Sailing into Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 2)

by James Paddock

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Thank You...

  About the author

  CJ Washburn, PI Book 2

  by

  James Paddock

  Published by Desert Bookshelf Publishing

  Copyright © 2015 by James Paddock

  Cover photo and art by James Paddock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  Acknowledgements

  Where does one start with acknowledgements? How does a Novelist thank everyone who provided input into the writing of a work of fiction, especially when they had no idea they were providing such input? Every person a writer meets in some small way assists in the novel writing process. So, for that, I thank the entire world. You are my research platform, an endless source of unique plots and characters.

  After the world, of course, I must thank my parents even though they left this earth long before I completed my first novel. Without them I wouldn't be here, struggling to get every word correct in this, novel number ten. They gave me life and guidance to eventually wander off on my own in pursuit of.... myself. It has been well over forty years since they tearfully saw me off on my first airplane flight and the beginning of a career in the U.S. Navy. Have I found myself? Verdict is still out.

  In the process of looking, however, I did find Lynn, the mother of my three children. Thank you Lynn for twenty-five fine years and also for your support in those early, short-story writing days as I went from one bad draft to the next not quite so bad draft. Thank you for your faith.

  Of course I must thank my three wonderful children, MeLynda, Carrie and Matt, for loving everything I write, or at least pretending that they do. Who would love us unconditionally if not our children?

  At the top of the list I must thank Penny, my number one pal for the past sixteen years and for the remainder of this lifetime. How she puts up with me, I have no idea. How do I tell her when she thinks I am not listening to her that I'm being distracted by the voices in my head plotting out the next scene in my current work-in-progress? There is something to say for a spouse who not only puts up with her husband's inattention and his need for isolation, but also all his other idiosyncrasies. Her reward, of course, is a new novel to read once every year or two. Not only does she get to be the first to read it, but also the second and third, maybe even the fourth. As my #1 editor for content, plot and grammar, Penny pores through my finished work multiple times.

  Thank you Penny for always being there.

  Specifically for Sailing into Death I must thank my son, Matt, for advising me in the area of arms and explosives. When it comes to deadly force, he knows his stuff.

  By the way, Matt, thank you for your service to our country. Also thanks go to my daughter-in-law, Nina (Matt's wife) and to my son-in-law, Ryan. All three proudly serve in the United States Navy.

  For everything else that is not covered above, I thank the Internet. Research is always just a few keystrokes away.

  Most especially...

  Thank you to all my loyal readers.

  Chapter 1

  Clinton Joshua Washburn–CJ to his friends, Clint to his fiancée, Clinton only to his mother–stared at the man standing before him. Sales Associate the badge read. Roger Miller it also read. CJ considered commenting on the name, whether he'd ever heard of "King of the Road" or "Dang Me" or "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd." He then wondered if Sales Associate Miller even knew who the King of the Road was, likely a toddler when the Nashville singer, Roger Miller, died. Of course, CJ knew better than to make fun of someone's name. It'd been nearly two decades since he'd dropped his use of Clinton in favor of CJ to keep the hecklers off his back.

  "How may I help you, sir?" Miller said, smoothly turning about so as to come alongside CJ. "Looking for a gift for your wife or girlfriend? You've come to the right place. You or she, or both, must have great taste as these are the most popular lingerie ensembles in the store, the entire mall for that matter, maybe all of Tampa."

  CJ turned his head away from the sales associate as though admiring a sexily clad mannequin and rolled his eyes.

  "Any woman would die for the opportunity to slide into bed in one of these," Miller said, stroking the fabric on the mannequin, "especially if she was sliding in next to her man."

  "How much?" CJ asked, if for no other reason than to deflect the man's spiel before he got more personal.

  "We've got this little piece priced special for the weekend at only $219.99. Can I gift wrap that for you?"

  CJ exited the mall empty-handed. When he'd picked up the rental at the airport he'd decided to make the gift selection his first project because he knew that once he started focusing on the investigation, he'd forget, or he wouldn't remember until he was in route back to Tucson, having to pick up something from the Atlanta Airport mall. No matter how nice it would be, she'd somehow know. There was no way he was going to get Stella an airport gift. No way!

  He started the car and thought about what brought him to the west coast of Florida on a job that was paying nothing but expenses. Contrary to what he would have suspected, business had been good since the serial killer fiasco four weeks back. Maybe it had to do with his name and picture in the news as being the individual who was, first, the prime suspect and then who later shot and killed the cop who turned out to be the killer of eight young women. CJ didn't have much choice at the time. The cop, one Tommy Clark, confessed his crimes while squeezing the life out of Stella with a deadly chokehold, his brother pressing a gun to CJ's daughter's temple. CJ didn't flinch when the opportunity presented itself. He put a bullet through Tommy's eye. The resulting publicity had clients coming out of the woodwork to the point that CJ had to turn people away, some of whom seemed as crazy as Tommy Clark.

  It was all because of a vendetta that Clark had against prostitutes, and then wom
en in general, and then CJ. The Clark brothers were insane, no doubt about it, the result of dysfunctional and abusive childhoods, according the slew of criminal psychologists that popped up on every news network.

  But that was all over, an ugly chapter closed and gone; at least it would be gone if everyone would just leave him alone about it. Stella and Trish continued to suggest that he seek counseling. The more they picked at him the more he dug in his heels. They attended counseling themselves, sometimes together. He understood that. Hell, his daughter was kidnapped twice and then watched her father kill her kidnapper. Trish was still a kid, only 21-years-old. His little girl. It probably screwed her head up good. And it was hell on Stella, too. The two of them had been through a lot and the counseling seemed to be helping them.

  But he was fine. Tommy Clark deserved to die and CJ just happened to be in the position to pull the trigger. Not one person that he talked to disagreed. What should he need counseling for? He did the right thing.

  As the air conditioner pulled the temperature down in the rental, CJ paged through the folder he had on Douglas Rothbower, the brother-in-law of Gianna Onassis, CJ's attorney and biggest client. CJ was her number one private eye. While in the throes of the Tommy Clark fiasco CJ had landed in jail three times. Gianna came to his aid for two of those, pro-bono, only to have Tommy target and kill her niece, Alexandria Rothbower. It was the day that they found her body that CJ put the bullet in Tommy's head. The death of many of the women Tommy killed weighed heavy on CJ, but none more so than Alexandria. Tommy went after her only because of CJ, and Gianna knew that, but she didn't blame him... much.

  CJ still carried a heavy burden of guilt.

  He thought about the meeting he'd had with her two days after her niece was murdered. She was dressed in black, her meeting with CJ her last stop before departing to escort her niece's body home to Indiana.

  "I'm running out of time so let's talk business," she'd said. "I came to your aid pro-bono when you were in jail. Now I ask the same courtesy from you."

  "Name it."

  "Alexandria's father walked out of their lives five years ago, at least that's what I think. Alexandria's mother, my sister, thinks otherwise, that something happened to him."

  "Why would she think that?" CJ asked.

  "He gambled; got in over his head. She thinks someone killed him and buried his body somewhere."

  "If he owed money, what would be the advantage in killing him?" CJ asked.

  "Exactly."

  "Has she ever been contacted by anyone wanting her to make payment on his debt?"

  "Not that I know of. Reason her theory seems off to me." She reached across her desk and picked up a white envelope. As she handed it to him she said, "This is the information you'll need. My sister's number, friends, business associates, etcetera."

  "I'll do everything I can."

  "When I say pro-bono, I'm referring to your time only. If you have expenses, such as travel to Indiana, or anywhere for that matter, I expect to be billed. Is that clear?"

  "Certainly."

  "No stone unturned."

  "You want him found no matter what."

  "Exactly."

  And so now here CJ was, following a lead to Florida, the only viable lead he'd come up with during his trip to Indiana the week before.

  Three weeks after Alexandria's funeral, CJ had visited Gianna's sister, Kassandra, in her Indiana home, the home deserted, voluntarily or otherwise, by her husband and then hollowed out with the tragic loss of her daughter. When he called on her he found a wife alone and broken, a mother forever in mourning. CJ stood before her, wanting to be anywhere but there, looking at a woman in desperate need of help, aged beyond her years.

  Kassandra thanked CJ for coming, offered him coffee or water, obviously out of gracious habit for she appeared to fear that he would accept. He thanked her and declined, asked questions, got no answers and a flood of tears. She said she'd wished Gianna hadn't sent him, that it was a waste of his time.

  "Your sister says that you think he might have met foul play; that he might be dead."

  Kassandra had sighed, wiped at her tears and then apologized. "I was angry back then, said some things I probably shouldn't have said, like I hoped he'd gotten himself killed. I may have thought or may have even wished that he did, but I really had no reason to believe it to be true."

  "Then you do think he is alive," CJ had said to her.

  "I assume he is."

  When he left her home CJ doubted that much would come of the two names and phone numbers he was able to force out of her, but one must investigate everything, follow every lead as though it would be the case breaker. Although it didn't break the case, one name did lead CJ in the direction suspected by Gianna and sort of confirmed by Kassandra, that Douglas Rothbower simply walked away from his family and his job. Reason... unknown or unwilling to say. The source was Douglas' best friend, Paddy McLane. CJ found him at Paddy's Irish Pub in Indiana.

  "I couldn't o' asked for a better friend," Paddy had told him in a thick Irish brogue.

  "Why did he leave?" CJ asked.

  Paddy shrugged. "Can't really say."

  "Don't know or won't say?"

  "You have any Irish blood in you, Mister Washburn?"

  "Can't say that I do," CJ admitted.

  "Then you shant know of the thick blood of Irish friendship, now do you? It's as thick as our brogue, you see; thick enough to stand a fork on a hot, windy day."

  "That's pretty thick," said CJ.

  "You got a friend like that, someone who, as you police type like to say, has your back?"

  CJ thought about Detective Dan Payne, his best friend in Tucson. "Yes, I do."

  "Well, with us, we have each other's back, front and sides. A man, you see Mister Washburn, with an Irish heart takes care of his friends..." he paused for a long time and then added, "and his family."

  CJ just looked at him, trying to read the deeper meaning in his words. "Are you saying that Douglas Rothbower was Irish?"

  "You don't know?"

  CJ leaned in closer. "Know what?"

  "Doug was pure Irish. Don't let the name fool you."

  CJ sat back. "Rothbower?"

  Paddy held up his hand. "No. That is German. Doug was born of an Irish mother in Ireland and was presented with the name Douglas O'Reilly. She supposedly died when he was three days old."

  "Supposedly?"

  "Aye. Can't say for sure... word of mouth you see. Anyway, the father could not be found. So the baby, in some underhanded, under-the-table deal, was adopted by a couple of wealthy Americans by the name of Rothbower and brought to Chicago. The rest, as they say here in your country, is history."

  "The rest may be history, Paddy, but there are some interesting questions. Did Doug know any of this? When did he find out?"

  "Can I buy you a pint o' Guinness, my friend?" Paddy said, looking down at the half consumed soda in front of CJ.

  CJ's gut response was to decline, however, he had to remind himself that he was a private investigator, not an on-duty officer of the law. He also had a hunch that Paddy was not finished talking, had additional info to provide. He just needed a little more time and maybe a little more lubrication.

  "Thank you, Paddy. I'd like that."

  Paddy held up two fingers to the barmaid and said, "A couple o' pints of the black stuff." In just over a half minute they had two foaming mugs of dark beer.

  CJ pointed to his mug. "Black stuff?"

  "The finest Guinness that'll ever pass your lips." Paddy drank down a quarter of his and then said, "Have you ever been to Florida, Mister Washburn?"

  "We be Guinness-drinking buddies now, Paddy. You can call me CJ."

  Paddy slapped him on the shoulder. "CJ! A fine name. What does the C stand for?"

  CJ looked at him for a long time and then admitted, "Clinton."

  Paddy threw back his head and laughed. "No wonder you go by CJ." He took another swig of his beer. "Again I ask, have you ever been
to Florida?"

  "I can't say that I have," CJ said.

  "Well, if you ever get down in the area of Tampa, you need to visit St. Petersburg. You'll find a couple o' Irish pubs worth looking up. One is much like this one here in which you be enjoying a fine Irish lager."

  "St. Petersburg?" CJ said.

  "Aye. St. Petersburg. That's all I have to say about that. Now don't let that Guinness go flat on ya, CJ."

  CJ took a swig.

  "By the way," Paddy said, "Doug knew all along he'd been adopted. He didn't learn of the sordid details until five or six years ago."

  After checking out the other name and phone number given to him by Kassandra, which led him to poking around Douglas' old work place, to no avail, CJ returned to Tucson. With Stella's help he typed 'Irish Pubs St. Petersburg Florida' into Google. St. Petersburg had several, one of which was called Paddy McGee's Irish Pub. Its website banner displayed the same slogan in the same Irish-like font that CJ had seen hanging over the bar in Paddy's Irish Pub in Indiana.

  Where your friends are ours, and our friends are yours

  "...one much like this one here..." Paddy McLane had said when he recommended the Irish pub in St. Petersburg. CJ didn't believe in coincidences.

  Chapter 2

  CJ drove along Bay Shore Drive, finding it hard to keep his eye on traffic while stealing glances at the single and double masted sailing yachts moored on both sides of one pier after another. There must have been hundreds of them of all different sizes. He'd never seen anything like it.

  He turned east onto 1st Avenue–what appeared to take him to where he could view the yachts closer–noted St. Petersburg Sailing Center on the right and then St. Petersburg Marina to the left. Choosing neither, he went straight into Demens Landing Park where he parked and got out. For the next hour he walked, gazing upon the yachts with mast after mast pointing to a cloudless sky. He watched people coming and going with coolers and packs, many dressed in sailing attire, others in well worn shorts and T-shirts, smiles on their faces, laughter in the air. He looked across the harbor where more yachts came and went, feeling like a kid in his first candy store, but with no means to try a sample. He wondered what it would take to learn to sail.