Pilate's Rose Read online

  Pilate’s Rose

  John Pilate Mysteries Book Six

  By J. Alexander Greenwood

  A Caroline Street Press Book

  Copyright © 2018 by J. Alexander Greenwood/Caroline Street Press

  ISBN- 978-0-9965229-5-3

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design by Jason McIntyre

  www.theFarthestReaches.com

  * * *

  Edited by Jason McIntyre

  * * *

  Other Books by J. Alexander Greenwood:

  Pilate's Cross

  Pilate's Cross: The Audiobook

  Pilate's Key

  Pilate's Ghost

  Pilate's Blood

  Pilate’s 7

  Non-Fiction:

  Kickstarter Success Secrets

  Kickstarter Success Secrets: The Audiobook

  Most books available in paperback and ebook formats wherever books are sold.

  Visit www.PilatesCross.com for the latest updates, merchandise and the Clues Blog.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Simon’s Pep Talk

  Chapter Two: Iowa…Actually Nebraska

  Chapter Three: Liquor By the Drink

  Chapter Four: House and Home

  Chapter Five: Hello Old Friend

  Chapter Six: Going Home Again

  Chapter Seven: Pier Review

  Chapter Eight: The Wide, Wild Sea

  Chapter Nine: Adrift and Afloat

  Chapter Ten: Oblivion Or Not

  Chapter Eleven: A Bed of Roses

  Chapter Twelve: Jamaican Jam

  Chapter Thirteen: Lost At Sea

  Afterword

  Back to Top

  Chapter One: Simon’s Pep Talk

  At one time, it was terribly amusing, this whole lark of you doing your thing and me chiding you with my clever invective.

  I liked it because, as rough as I could be, it was tough love.

  You know?

  I mean, the harder the truth, the truer the friend that tells it, right?

  You put on all the airs and graces of a normal, functional, mature adult--but I see right through all that.

  Inside you're as sentimental as James Taylor when the first leaf of fall drops. That's kind of sweet. But...

  The sky is changing. Look out that window.

  <><><>

  Taters Malley knew they were jerks about ten minutes in. Two financial planners, one in his late forties, the other probably thirty, chartered the TenFortyEZ, posing for selfies with smelly cigars, sporting Oakley sunglasses and garish Ed Hardy shirts.

  They drank "the good stuff" from a large flask; when that ran out, they helped themselves to Taters’ cooler of Modelo, making “beaner” jokes with each fresh bottle.

  Taters let that fly, at first, but by hour three, when it was nearing time to head back to the harbor, he was done.

  “Guys, time to lock everything down and head back.”

  The older man shrugged. “Got skunked anyway. Fishing pretty shitty out here, old man,” he said, reaching for the cooler. “Guess a little bit of this here burrito juice will help.”

  The younger man guffawed, swaying on the deck as it rose and fell with the waves.

  Taters placed the fishing gear in the locker. “Fellas, can we knock off the beaner jokes?”

  “Beaner jokes? What do you mean?” The older man said, sounding genuinely surprised.

  “Modelo. It’s Mexican beer. And every time you got yourself one you made some kind of Mexican joke.”

  "Calm down, old-timer," the older man said. "We meant no harm."

  Taters felt his blood pressure rise. "Old-timer? You seriously calling me an old-timer?"

  The older man shrugged and snorted. “Well, you ain’t a spring chicken.”

  Taters nodded. “Okay.”

  The younger man looked at the deck a moment.

  “Hey Eric, let’s chill, okay?”

  Eric, the older man, leveled a look at Taters, then nodded.

  “Good idea, Donny,” he turned and staggered back to the stern, plopping down in a chair, his t-shirt riding up over his belly.

  Taters nodded at Donny and finished stowing the gear. Coming back up from the cabin, he caught the pair's discussion.

  “The average idiot thinks that’s a good idea,” Eric said, his lips moving around the stub of his cigar. “Soon as we can get that asshole out of the White House, the sooner we can start making the real money.”

  “We are losing a ton of fees, that’s for fucking sure,” Donny said, tipping back his Modelo.

  “Typical of his kind. Wants to put the screws to us and give it all away to his people,” Eric said, spitting a piece of his cigar overboard.

  Taters felt his blood pressure rising again. He thought of Jordan, warning him that his ticker didn’t need that kind of crap. He needed to just do his job and keep his mouth shut, especially until he recovered from his upcoming heart surgery.

  But Taters wasn’t exactly enormous at that sort of thing. He opened the cooler; all twenty-four Modelos were gone. He whirled around, facing the two men who talked shit about his beer as they finished off the last two.

  “How much is enough for you guys?” Taters said.

  Eric glanced back at him. “What was that?”

  “Well, you guys obviously tie down a pretty good living. I don’t get a lot of punters on this boat who are on welfare.”

  “Well,” Eric said, taking the stub of cigar from his mouth. “As shitty as the fishing is out here I’m surprised you’re not on welfare.” He laughed, jammed the cigar back in his maw and raised his hand for a high five from Donny.

  Donny smirked, tapped his palm on Eric's, and turned away.

  “All kidding aside, Captain,” Eric said, turning away and facing the port side of the boat, his eyes seeing, but failing, to comprehend the view. “We’re talking financial matters. Regulations and complicated stuff, so— “

  “Well, I can only guess you’re bitching because your industry is losing about seventeen billion in amped-up fees because of the fiduciary rule.”

  Eric and Donny looked at Taters, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, it’s more complicated than that,” Eric said, all mirth drained from his eyes.

  “I’m sure you think so,” Malley said.

  “Well, no matter what you may have heard on MSNBC— “

  “Son, I was a CPA and a fiduciary for twenty-seven years before I started this charter. I considered it ethical practice and my legal duty to act in the best interests of the beneficiary. I dealt with more than my share of asshole financial advisors ripping off my clients. The fiduciary rule is a good thing, you greedy shit. And by the way, I don’t watch MSNBC or anything else. I know how to read. I’m a Republican since before Reagan, back when Republicans worked for the country first, not the party. I’m damn sure not a jerk-off Fox News sheep like you.”

  Eric stood up unsteadily. “Now just a goddamn minute, mister.”

  “Sit your ass down,” Taters sai
d. “We’re going back.”

  “I want a goddamn refund— “

  Taters yelled over his shoulder, “Now who wants welfare? Hold on.”

  He gunned the engines, pointing the bow towards Key West. Eric fell back in his seat, flipping his middle finger to Taters’ back. Donny looked at the boat’s wake, rolling his eyes.

  <><><>

  Donny and Eric huffed as they jumped from the boat as soon as Taters tied it off to the dock.

  “Later, asshole,” Eric said.

  Cooled off, Taters smiled and waved in acquiescence to Jordan’s wishes he work on not being so “excitable,” anyway.

  He eased his tanned frame from the TenFortyEZ, one leg at a time across the two-foot chasm to the dock, grunting with exertion from his aching knee.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

  It was late, about seven, and the Key West sun was taking a bow to the delight of tourists across the tiny island. Taters slung his dry bag over his shoulder and headed to his Jeep. Jordan would be home already, as he had radioed in to her that he was on time and could close up shop on his own.

  The gravel parking area was dark, the street lights conspicuously asleep. He approached the Jeep, catching movement out of his right eye, heading for him.

  He moved sharply to his left, his knee groaning and giving out. “Shit,” he moaned.

  Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him down to his knees.

  “Really guys, you’re gonna beat me up over the fiduciary rule?”

  “Clam up, sir, and come with us quietly,” a deep male voice said. This was not Donny or Eric.

  “Who the hell are— ”

  In the ambient light, a handsome man’s dark face leaned down into his. “Let’s say I’m somebody you don’t want to mess with tonight.” His words were matter of fact, eyes solemn.

  “Okay,” Taters said, confused.

  The hands on his shoulders all but hauled him to his feet.

  “Are you alright, sir?” The black man asked.

  “Well, I think my damn knee just gave out.”

  “Can you walk?” The man said.

  “With a goddamn limp,” Taters said.

  The other man took his dry bag. “Good, because I’m not carrying you, sir,” one said from behind Taters.

  “What’s this about?” Taters said.

  “Just get in the car,” the black man said.

  “Who are you guys?”

  The men did not answer. Instead, they walked him to a dark green SUV and helped him in the backseat. The black man sat beside him. "Here," he proffered a blindfold.

  “You gotta be shittin’ me,” Taters said.

  The man shook his head slowly.

  “Well, damn,” Taters said, slipping it over his head around his eyes.

  <><><>

  Seated in a small room right out of every cop show interrogation scene, Taters drummed his fingers on a hard metal table, pondering his predicament. Clearly, these were government types. But why are they after me? he wondered. He thought back to his last interaction with the feds, struggling to think of what he may have done to earn their ire.

  The door opened, and in walked a tall, tanned brunette woman in her early thirties, wearing a United States Navy officer’s khaki duty uniform. She held the door for a more mature woman with auburn hair and pale skin, her petite form clad in a tailored black suit. Taters started to stand, but the naval officer gestured for him to remain seated. Her collar insignia denoted the rank of lieutenant commander.

  The officer closed the door, and both sat across from Taters, looking him over.

  Taters looked back, noting their excellent posture and an unsettling coldness around the eyes. “Umm, howdy. What’s up?”

  The women exchanged glances.

  “Vernon Malley?” she asked.

  He nodded. “What’s this all about?”

  The lieutenant commander’s eyes bored into him. “You no doubt recall the events of two years ago, where you and a certain John X. Pilate were involved in a situation related to national security?”

  Taters rose up in his chair, pointing at her. “Now wait a minute, we stuck to the deal,” he said, his mind wondering what Pilate had gotten him into this time. “We haven’t said shit to nobody.”

  “Did we say you did?” the civilian said.

  Taters leaned back in his chair. “Well, no, but you abducted me— “

  “Mister Malley, I’m Lieutenant Commander Anderson, and the first thing you need to understand is you were not abducted.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Commander Anderson, it sure felt like it, what with the manhandling and blindfold, and the cloak and dagger.”

  She continued, "You were not abducted, sir because none of this happened."

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh crap, this again? Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. John and I have never breathed a word about that sub— “

  “Mister Malley,” Anderson continued. “The less you interrupt, the faster this will go.”

  Taters closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, repeating a stress relief technique Jordan taught him to appease his faltering heart muscle. He placed his weathered hands on the table, palms down, his face striving for impassive.

  “Very good,” Anderson said. “Now, you recall in our last meeting that if you or Mister Pilate said anything about the submarine or its contents that you would lose everything. Your possessions. Your money. Your freedom.”

  “Yes.” Taters looked from Anderson to the silent civilian, who regarded him with a green-eyed stare.

  “Well, we have good news and bad news,” Anderson said.

  “Which do I get first?”

  “The good news,” Anderson said. “The good news is you and Mister Pilate probably didn’t do anything to violate our agreement.”

  “Probably?” He said, raising his voice. He caught himself, stopped, took in another deep breath and exhaled. “So, what’s the bad news?”

  “Someone else did talk, and you’re on the hook to help us figure it out.”

  "Why? You guys clearly have no problems dealing with situations," Taters said, his throat feeling parched. "Does she talk?" He said, gesturing at the other woman.

  “Because,” the civilian woman said, startling Taters with her first words. “We need to move fast to find out who’s talking and why. And that somebody is wary of strangers.”

  "Well, why don't you just pick that person up lickety-split like you did me," Taters said. "Problem solved."

  The civilian woman looked down at the table a moment, then trained her green eyes on his. “Mister Malley, we don’t need tactical advice from amateurs.”

  “Kinda rude,” he harrumphed.

  She continued. “What we do need is for you to help us get John Pilate to Key West without telling anyone why.”

  “Why don’t you get him here, then?”

  “Because that makes things more complicated,” she said. “We show up in Iowa—”

  “Close enough,” Taters said.

  “What?” Anderson said.

  “Well, he’s actually in Nebraska,” Taters said. “Jeebus, what kind of spy satellites you guys have, anyway?”

  The civilian continued. “We show up in Nebraska, that means we have to involve his family and friends. However, if Mister Pilate gets a call from his best friend who’s in a jam, then it’s a lot more…tidy.”

  “Wait just a damn minute,” Taters said. “Now look, I’m a patriot, but I have rights here. Like the right not to screw over my best pal just to help you clean up your mess.”

  Anderson looked at him, impassive. “Two words, Mister Malley. National Security.”

  “You think you can just— “

  "You do this and do it right, and you will never hear from us again," the civilian woman said.

  “Oh, pardon my French, but bull fucking shit,” he said. “You’ve already broken your word. Goddamn government.”

  “Mister Malley, I can onl
y give you my word that we will never trouble you or Mister Pilate again if you assist us,” the civilian woman clasped her hands together on the table.

  “You Navy, too?”

  She only stared back at him.

  “NSA? CIA?” he ventured.

  She continued to stare.

  “Alright.” He swallowed dust, looking at the women. “What do I have to do?”

  "You just get him here, and then we will connect with you both and tell him what's really going on," the civilian said.

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that if he doesn’t help us figure out who’s talking, you and Mr. Pilate are going to be roommates in a black site prison for a very, very long time.”

  Chapter Two: Iowa…Actually Nebraska

  Let's make a list. I'll start. Top three sounds I hate the most:

  One: Dr. Sandberg's smarmy social worker on white wine voice;

  Two: That idiot at the liquor store in Goss City mispronouncing "Lillet";

  Three: The sound of you shaking Wellbutrin XL 600s out of that plastic bottle, twice a day.

  Like you're doing right now.

  Stop, Dave. My mind is going.

  Those pills aren't for me, are they? Especially when you're washing them down with martinis. Is it those men you've killed, John? Drowning out their voices at all? How clichéé!

  Or is it those you lost? Your grandfather, the failed crime novelist? Sweet old guy. But old. Had to go sometime.

  You still miss old Pete Trev then, don't you? Grouchy, cantankerous, one-eyed git. He hated you on sight.

  All right, all right...yes, he did warm up to you. Even a broken clock is correct twice a day, you know. Damn that cancer. But you seem to have made up for the loss with that fish-smelling miscreant on the boat. Really, John, a grown man who voluntarily calls himself Taters?

  You sure don't medicate over that bitch Samantha. Man, you excused her from class with style, my man, With style. That is one ex-wife that is out of your life.

  John, you need to lose ten pounds.

  Man, you went through that martini pretty quickly. You're really, really mixing another?

  Shit, you cut your finger slicing the lemon. Hurts so good though, that lemon juice in the wound. Don't use Kate's nice tea towel—well, okay, go ahead, then. Fuck it, so now it has a blood stain. You leave blood stains all over the place.