“Maybe. He doesn’t care much for you, but I was his boss once, so I’ll see.” Buster patted Pilate’s shoulder, gently, in a way that Pilate thought was kind but out of character for the gruff old detective. “You okay, son?”
“Yeah, Buster. I’m okay. Just scary to think Lindstrom is alive…”
“And capable of a horrific murder,” Buster added.
“Oh my god, yes. He killed an old man with a hammer?”
“Somebody did.”
“And took his car?”
Buster nodded.
“What about the truck that burned?”
“Stolen on Islamorada.”
“Buster, this really could be Lindstrom. If he did fake his death, he’s desperate and probably out of his mind. He might have killed that old guy to ditch the stolen car and get another one.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Buster said.
“Has that man’s car turned up?”
Buster flipped open his notebook. “Yeah, near Gainesville. Also torched.”
“So he’s in Florida?”
“The truck is, but who knows where the killer is. If he’s smart, he’s not here. He’s hiding out somewhere else. Somewhere nobody knows who he is.”
“What if he’s smart but out of his fucking mind?”
Buster said nothing.
“Buster, if this is Jack Lindstrom, then he was heading north. He could be heading back to Cross.”
“Doesn’t make sense. And even if he did go back, nothing happened. You told me some weird shit occurred, but no violence. Just calls and a note, right?”
“Somebody took a shot at me.”
“Really?”
Pilate told Buster the story of the race and subsequent odd occurrences.
“John, I don’t know what to tell you. On the one hand, you’ve got a slim chance that this guy Lindstrom faked his death and is on the run. But you also have weird shit happening here in Key West as recently as last night. It doesn’t add up. He couldn’t be in two places at once - and again, why would he go to Cross and do nothing?”
“I don’t know, Buster. I just don’t know.”
“John, have you considered that he drove the car to Gainesville, torched it and left it as a blind alley. He then turned around and came back down here to wait for you?” Simon said as Pilate stared at the top of the tallboy table in Sloppy Joe’s.
Seems like a lot of trouble to go to.
“Yes, but he’s crazy. Like a fox. Perhaps he didn’t even come directly back here. He may have been stalking you all across the eastern seaboard.”
Pilate’s eyes burned. His cheeks felt hot and sweat broke out on his forehead.
“You okay, Nebraska?” His pal Marlene the bartender was standing before him with a Bloody Mary in hand. “You look a little peaky.”
“Hmm? Oh I’m fine,” Pilate said, gesturing for his drink. “Just thinking.”
She placed the drink on the table. “Well, don’t strain yourself.”
“I won’t,” he didn’t touch the drink. He made it a point to keep his eyes above her shoulders. Marlene’s custom-cut, revealing t-shirt made that a challenge.
“What’s going on with you?” she shifted her weight from foot to foot, eyeing the bar quickly to make sure there weren’t any orders awaiting her attention. “Married life got you down?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Big Tits!” Simon said.
Pilate looked into her tanned face.
She has very pretty eyes.
“And tits!” Simon said.
“I think I’m just tired from all this book nonsense,” he said. “Did you get a chance to read any of it?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I did look at the end to see if I’m mentioned, and I’m not,” she said in mock offense, laughing.
“Next one,” he said. “Though you apparently didn’t check the acknowledgements page.”
“What?” her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Something along the lines of ‘thanks for the advice, drinks and laughs, Marlene.’“
“Nothing about Captain Rick and I towing your sorry butt back to shore?”
“No, that’s for the…”
“Next book,” she said, dipping her chin at him. “Gotcha.”
A waitress leaned on the bar, waiting for Marlene. “You’ve got an order,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Okay, thanks. Do yourself a favor. Drink that and cheer up. You’re a success!”
Pilate smiled. It faded before she reached the bar.
“It’s good to see you, John,” Dr. Sandburg said, gesturing for Pilate to sit on a comfortable-looking green leather couch.
“You too. Thanks for fitting me in,” Pilate said.
“Least I could do for a celebrity client,” the psychiatrist said, settling into his chair and reaching for his lap desk.
“Ha,” Pilate said, looking over the shrink’s shoulder at the baseballs and bobble heads on the shelf above him. “I played that game as a kid – baseball, I mean. It was supposed to be fun, but I hated it. I wasn’t very good – they mostly stuck me out in right field until I gained some coordination. The last year I played, I think it was eighth grade, I was on a Bad News Bears kind of team. Nobody wanted any of us. We were the leftovers from the good teams. We had a crazy hippie coach who wore John Lennon glasses and told us to be kind to each other. Odd, but nice. Anyway, they put me at second base. Very encouraging. We won third place overall that year.”
“And you quit after that?”
“Took my third place trophy and ‘Most Spirited Player’ ball and went home,” Pilate said, his eyes fogged over at the memory of himself in a black and orange polyester uniform, long blondish hair poking out of his cap; the sweat, the dust, the sun in his eyes, tagging kids out.
“So you were satisfied?”
“Satisfied?” Pilate chewed a fingernail absently a moment. “I dunno. I think I was just done, you know?”
“Nothing left to prove?”
“That…and bored I guess. I made a double play once, but really I wasn’t very good, so why not quit while you’re ahead?”
“I see.”
“I mean, satisfied wasn’t really the word. My dad really wanted me to play. My older brother was the family jock, but I just didn’t have it. Not accurate enough. Not fast enough. Not good enough. But Dad wanted it, so I did it.”
“Pleasing your dad was important to you.”
“Why yes, Dr. Freud, I suppose it was.”
Sandburg smirked. “Of course every child wants to earn his parents’ approval. I merely meant that your main reason for playing wasn’t for you, it was for him.”
“In retrospect, I guess so.”
“What did you like to do?”
“I’m not sure I get what you’re asking,” Pilate looked at an unusual framed print on the east wall.
“Is that Guernica?”
“Not the original,” Sandburg said. “Let’s stay on track. If you didn’t have to play baseball, what would you have preferred doing?”
“Reading books. Acting in the school play, that sort of stuff.”
“Were you good at that stuff?”
“Oh yes,” Pilate said, looking back at Sandburg. “I was an accomplished book reader - plowed through a dozen books every summer. I also got good roles in school plays.”
“But the role you played most was that of son trying to please his parents,” Sandburg said.
“What’s your point?” Pilate didn’t feel like going down the ‘parental’ road.
“Your first wife - and congratulations on your marriage to Kate, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Pilate said.
“You spent a lot of time trying to please her, too, didn’t you?” Sandburg looked at his notes.
“Oh yeah,” Pilate said.
“And when that didn’t work out, you took your ball and left town, so to speak.”
“I suppose so. Yes, I moved to Cross,” Sweat broke
out on his forehead.
“And eventually you married Kate, in a pretty short time, right?”
“Yes. I did. I love her.”
“Still, you married her after knowing her less than a year, correct? Did you do that to please her?”
“Doc, I got her pregnant,” Pilate said, exasperated.
“Yes, I know, but did you marry her to please her?”
“Well yes, in a way. But she’s carrying my child and I love her,” Pilate said.
“How’s the marriage going?”
“It was pretty good.”
“Was?”
“Well I mean, it is pretty good.”
“So is this guy. He should have his own show,” Simon said.
“Something going on?”
“I think she has a good idea about Kay Righetti,” Pilate said, exhaling.
Sandburg flipped through his notes. “Oh yes, the attractive young police officer. The one you had the affair with here in Key West.” He scratched behind his ear with his pen, then looked at Pilate with an expression of pity. “How did that go over?”
“Like a fart in church,” Pilate said, folding his arms across his chest.
“That’s not good, then,” Sandburg said. “So what now?”
“Now I have to get through the book signing here, then go to Chicago for another one, then back to Cross for a couple of days,” he said.
“Do you think you can reconcile this with Kate?”
“As in, will she be satisfied with my contrition?”
“If you will,” Sandburg said, softly.
“I don’t know. I mean, there’s no real confirmation of the fling. She told me before that she doesn’t want to know, anyway. But she’s pregnant. And emotional. And alone right now. There’s a chance that word will get back to her about what happened with Kay Righetti.”
“If it does, what will you do?”
“It’s not like she’s just going to pick up and leave. But she’s never going to forget it, and I’m going to have some really miserable days ahead.”
“Miserable enough for you to take your ball and go?”
Pilate’s eyes bore into Sandburg’s. “Fuck you.”
“Touched a nerve, didn’t he?” Simon said.
Pilate ended the session on a more positive note than “fuck you.” He and Sandburg agreed to schedule a couple of phone sessions, then Pilate was to find a therapist closer to home. They shook hands, and Pilate gave Sandburg an autographed copy of the book.
“Sorry for the blood,” Pilate said, pointing at the bloody lettering on the book jacket.
“Yes, I almost want to wear gloves when I touch it so as not to leave fingerprints,” he said.
Both men laughed, then Dr. Sandburg went back into his air-conditioned office and Pilate went back into the Key West heat.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The book signing at the Key West bookstore did moderately well. There were thirty people by Taters’ count, with twelve books sold and a few left on the shelves. No one tried to kill Pilate, or even menace him, except for a cantankerous older lady who demanded a refund when she found a typo on page 23.
“Why should I spend my money on a book that has a typo in it?”
“Well, you have a point,” Pilate said. “I remember when I bought my first new car and there was a curb mark on one of the tires. I was terribly upset.” He looked at her, deadpan. “And then I reminded myself that nothing is ever perfect.”
Pilate cheerfully offered her a refund in cash. She backed down and sniffed, walking out of the bookstore, clutching his book to her chest.
“Get a life, lady,” Taters called after her.
“It’s a typo. Damn thing slipped through the net,” Pilate said. “Read ‘to’ instead of ‘too.’“
“Well, let’s nail you to the cross for that, Pilate. Wait - that’s kind of a funny pun, isn’t it? Pilate on the cross?” Taters smirked.
Pilate started to reply when another customer, an attractive woman in her early fifties wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Capri pants, offered, “I have never read a book - and I read a new book every week and have for the past twenty-seven years - that didn’t have some sort of mistake in it. Stephen King’s books, especially some of the early ones, usually have several!”
“Didn’t hurt his sales much,” Pilate said, chuckling.
“Not at all!” The lady said. “You were great on the Today Show.” She made a few more comments about how “cute” she found the host of the show, then wandered away into the mystery aisle.
Taters picked up the box of unsold books. “Well, aside from that crabby bitch there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of attempts on your life goin’ on.”
“Just some minor character assassination,” Pilate said.
They carried the box out to Taters’ old green Jeep. “Well, you leave in the morning, so how about we get out there and get some fishing done this afternoon?”
“Great idea,” Pilate said.
“Anyplace special you want to go?”
“How about the Marquesas? ‘X marks the spot.’“
Taters shook his head. “Umm, no. I don’t sail anywhere near that place. It’s my own private Devil’s Triangle since our last little adventure.”
“Well, I don’t care,” Pilate said.
“I know just the place, or my name is Mudd.”
Kate knocked on the closed office door of Dean Peter Trevathan. No answer.
“Oh, Kate, the dean isn’t here,” Marta said, returning from the photocopy room.
“Oh? I thought he’d be in today,” she said. “He said he would be.”
“He’s a little under the weather,” Marta said, her voice cracking. “Can I help you with something?”
“Is he okay?”
Marta looked at her desk, then back at Kate, her eyes watery. She sighed heavily, as if a massive weight was pulling her down. “Kate, maybe you should have a seat. He’s going to kill me for saying anything.”
Trevathan looked at the sheaf of photocopies before him on the kitchen table. Some were news clippings about the “Cross College Incident” that he, John Pilate and Kate had barely survived. He pushed the clips aside and looked at copies of information from a friend at the state attorney general’s office.
According to the information, the late Jack Lindstrom had a history of skirting ethical and legal strictures. Trevathan heard through the grapevine that Lindstrom was flaky and had been “helped out the door” of previous positions for his inability to play well with others, but nothing as damning as what the AG’s office turned up.
Lindstrom had falsified most of his résumé, granting himself academic successes he had never earned - nothing extraordinarily spectacular, but enough to help him ascend to the presidency of a tiny Midwestern land grant college. That garden-variety crime was only the beginning of Jack Lindstrom’s troubled relationship with the truth.
State records indicated a certain Johnny K. Lindstrom was found guilty of making untrue statements and perpetrating fraud on investors in a business venture ten years ago. He spent almost eleven months in the desert sun picking up trash along the highway as a guest of a Nevada county jail.
Digging thirty years back, a young Johnny Lindstrom slashed a man’s face with a switchblade in a South Dakota roadhouse. His crude attempt at surgery cost him fourteen months in a minimum-security prison. Trevathan paused a moment at the photocopy of Lindstrom’s mug shot; it revealed a thinner, almost handsome young man with a flattop and sideburns. His eyes were dark and expressionless except for a tinge of what Trevathan pegged as defiance. Young Lindstrom’s lip curled up on the left side, the fading vestige of a smile no doubt wiped off his face by a guard’s threat.
Notes from his parole officer read like a textbook description of a sociopath: Prisoner exhibits a glib, superficial charm…grandiose sense of self, pathological lying…lack of empathy for others and a capacity for unchecked rage. Fails to put down roots…has an unrealistic life plan…believes he
is exempt from societal rules and norms.
He had been arrested for assault and battery sixteen years ago in Minneapolis. The investigator’s report revealed Lindstrom had broken a man’s nose with a length of pipe, but at the last minute, the victim declined to give evidence against Lindstrom. It appeared that Lindstrom left town immediately thereafter.
Lindstrom’s proclivity for violence waned in recent years – that, or he wasn’t getting caught. His eye seemed to rest on the horizon of easy money, no doubt aided by his considerable charm. Eight years ago, Johnny Lindstrom barely escaped the long arm of the law in Utah and Idaho when charges of fraud were made against him in a real estate investment scheme.
His actual experience in academia was laughably minimal.
The newly minted Jack Lindstrom, Ph.D. worked as a foundation executive for a Jesuit school for less than a year, making news by raising a good chunk of change before abruptly leaving. He then served as head of the department of math and science at a struggling community college in Oregon.
Two semesters into his tenure, the community college president died in a (now suspicious) one-car accident. Lindstrom lobbied hard and was elevated to the role of interim president. He was successful at charming the board of trustees into temporary office, but those men and women (perhaps feeling there was something not quite right about their aspiring president pro tem) did not put his name in the hat to fill the position permanently. Instead, at the board’s urging, the new president named Lindstrom vice president of academic affairs in the next school year.
Beyond his academic duties as vice president, Lindstrom took a commanding role in fundraising for the college. He was successful in managing a capital campaign for a new gymnasium and earned acclaim from the newspapers and alumni.
However, Lindstrom butted heads with the new president over his grandstanding. In exchange for an endorsement, he voluntarily sought greener pastures.
“Dr. Jack Lindstrom worked miracles,” the head of the board of trustees wrote about Lindstrom in a letter of recommendation. Lindstrom’s former boss raved “Our loss is your gain.”
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