Sailing into Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 2)

by James Paddock

  After a time he exhaled a lungful of air and turned away. He was a landlocked landlubber, always had been, always would be. He knew nothing about this life, suspected in any case that it was too rich for his blood. He started the car and looked once more out at the masts jutting into the air and thought about Stella, wondered if she'd enjoy sailing. Maybe, when they got married, they'd go sailing for their honeymoon.

  After another sigh he entered the address to the Irish pub into the GPS and headed out.

  Paddy McGee's Irish Pub was little more than a half dozen blocks from where CJ had been admiring the sailboats. A few cars littered the parking lot just shy of 4:00 in the afternoon. CJ stepped through the entryway and stopped. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior, a young woman breezed by.

  "Céad míle fáilte!” she said. "Welcome to Paddy McGee's; have a seat anywhere and I shall be right with you," she added and then was gone. CJ approached the bar and sat. He looked at the menu and drink specials until the young woman appeared in front of him. "What can we do for you today, me friend?"

  "Kade meal... whatever you said. What does it mean?"

  "Céad míle fáilte. It means, 100,000 welcomes."

  "Ah." CJ pointed at a board that read Daily Specials and said, "What's a Car Bomb?"

  "Tis a bit early for that, I should think."

  "I don't necessarily want one, just curious."

  "We give you a pub glass o' Guinness stout, half full, and a shot glass o' Irish Whiskey and Irish Cream. You then carefully drop the shot glass into the stout and in the blink of an leprechaun eye, drink it all down before the cream curdles."

  CJ noted her grin, wondered if the brogue was real. "Sounds a bit out of my league." He pointed to the specials board again. "I'll have the $7 Angus burger and Guinness draught."

  "Aye. Fine choice me friend." A minute later when she presented him with the draught, she said, "Burger in five. Obviously you're new to Paddy McGee's. What brings ya to our fine establishment?"

  "For one, I'm hungry. Been a long day flying."

  "Arms must be tired."

  He chuckled. "You also were recommended by Paddy McLane in Fisher's, Indiana."

  "Paddy's Irish Pub. Paddy's cousin Paddy. You a regular of Irish pubs? A reviewer of fine Irish pub grub maybe? If so I'll tell Paddy to spice your burger up a bit, throw in some chips on the house."

  "Sorry. Not a food critic. Is that Paddy McGee himself doing the cooking?" CJ nodded toward a middle aged guy working over a grill down at the end of the bar.

  "Aye, tis he."

  "I'd appreciate a chat with him when he has an opportunity."

  "And who shall I say tis beggin' for his attention?"

  CJ pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "CJ Washburn."

  She looked at the card. "Private eye, aye, Mister Washburn? Haven't had one in here before, least not one who'd admit it. Arizona? Indiana? Now Florida? Must be important."

  "Every case I pursue is important to someone."

  "Aye. Very true." With that she walked back to the grill and handed the card to Paddy McGee. He glanced toward CJ, said something to the girl and pocketed the card. When she returned she said, "Why don't you make yourself comfy in one of the booths? Paddy will join you with your burger in short order. I'll make sure he throws in an order of chips even though you're not a critic."

  "You just never know. I might want to moonlight as one if I can be bribed with food." CJ picked up his Guinness, thanked her with a wink and then made his way to a booth well away from other patrons.

  CJ sipped at his Guinness and thought about Stella. He visualized the two of them on a yacht in white boat shoes, white shirts and shorts, hair blowing in the breeze, his hand on the helm, sails and shirt sleeves billowing as they tacked along the surface of a mildly choppy sea. He had to admit, though, that he wasn't sure what it meant to tack. He was more and more wanting to find out.

  "Mister Washburn."

  CJ looked up as his burger and chips were placed before him. The man stuck out his hand and CJ took it. "CJ, please."

  "CJ. I'm Paddy McGee. Welcome." He slid into the booth across from CJ. "I understand my cousin sent you me way."

  "In a way, yes," CJ said. "During a chat I had with him a week back he mentioned that if I ever got down this way I ought to look you up."

  "Me cousin tis like that. Always trying to send business me way. I often try to do the same by him. Only a week ago, is that so? I spoke with Paddy about a week ago as well and it seems to me he might have mentioned you."

  "Then you know why I'm here."

  "Aye, I do. Something about searching for Douglas Rothbower. Don't know how I can be o' much help. I don't know o' Douglas being around here. You may have wasted your time... and your money. Me cousin was just being kind to recommend me establishment. You maybe became a bit confused when he mentioned St. Petersburg in the same conversation as was mentioned Mister Rothbower."

  "Tis odd," CJ said, "that you and your cousin should discuss Douglas Rothbower when, apparently, the name holds no importance to you."

  "I didn't say that the name doesn't hold importance, Mister Washburn. We are a close family. Me cousin and I talk frequently. When I last spoke with him he mentioned that a PI had been to see him, looking for his best friend who went missing five years ago. I knew Douglas, met him many years back when visiting up in Fishers so it was not that unusual for Paddy to mention your visit, that after five years there was someone looking for him." He took a swig from a bottle of water he had brought over with him. "Me cousin cares about his friend and, therefore, so do I. That's the importance to me, Mister Washburn, but I know nothing of his whereabouts."

  "Did your cousin by chance mention why I'm looking for him?"

  "No, can't say that he did. You and Douglas were mentioned just in passing. It must be mighty important to have someone like yourself chasing about the country. Wife suddenly desperate to find her husband I gather?"

  A memory of CJ's meeting with Kassandra Rothbower flashed through his mind. She'd looked broken, but how much of that was losing her daughter? Did he just assume she was still mourning her husband's disappearance?

  "In addition to the wife, Douglas had a daughter, Alexandria," CJ said. "She was killed about a month ago. The family felt it important to find Douglas. He has a right to know."

  Paddy sat back, the shock evident on his face. "That is awful. How did it happen?"

  "She was murdered."

  He shook his head. "Most dreadful. As a father myself..." he looked away for a brief few seconds, and then back at CJ, "I understand. However, I'm afraid I cannot help you. I do not know o' Doug's whereabouts."

  CJ had followed Paddy's eyes to the barmaid and now sat back and considered the man, the typical image of the owner of an Irish pub; round face, red hair, rosy cheeks, a tad robust with a bit of a potbelly. Instead of a bottle of water he just needed a beer mug and a pipe to make the picture complete. The barmaid was his daughter, CJ concluded. This was a family business.

  "Well," CJ said, "to avoid wasting a trip I may just indulge myself with a little tourist time. I've never been sailing. You have any recommendations along that line?"

  "Sailing?"

  CJ sensed that Paddy was relieved by the change in topic.

  Paddy snorted. "Never been myself, never even considered it. Prefer something with a motor. I'd never trust the wind."

  "But they do have motors from what I can tell, in order to get in and out of the harbor, and as backup I imagine," CJ said.

  "Aye, they do, and that makes for an interesting point. Why all the trouble to install and put up and down the sails if ya have to put a motor on it anyways?"

  "Save on fuel?"

  "From what I can see, those who can afford to keep one of those yachts, can afford the fuel for a real boat."

  CJ laughed.

  "Look up Bay Shore Charters and Sailing School. They might be able to answer your questions about lessons and all that. Go
straight east from here until you hit the water. You can't miss them."

  CJ wrote it down. "Thanks."

  "Well, I'll leave you to your fine Angus burger. I've got more cookin' a waitin'."

  CJ pulled out a another business card and pushed it across the table. "I'll be in town until Saturday. Give me a call if you think of anything."

  "Where are you staying?"

  "The Hilton over on 1st."

  "Hilton Bayfront. I know of it. Nice place." Paddy pushed the card back at CJ. "I have your card already." He shook CJ's hand. "Nice meeting you, CJ. The luck 'o the Irish be with you."

  CJ took a bite from his burger and then turned to be able to gain a better view of the establishment. Another waitress had apparently arrived, an older woman. Paddy's wife maybe or an employee clocking in before Happy Hour starts up, he surmised. He watched her for a bit, noted how she seemed to be in charge of the younger girl. He considered the resemblance between the two. Mom, he concluded and then glanced over at Paddy. He was scraping the grill with one hand, the other pressing a phone to his ear.

  Curious, CJ thought. When Paddy had referred to Douglas Rothbower as Doug, CJ wondered if it was a slip. There also seemed to be a lot more shock than CJ had expected when he mentioned that Alexandria had been murdered. Maybe Paddy knows Douglas better than he lets on.

  Paddy put his phone away, glanced at CJ and then bent over his kitchen tasks.

  Chapter 3

  Bay Shore Charters and Sailing School was not open when CJ went by. He'd lingered too long at Paddy McGee's Irish Pub, hoping that the call that Paddy had made was to Douglas Rothbower, letting him know that someone was looking for him. CJ suspected that it wasn't going to be that easy. Maybe he had it all wrong, that Paddy knew nothing about Douglas' disappearance, that the call he'd made was to order more Angus burger patties. Maybe this trip to St. Petersburg was, in fact, a dead end.

  He wandered south along Bay Shore Drive, stopped to read a Manatee Basics for Boaters sign and wondered what it'd be like to see a real manatee up close. He continued on until he could turn east onto 2nd Avenue. A minute later he was gazing upon more sailing yachts, hundreds of them for sure. He wished Stella had come along. At least then the trip wouldn't have been wasted. He walked along a pier-side parking lot until it ended and the avenue continued onto St. Petersburg Pier which appeared to extend a quarter mile out into Tampa Bay. He kept walking toward the end where stood what appeared to be a five-story inverted pyramid-shaped building. He walked around it, gazed at some of the shops, and came to a stop when he couldn't go any farther. Signage told him he was on The Pier, the official name of the architectural wonder. He stood gazing at the shoreline on the far side of the bay, wondering what was over there.

  After a time he turned around and walked back to his car, taking another slow stroll past the yachts along the way. He reset the GPS for the address for the Hilton St. Petersburg Bayfront Hotel, waited for it to calculate, and then pulled into traffic.

  CJ was surprised to find out that the hotel was only a few minutes away. Bay Shore Drive ran for about a mile and he'd initially parked at the north end. The hotel was near the south end, a block or so west, Al Lang Stadium sandwiched between it and the bay. He could have checked in first and then gone for the stroll. He thought maybe he'd do that anyway, just to get a sunset view of the harbor, maybe take some pictures to send to Stella, if he could figure out how to do that on his phone.

  After checking in and hauling his baggage up to the 9th floor, CJ stood at his window and looked down at the stadium. He could see part of the field. If it had been baseball season and the schedule worked he'd have considered taking in a game. The field, however, was set up for soccer. While checking in he'd noticed that the hotel offered ticket discounts for the game on Saturday, Tampa Bay Rowdies versus Atlanta Silverbacks. He was not a soccer fan so it wasn't all that appealing. Besides, he doubted he'd be there two more days. Paddy was likely right. He'd wasted his time. He should call Stella and have her change his flight reservations.

  His gaze lifted beyond the stadium, to the sailing yachts coming in from or going out to Tampa Bay. The yearning rumbled once more in his center. He was scheduled to fly back on Saturday. Maybe he'd leave that as it was and spend Friday getting a sailing lesson.

  He watched the boats for a time and then turned with the intent to go out for the sunset walk he'd planned when there came a knock at his door. He paused, expecting to hear a female voice say, "Housekeeping!" but heard nothing.

  The knock came again.

  He stepped to the door and peered through the peephole. Two men in nearly identical suits that screamed FBI awaited. CJ hadn't much respect for the FBI until a month back when his son, Josh, who he hadn't seen nor heard from for more than a half decade, turned up as one of several FBI special agents assigned to the serial killer case where CJ had been the prime suspect. Together they unraveled the mystery, found and killed the perp, and in the process patched up some old wounds. CJ looked on the FBI with a new set of eyes.

  Maybe, he thought, this wasn't going to be a wasted trip after all. Who did Paddy McGee call?

  He opened the door.

  Chapter 4

  "Clinton Washburn?" the taller of the two men said.

  "CJ Washburn," CJ replied.

  They presented their IDs. "We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We'd like you to come with us."

  CJ waited for them to expound on why. When they didn't he said, "For what reason?"

  The two looked at each other as if neither of them expected to be challenged as to their reason for fetching him.

  "We'd rather not discuss that here, Mister Washburn. This won't take long. We'll deliver you back here in a couple of hours at most."

  "Let me see your IDs again."

  They held them out. CJ wasn't sure he could identify a fake or not, but at least he felt better going through the motion. He committed the names to memory.

  "What's this about? Did I forget to return a library book?"

  The short one, Special Agent Ryan Coulter according to his ID, rolled his eyes.

  His partner, Special Agent Howard Blain, said, "Douglas Rothbower."

  That was the reason CJ was hoping to hear. "Fine." He retrieved his keycard and then followed them to the elevator.

  Nothing was said during the descent or as they walked out of the hotel toward a dark gray Dodge Charger. Coulter threw the keys to Blain.

  "You can drive," Coulter said.

  Blain looked surprised, but said nothing, climbing in behind the wheel. And still they remained silent for the next few minutes, until Blain took the on-ramp onto I-175. When he had the vehicle up to speed and moving with the westbound traffic, Coulter turned toward CJ in the backseat and said, "Have you ever heard of the Battle of the Bogside, Mister Washburn?"

  CJ shook his head. "A World War II battle?"

  "No, but good try. It was a three day skirmish, you might say, between the Unionists and the Nationalists in an inner-city development in Derry, Northern Ireland called Bogside. Took place in August of 1969."

  "I was all of a year old. Although I should recall it, my memory fails me."

  "Then I'll try to fill you in without going into all of the political history of the region. Basically, the population of Derry was over 60% Catholic or you might say, Nationalist. However, for the previous half century the Unionists, or Protestants, controlled the city thanks to a bit of creative sleight-of-hand when drawing the electoral wards boundaries. At least that's the opinion of most Nationalists. Every time it looked like the Nationalists would gain a bit of control, the boundaries would get redrawn, thus allowing the Unionists to maintain a majority on the city council. It allowed them control over public housing, thus creating a housing crisis for the Catholic population. There were also accusations of employment discrimination against Catholics. It was Catholics versus Protestants, you might say, a small but important piece in the Irish versus British puzzle. In August of 1969 this all came
to a head."

  Blain directed the car onto I-275 northbound.

  CJ said, "Was that the beginning of the Irish Republican Army?"

  "Oh hell no. The IRA has been around since your grandparents were babes-in-arms, but you're close. The events of 1969 split the IRA, thus spinning off the Provisional IRA and the Irish National Liberation Army. These two factions were most of what you saw in the news for the next 28 years or so, car bombings and such, but that's another story all together."

  "What does this all have to do with me and my search for Douglas Rothbower, who, if my guess is correct, wasn't much older than me in 1969?"

  "Actually, Mister Washburn, Rothbower was younger than you. He was born August 13, 1969 in Derry, smack in the middle of the Battle of the Bogside."

  "Okay. I'm getting the picture. In the middle of all this car bombing and rock throwing, Douglas' mother went into labor. I understand that she gave him the name, Douglas O'Reilly, then died three days later."

  "The fact is it's not known when she died, or if she actually died at all."

  "But there is a birth record?"

  "Of sorts, yes."

  "Who's the father?"

  "Not named."

  "But she gave the baby the name, O'Reilly."

  "Had to be completely false. Would be like giving him the name, Jones, here."

  "Why would she do that? Why not her own name?"

  "Good question."

  "What was her name?"

  "Éibhleann Ó Caiside, believed to have also been false."

  "Why's that?"

  "Ó Caiside is a very old name, I mean centuries old. It is spelled o space c-a-i-s-i-d-e. It has been replaced by the more common version, Cassidy, spelled as you'd expect. And there was no Éibhleann to be found in that family."

  "Pronounce the first name again," CJ said.

  "Long a, v and then lin. So it sounds like Ave-lin. Spelled e-i-b-h-l-e-a-n-n."

  "Hm," CJ said. "She must have been one mixed up little girl. Seeing as she was able to name him, she had to have made it for at least a day or so."