How do you like it?”
“Hot,” he said.
She smiled. “This way, sir.”
Pilate looked at the guitar case, then the man who sat next to it. “Is that who I think it is?” Pilate asked.
“Jack Nicholson? Absolutely.”
“Mr. Pilate?” Another PA said, leaning in the doorway. “You’re on. Let’s get your lav on.”
Monique followed him out. “Who is he? That’s definitely not Jack Nicholson.”
“You kidding? You don’t know him? ‘Who Could It Be Now?’“
“That’s what I asked,” she said quietly as they entered the studio.
“No,” he said, walking gingerly over cables on the studio floor. “‘Who Could It Be Now?’“
“Right, that’s what I asked,” she said.
“Forget it,” he said.
“I guess he’s before my time,” she said. “Give me your cell phone. You ready?”
“Not at all,” he handed her his phone.
“I’ll be over here,” she said.
“What, don’t you want to meet the host?”
“No, he’s not too crazy about PR people. I’ll stay out of the way. Good luck.” She produced her Blackberry and began furiously typing with her thumbs.
The PA led him to one of two earth tone-colored chairs in the “one on one” section of the studio. A sound engineer wearing a t-shirt, jeans and glasses helped him thread a lavaliere mic up his jacket and affixed it on his lapel. “Say your name three times.”
“Your name your name your name.”
“Ha, that one never gets old,” he said. “He’s good,” he said in his headset. “Okay, he’ll be over in a few and we’ll do your segment. There’s a bottle of water over there,” he said, pointing to the upstage side of Pilate’s chair.
“Great,” Pilate said.
A large camera turned to face him. Pilate looked and noticed a screen below the camera lens and the TelePrompTer alternated between a shot of another part of the set and one of himself on camera. It was disorienting.
After a commercial break started, the host walked over and shook Pilate’s hand. Pilate started to rise.
“Don’t get up, the mic has you tethered,” he warned.
“Oh, okay,” Pilate said. “Nice to meet…”
“Okay, we’re going to talk about your book,” he said, slipping reading glasses on and glancing at notes on a clipboard. “Wow, pretty crazy. I’ll introduce you and then we’ll go into a few questions, okay?”
“Great,” Pilate said, suddenly aware that despite the host’s crossed legs and comfortable posture, he was poised to ask serious questions.
“Sit up John,” Simon said. “Be prepared.”
Pilate perked up.
“So you had to go and do 60 Minutes before us?” His eyes smiled despite his accusatory tone.
“Well, they had b
etter snacks in the green room,” Pilate said, though that made no sense, as 60 Minutes interviewed him in Cross, not a studio.
“Very good,” he said, a smirk crossed his lips for a microsecond. “Okay, here we go,” he said, taking off his glasses and looking into the camera.
“Imagine you take a new job in a small town and before you know it, people are trying to kill you,” he said. “That’s exactly what happened to John Pilate, and he tells all about the conspiracy that nearly got him shot dead. It’s a story that ultimately ended with him killing the man behind a 45-year-old conspiracy and meeting the love of his life. He tells us all about it in his new book, Murder 101: The Cross College Conspiracy. John Pilate, welcome to Today.” The book’s bloody cover materialized on the monitor affixed to the camera, then switched to a shot of Pilate.
“Thank you,” Pilate said. His throat felt very dry.
“So you take a teaching job in this minuscule - with all due respect - town, Cross Township, Nebraska last year, and some weird stuff starts happening? You found out about a conspiracy?”
“Yes, I was more or less minding my own business and stumbled into a web of conspiracy, if you’ll pardon that hackneyed phrase. It had been going on in Cross Township and Cross College for more than 45 years,” Pilate said.
“You found out that the town’s mayor, sheriff, and even the president of the college were involved in a murder conspiracy that centered on money and control of the town?”
“Basically,” Pilate said. “In 1963, the town fathers were involved in an auto theft ring, among other things. They murdered a young man and entombed his body in a stolen car at the bottom of the Missouri River. A professor at the school was involved in it tangentially. He assassinated the college president and then killed himself. I found out that the descendants of many of the people behind this were hiding it and were still up to their ears in criminal activity to this day.”
“You found the key to all this in a mortuary, right?”
“Well, sort of - but you’ll have to read the book,” Pilate said.
“Yes, you’ll need a scorecard to keep up with all this. So you find evidence of this conspiracy and are going to go to the authorities?”
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