“Sounds good,” Taters said. “Sorry you have to go so soon, you’re gonna miss Womenfest.”
“I don’t think the ladies attending Womenfest really care if I’m there or not.”
“No, but the view is good.”
“True.” Pilate looked at Taters.
“What?”
“One more thing. A guy is going to try to kill me.”
“Well, what would a trip to Key West be without a murder attempt,” Taters said, chuckling.
Pilate swallowed more beer. “I wish I were kidding,” he said, looking at Taters.
Taters’s face morphed from mirth to miserable.
“Oh good gawd man, are you shittin’ me? Who wants to kill you?”
Pilate told Taters about the phone calls, the attempted shooting, the last death threat and everything else.
“So do you think Kate gets that you had that sweet piece of ass in Key West?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I hope not. She’s just feeling very vulnerable, and I think the honeymoon’s over. She’s facing life with a messed-up dude.”
“Do you think…” Taters’s words trailed off. He looked back at the harbor.
“I think we can work it out.”
“Do you want to?”
“What do you mean?” Pilate said, finishing off his second Modelo.
“I mean,” he cleared his throat. “I mean that maybe you did some kind of sabotage. That maybe you wanted to kill things off with Kate. But the baby screwed that up. You’re a prick sometimes, but not somebody who would abandon a lady pregnant with your baby. You’re stuck now.”
“Did I mention I was going to see Dr. Sandburg in Key West? No need for you to armchair psych me,” Pilate said, irritated.
Taters held up a hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just asking.”
“I know, man.” Pilate sighed heavily. “Sorry. I don’t know. I’m so used to screwing things up I wouldn’t be surprised if subconsciously that fling was my way of trying to wreck everything.”
“Now you’re talking,” Simon said.
“Well, pal, first thing I gotta say is that you may make some mistakes, but you are also pretty damn good at getting out of tight spots. This is a tight spot.”
“True.”
“So get out of it.”
“I will. Easy peasy.”
“The thing we gotta worry about now is this death threat,” Taters said, walking back to the galley. He returned with his trusty .45 pistol.
“Indeed. But I wonder if that’s all it is - a threat. An empty one.”
“We’ll find out,” Taters said. “But if it’s not empty, the guy who tries to mess with you is going to be feeling pretty empty when I get finished with him.”
“Empty of blood? Like on my book cover,” Pilate smirked.
“Yeah, like that busted artery book cover.”
The book signing at the Naples, Florida Barnes & Noble was uneventful. Perhaps a dozen people showed up for a brief reading, and only half of them actually bought the book. Taters flipped through a biography of Cary Grant, keeping an eye out for any strange characters.
After an initial hour of smiles at strangers and answering the occasional (erroneous) stray question (“Weren’t you on Dateline? Yes! You’re the man who they say murdered his wife!”), the dozen wandered off and Pilate endured a general lack of interest.
His cell phone rang a few minutes before he was to pack up his stuff to go. Taters put the book down and raised his eyebrows at Pilate. He looked at the phone’s tiny screen. It was Monique.
Pilate waved Taters off with an “It’s fine” gesture and answered.
“John Pilate, the most ignored man in American publishing speaking.”
“Ha! You’re not either,” Monique said. “Why do you say that? I hear your book events and media appearances have done well. I heard Savannah was sold out.”
Pilate had to admit that Savannah, a fantastically interesting town in Georgia with its own unique set of mysteries, rolled out the red carpet for him. He sold sixty-four copies in two hours.
“True, but Naples, Florida is confusing me with the guy from Fatal Vision, and not in a way that generates sales.”
“Nobody show up?”
“Not many,” he said. “I think I sold six books.”
“Well, that’s the business,” she said. “But before you get all suicidal…” Pilate looked out into the street of the last town where Jack Lindstrom drew breath before ending his life, “…you should know that the Times bestseller list came out and you entered at number six.” She squealed with glee.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes!”
Pilate smiled broadly in spite of himself. “Wonderful.”
“Don’t you know what this means?”
“You get to keep your job? I get money on top of my advance now?”
“Yes and yes,” she said, sighing. “It means you have to amp up your appearances. I want to add some dates to your schedule.”
“Oh Monique, I don’t know. I’m already away from home more than I want to be.”
“I knew you were going to say that, but please let me just send you a list of dates and locations that we can get you set up in, okay? You can pick the ones you want to do. Sound good?”
“Um…”
“John, listen, you’re on a roll now. This is where you pour it on. Once the public gives you this kind of affirmation, you have to push it to the wall. The reading public is very fickle. You have to flog it until they’re sick of you.”
“She said flog it,” Simon snickered.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Email me the list. I’ll look it over, but no promises.”
“Great! Thanks! And congrats.”
“Monique?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll bet you regret not sleeping with me now.”
“Oh yes, old man, all I needed was for you to break into the bestseller list and I’d suddenly find you attractive.”
“Thanks. I needed that.”
“Just keeping you honest,” she said.
“Before you go, anything from that asshole at the Post?”
“Nothing. I think he’s dropped it,” she said.
“Well, that’s good.”
“But now that you hit the list, he may come back for more, so be prepared,” she said. “I have to go now.”
“Thanks Monique, take care.”
“Let me know about those dates soonest, please,” she said.
“You bet,” he said, ending the call.
Taters wandered over. “Good news?”
“Made the bestseller list,” Pilate said, shoving his unsold copies into a cardboard box.
Taters walked over to the microphone Pilate had used for his reading. He turned it on. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen, New York Times bestselling author John Pilate, hero of Cross College, will be here for another fifteen minutes if you want to purchase a copy of the hottest nonfiction crime book in the world!”
“Taters, stop that.”
“Shush, John. And get those books back out.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Late summer heat, an advanced-stage pregnancy, and a husband MIA on a book tour was not a fabulous lifestyle combination for Kate Pilate. Her ankles were swollen, her breasts hurt, and she felt as though she was constantly sweating. It didn’t do much for her mood. She snapped at Kara twice in one morning as she got ready for school. Kara cried once, but rebounded quickly, comforting her mother with gentle pats on her hand as Kate struggled into her shoes, finding her belly an obstacle to both vision and agility.
“It’s okay, baby,” Kate said, hugging her daughter. “Mommy’s just…”
“Preggo?”
“Where did you hear that?”
Kara laid a finger aside her lips a second. “Mr. Daddy Pilate.”
“Of course you did.”
“I miss him,” Kara said. “But he’ll be home soon, Momma.”
“Yes.”
“Momma, do you miss him too?”
“Help me with my shoe, would you Kara?”
“What the hell is this?” Taters said from the deck.
Pilate blinked and moved slowly from the tiny bunk below decks in the TenFortyEZ. “What?” his head was a little achy from the six or seven Modelos he had polished off last night on the way into Key West.
“There’s a bottle on the deck,” he said.
“Well, drink it, man. I told you I didn’t drink all your damn beer,” Pilate barked facetiously.
“Get up here. This ain’t no bottle of beer,” Taters said.
Pilate swung his legs over, jammed his feet into flip-flops and scampered upstairs.
Taters pointed at a green Pernod bottle with a cork stuffed in the top.
“Looks empty, except for a piece of paper. I haven’t touched it.”
“Message in a bottle?”
“Could be, John,” Taters said, hands on his hips. “What do you think?”
“I think we should read the message,” Pilate said, walking to the bottle.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mister,” Taters said, blocking Pilate with his arm. “That thing could be rigged.”
“Rigged?”
“Yeah, you know. To explode,” he said.
“Taters, don’t you think that if somebody wanted to blow us up they would have done it instead of putting a message in a bottle and carefully placing it on deck last night after we conked out?”
“Yes,” he said. “I just think we should be careful.”
“Noted. You have some gloves?”
“Gloves?”
“Well, if there are fingerprints on that bottle, I’m going to want to make sure I don’t ruin them.”
“Now who sounds foolish?” Taters said. “You think a criminal mastermind would leave prints?”
“Taters, I have a hangover, it’s already hot and…”
“All right, all right. Here,” he scooped up his gloves from below the steering console and handed them to Pilate.
Simon crooned a few words from the old eighties song about a message in a bottle.
Pilate slipped on the gloves, strode cautiously to the bottle and picked it up. Inside was a rolled-up sheet of paper. He shrugged and removed the cork. It came out with a pop!
Pilate shook the bottle upside down, trying to get the paper out. It came out on the fourth shake. It was a normal piece of typing paper, a small rubber band kept it as tight as a pencil. He removed the rubber band and unrolled the paper.
It was a photocopy of a picture of Pilate and Kate, riding around town in an open horse-drawn carriage on their wedding day. A word was printed in red block letters below the image:
Bang.
“Bang, huh? That’s it?” Taters said.
“It would appear so,” Pilate said.
“John, this is stupid,” he said.
“I agree. This isn’t even a threat. The whole point of something like this is to terrorize. It’s supposed to make me quake in fear because this guy can take a shot at me anytime he wants. So what? Like that’s a big deal? After everything I’ve been through, I’m not terrorized. Just annoyed.”
“Well, now wait a second, I think we should take it seriously, but…”
“Yes, of course,” Pilate said. “I think this guy, whoever he is, is a nut. And if he was going to try anything he would have done it by now.”
“He’s a coward - gettin’ his jollies,” Taters said. “But if I catch him near my boat I’ll kick his ass.”
“I’ll help,” Pilate said, rolling the note back up and stuffing it back in the bottle.
“You know he’s watching us right now, from somewhere nearby,” Taters said, his eyes on Pilate’s.
Pilate nodded. “I think you’re right.” Pilate tossed the bottle, note inside, overboard. Then he tossed the cork after it.
Taters snickered. “Heh.”
“Let’s see if that gets a rise out of our Mr. Mysterious.”
“I wish you hadn’t thrown the bottle away,” Buster said. The retired chief of Key West Police detectives said, drinking his coffee at Pepe’s. Taters had gone home to see his wife, Jordan.
“I know, but I figured the guy needed to see I just don’t give a shit.”
Buster shrugged. “I get it,” he said. “We should still tell the police.”
“I will,” Pilate said.
Buster chewed the corner off a piece of toast and chased it with the last of his orange juice. His bushy mustache trapped crumbs. “I haven’t got anywhere on who this mystery caller is, I’m afraid. I’ve brought it up to Thomas over at the PD. He said he’d keep an eye out.”
“Oh, the sergeant? My biggest fan?”
Buster nodded. “Yeah, and before you ask: Kay Righetti’s gone.”
Pilate felt an odd emptiness in his belly. “Gone?”
“Nothing sinister. Just moved on. She left two days ago,” he said. “I think the crap that went down last spring was enough for her. I hear she went back to New York.”
Pilate’s mind searched for the memory file that was Kay. He thought of her firm, athletic body, her kiss, and her azure eyes.
“And yet that’s all you think about—her body. Hmm. She’s also a kind and decent person you know,” Simon said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pilate said, burying his face in his coffee mug.
Buster made a neutral “whatever” face and ate some of his three fried eggs. Talking around his food, he said, “Anyway, I think she needed a change of scene. So that eliminates her as a suspect.”
“Ha.”
“How’s Trev?”
“Hmm? Trevathan? He’s good,” Pilate said.
“Holding up okay?” Buster’s eyes took on an unexpected earnestness.
“I…guess so. Yes. He’s grouchy as ever, but doing okay,” Pilate said.
“Well, good. Tell him I said hang in there next time you see him, would ya?”
“Of course,” Pilate said.
Buster pushed the plate back and reached for the bill, stuck in a mousetrap on the table.
“I got this,” Pilate said, snatching it from his grasp. “I still owe you for that new part in your hair.”
Buster smiled, touching the side of his head where a pistol-whipping from a Jamaican thug had laid open a flap of skin. “True. Nearly spoiled my mature, Wilford Brimley handsomeness.” The older man rose from his seat, his belly straining the buttons of his purple Hawaiian shirt. “Jerry said it makes me look even more butch, though.”
“Jerry?”
Buster shrugged. “My partner? Man friend?” he laughed. “You didn’t know?”
Pilate blushed. “Well, no. Nobody told me. I mean, Trevathan never said.”
“Why would he?” Buster said. “After what we went through in the war, he didn’t bat an eye when I told him once we got stateside. He’s a true friend. Besides, why do you think I moved here?”
“Well, not everyone here in Key West is…”
“Gay?” he smiled. “No, but most Conchs are remarkably tolerant of those who are.”
Pilate stuffed the mousetrap with bills and stood, offering his hand. “Thanks, Buster.”
“No problem,” he said. “I got your cell number. If anything comes up I’ll call.”
“Great.”
He started to walk away, then, Columbo-style, he turned. “There’s just one more thing, John.”
Pilate looked up from his wallet. “Yeah?”
“I wasn’t going to mention this - Righetti said it would just wind you up - but she did tell me one thing before she left town.”
Pilate cocked his head to the right in anticipation.
“She said that her buddy in CID called her after you got married and left town. He found something interesting about that college president fella,” Buster dug both hands into his pockets, jingling coins and keys.
“What?”
“Nothing concrete. He told her that he thought it looked pretty weird, though
. The missing fingerprint records for the body, no autopsy, the whole bit smelled a little.”
“Well, yeah, I thought that, too.”
“Yeah, but he said he found something interesting at another crime scene a few weeks ago.”
“What?” Pilate’s heart hammered in his chest.
Buster moved closer to Pilate, his voice just above a whisper.
“A rest stop up the road from here. Somebody went caveman on a poor old guy in the restroom with a hammer. Real bloodbath. Then he dragged the body to a stolen truck, torched it and took the old man’s car.”
“So, how does that connect to…”
“Found a smudged fingerprint in the restroom. Computer says it might, and I do mean might, belong to someone you know.”
Pilate broke into a sweat. “Who?”
“Jonathan AKA Jack Lindstrom,” Buster said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pilate gripped the table at Pepe’s Cafe for support.
“John? You okay?”
“Oh, my god,” he gasped.
“I know,” Buster said. “Hey, let’s get out of here,” Buster led Pilate outside into the heat of the midmorning. “Let’s find some shade.”
Buster steered Pilate underneath a massive palm leaf on a small palm tree beside a row of newspaper dispensers. Pilate leaned against the tree trunk with his right arm, with his left he patted his pockets.
“Cell phone?”
“Cigarettes.”
“I thought you quit,” Buster said.
“Damn it, I did,” he looked into Buster’s broad, ruddy face. Pilate exhaled heavily, as if he had imagined having taking a drag. “Buster, what does this mean?”
“Right now, nuthin’,” he said, shrugging. “It’s a smudged, partial print. Doesn’t mean anything, but Righetti told me you thought this guy faked his death. When she packed it in she let me know.”
“Can you get any more info?”
“Of course I’ll try,” Buster said. “But that CID guy wanted to get in her pants, not mine, so I dunno how forthcoming he’ll be.”
“What about Sergeant Thomas?”
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