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  Pilate’s 7

  John Pilate Mysteries Book Five

  By J. Alexander Greenwood

  A Caroline Street Press Book

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by J. Alexander Greenwood/Caroline Street Press

  ISBN-978-0-9883201-8-5

  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 Robert Hayes

  with sharp-eyed beta reading from Stephanie Greenwood and others.

  * * *

  Other Books by J. Alexander Greenwood:

  Pilate's Cross

  Pilate's Cross: The Audiobook

  Pilate's Key

  Pilate's Ghost

  Pilate's Blood

  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.

  Dedicated to

  John Pilate's truest friends: the readers.

  Table of Contents

  Author's Note

  Quarter 'Til Midnight

  Boat Drinks

  Cut You

  Badge

  Keep An Eye Out

  The Next Plane

  Locked In

  Back to Top

  Author's Note

  Pilate's 7 is unapologetically self-indulgent. The main conceit of the story is this:

  John Pilate isn't in it.

  But of course, he is.

  He is the dark star these planets orbit. (Not a black hole, though. That's Simon.). Pilate’s gravity is the force pulling the other characters together, but he's also someone who can be explored more fully by looking, not at his own deeds and words, but at the personal worlds of the people who love him, hate him, or simply know him more intimately than you or I.

  Remember what Clarence said to George? “No man is a failure who has friends.” What does Proverbs 13:20 tell us? Essentially, that we will be known by the company we keep, right?

  So, Pilate's 7 is a look at the company kept by one John Pilate: good, evil or indifferent. Rules of time and space do not apply here. Yes, every story is canon; these are all bona fide pieces of the John Pilate Universe. However, some take place in John Pilate’s here-and-now, some in his past, some in his possible future… and some just five minutes away from the next novel.

  Your mission, dear reader, is to zip between people and places, around time and space.

  Warning: some of these stories will seem less like stories than fragments of a broken mirror. What we see in a broken mirror can be very interesting indeed…

  --Alex Greenwood

  June 2015

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Quarter 'Til Midnight

  She wriggled out of her panties in the harsh light of the bathroom. Usually, she abhorred that word and called them underwear, but these were unmistakably panties. Underwear is utilitarian. Panties are sexy.

  This pair was a black satin Victoria's Secret number she picked up on impulse earlier in her weekend trip to Kansas City's Country Club Plaza. She caught them on the end of her right foot, flinging them up and catching them in one fluid motion with her right hand as she scrubbed her left wrist across her mouth, wiping off most of her lipstick.

  She dropped them beside the bidet as she unzipped and stepped out of her little black dress and let it fall on the tiny undergarment.

  She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror; catching sight of her crookedly-coiffed blonde hair, smeared lipstick and red strawberry marks on her neck from the man's rough beard.

  Her breath came in brief, shallow pants.

  No panties, heh. Gotta calm down. Plenty of time.

  She turned on the tap, wetting her fingertips and using the moisture to get her hair back to something a little more normal. Only partially successful, she made a face at herself in the mirror, popped off her black bra and sat on the toilet to pee.

  Her breathing settled as she voided her bladder. She rested her chin on her right hand, which shook with the tremors of not enough dinner, too much gin and more sexual arousal than she had experienced in the last two long years of abstinence.

  She bit her lower lip, snatched a square of paper from the roll and dried herself, standing up, presenting an image to the mirror for inspection, and still clutching her black bra in her left hand.

  Miles Davis' Kind of Blue filtered under the door. This guy knows what he’s doing. Thank you, God.

  She checked out her dress, smoothing it with her free hand. She sighed, placed the bra on the vanity. Tears welled in her eyes.

  No, dammit. You're not going to ruin it. You need this.

  With a sweep of her hand, she tossed the bra to the floor, turned off the light and opened the door. Her body was in shadow.

  "Well, there you are," he said, reclining on the bed in his dress pants and shirt, his tie carelessly tossed on the floor beside cordovan dress shoes. The glowing green digits of the bedside clock illuminated his smile. "I thought you were having second thoughts."

  She said nothing and glanced at the digital clock; it read 11:45. She did her best to smile, and stepped into the lamplight, nude.

  His eyes widened and his mouth moved, but the witty patter he had maintained from the moment they had met at the M&S Grille escaped him. "I, ummm…"

  "Get undressed," she said. "And don’t say anything else."

  <><><>

  He was an attorney at an upscale law firm nearby. He "couldn't help but notice her fantastic taste in drinks" as she sat alone at the bar, surrounded by the hubbub of a Friday happy hour.

  "It's just a martini," she said, barely casting a glance at him.

  "With olives…wait, are those olives stuffed with something?" he said, absently scratching at his neatly trimmed three-day beard. He probably engineered that look in pursuit of a devil-may-care mien; it was working. She saw that he was attractive, around thirty, in three seconds after she caught his face in the mirror behind the bar.

  His eyes smiled when he talked.

  "Is that something you think about, stuffing things?" she said, snatching the olives out of the drink. She worked one off the toothpick with her tongue, avoiding his eyes.

  "Well, Thanksgiving is right around the corner," he said. "Do you mind?" He gestured at the empty barstool next to her.

  She shrugged, her heart pounding.

  He slid in and signaled for the bartender. "Hey Sharona, can I get two more of these?"

  "Heavy drinker?" she said, her eyes now on his in the mirror.

  "One's for you," he said.

  "Thanks," she offered, looking over her other shoulder. The bar was filling up with more men sporting suits and spectacularly contrived facial hair. She sipped her drink.

  Truth be told, she was watching her pennies and could use a little help with the bar
bill. This dress from Express had cost her a chunk, and then the underclothes from Victoria's…

  "So, why haven't I seen you before?" He had a warm, pleasing way about him. Not excessively handsome, but with a masculine charm. Deep brown eyes and an ease with himself that she suspected was part artifice to make up for some secret insecurity.

  "Not looking hard enough."

  He laughed. "I guess so," he said, accepting his drink from the bartender and sliding the second one to her. "Seriously, are you a lawyer or something?"

  "Something. What are you, a cop?"

  He sipped his drink and sat back on his barstool. "All right, no need to get testy. Didn't mean to intrude," his eyes scanned the surface of the bar, then looked at her in the mirror. "I'm just…interested."

  "In what?" she said, turning from the mirror to face him.

  His dark brown eyes didn't flinch at her gaze. "Well, if you want me to lawyer up--"

  "Is that what you are, a lawyer?"

  He nodded. "Guilty."

  "Don't lawyer up, just tell me what you want."

  He bought himself time by taking a ponderous sip of his martini, and then cleared his throat. "They have great seafood here. Want to have dinner?"

  "I'll let you know after I've had my drink," she managed, presenting a calm and deliberate vibe in spite of her nervousness.

  He ran a delicate, almost feminine hand through his thick, light brown hair.

  "Which drink?" He smiled, pushing the new martini closer to her first one.

  "I'm Kate," she said, taking the fresh drink.

  "Alan."

  "Assuming I agree to dinner, what do you want to do after we eat, Alan?"

  "Ask you what you want for breakfast."

  "Oh my God," she said. "Is that really the best you can do?"

  “No,” he replied with that same warm smile, and laying his hand on hers gently. “To see the best I can do, we have to get through dinner first.”

  <><><>

  Kate moved slowly from the bathroom door to Alan, moving over his body on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, her erect nipples brushing against his chest as she kissed him and awkwardly helped him undress.

  He swept her in his arms, gently putting her on her back as he stripped off his pants, underwear and shirt. Alan started to kiss her midsection.

  Kate put her hand on his face and pushed him away.

  "What the hell?" he said, sitting up.

  She fairly threw herself into his arms, straddling him and knocking him on his back. Kate took him inside herself, riding him, her eyes obscured by her blonde hair, defying his gentle attempts to take control.

  She moaned with pleasure as she ground out her climax a few seconds before his arrived; they groaned and cursed and murmured together as she collapsed down against him. Kate's hair fell over her face and into Alan's.

  "Oh my god," he said.

  "That," she sighed, "was overdue."

  She rolled off his body onto her back, wishing she still smoked, and blew the hair off her face. She absently stroked Alan's torso with her right hand for a moment, her hands tracing his lightly muscled abs, his ribs and his chest for a moment.

  She jerked her hand away and sat up, her eyes wide and on the clock.

  "You have to go now."

  "What?" he said, incredulous.

  "Did you have a good time?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Me too," she said, looking into the hotel room darkness. "Now be good and get out. Please."

  "Are you--?"

  "As a heart attack," she looked at the bedside digital clock. "It’s 11:55. Go. Now."

  He stood, hastily gathering his clothes. "You are one strange lady," he said.

  She nodded, glancing at him as he dressed, making no moves to cover her nudity.

  "Can I, I mean, do you want to--"

  "No," she said, barely a whisper. "Hurry. It's almost midnight. I can't have you here."

  "What, do you turn into a pumpkin or something?"

  "Something," she said. "Alan, thank you, it was wonderful. But you have to go." She stood, her body illuminated by the glow of the digital clock.

  "You're so beautiful, and I think we really made a connection. Can't we--"

  "Get out, Alan," she snapped, her tone no longer patient.

  A confused, hurt look crossed his face in the green glow of the clock.

  "Okay, I get it," he said. "You're married."

  "Something like that," she said, walking to the door, her hand on the handle.

  Alan slipped his jacket over his untucked shirt, hopping into his shoes as she opened the door.

  "Thanks, Alan."

  "Um, okay," he said as she shut the door in his face.

  Kate leaned against the door, her head down. She looked up slightly, her eye locking on to the numbers on the digital clock as they changed from 11:59 to midnight.

  She fell into the bed, wrapped herself in the sheet and stared up at the ceiling.

  "Happy anniversary, Ricky. I miss you." She allowed the tears to flow.

  <><><>

  "Yes, Grif. I'm on my way. How's the baby?"

  "She's fine, Kate. I'm holding her right now, giving her a snack. How was the CASE conference?" he said.

  "Fine, you know, the usual stuff," she said. "Thanks so much for keeping Kara. I needed to go."

  "Of course," he said. "When will we see you?"

  "Heading back today," she said, looking at Alan's hastily forgotten tie on the hotel room floor.

  "We'll be here," he said.

  She stared at the tie, resting on the floor like a dead snake. She was loath to touch it.

  "Kate? You there, honey?"

  She cleared her throat. "Yeah, Grif. Just, um. You know."

  "Yes, today. I know. Come on home, sugar," he said.

  "I may stop at Monticello on the way home," she said. "To say hey, and happy anniversary, and all that."

  "You bet," Grif replied, his voice hoarse.

  "Okay." She inhaled heavily through her nose. "I'll see you tonight. Kiss Kara for me."

  "You bet, sweetie. See you tonight."

  Boat Drinks

  The man with a thin black beard from neck to cheekbone and a large diamond stud in his ear claimed his name was Hector, and that his girlfriend was Lamda. Hector and Lamda wanted to book a night cruise to do some "night fishing" and enjoy the moonlight. Both were in their early thirties, tanned dark, with jet-black hair and a fair amount of showy gold jewelry.

  "Bling," thought Taters Malley, cocking an eyebrow as the pair walked into his small dockside office.

  He and his wife, Jordan, were poring over the computer screen, trying to make sense of some jumbled QuickBooks entries when the pair semi-staggered through the door. Nobody was ever a hundred percent sober visiting Key West, but this couple seemed just this side of high, and Taters wasn’t big on people getting high when there was perfectly legal whiskey and beer available on every corner and most of the places in between

  "Come on, man, we want to see the ocean at night," Hector said, tugging absently on his earring with one hand. The other arm was wrapped tightly around Lamda's trim waist, which sported a Hog's Snout Saloon t-shirt tied just under her ample bosom, exposing an exquisite, rock-hard midriff. "We wanna have some boat drinks, drop a line in the water. Maybe catch something we can eat later."

  "Boat drinks, huh?" Taters said, sitting back in his chair. Hector, or whatever his real name was, sported a vaguely Caribbean accent, a mixture of Puerto Rico, Cuba, and perhaps a dash of the Bahamas, but even Taters’ well-traveled ear was unsure. Taters didn’t like mysterious men any more than he liked druggies and he felt a scowl beginning to gather.

  Jordan flashed him a quick look, conveying her entirely convincing counter-argument of "these people are silly but we need the money" in a split second.

  "Well, I make a good bottle of Modelo," Taters said, relaxing back in his chair, arms behind his head.

  "Can you make a pina colada?" Lamda aske
d, breaking her slightly stoned silence. "I like pina coladas."

  "We can arrange that," Jordan said. "A four-hour night cruise is six-fifty."

  Lamda's eyes widened. "And what do we get for all that?"

  "Well, miss, we can fish the deep wreck, that's more than two hundred feet of water. We can try our luck at pulling in some yellow tail, mangrove and maybe a little cubera snapper. We can probably get a shot at goliath grouper, cobia, amber jacks, and of course peep at a few sharks."

  "Sharks?" Lamda cleaved closer to Hector's side.

  "Don’t worry, little lady," Taters said. "We fish 'em, we don’t swim with 'em."

  Hector chewed his lower lip, thinking it over.

  "We leave for the night trip about two hours before the sun goes down. That way we get to see the sunset and then fish for the evening bite. It’s all the pina coladas and Modelos you can drink, within reason. If you want to eat something besides Fritos or fish bait, you'll need to bring it. Also, we'll cut your catch at the dock for no extra charge."

  "You can take it to just about any restaurant in town and they'll cook it up for you," Jordan said. Damn, Taters thought, I guess we do need the money if she's pouring on the sales pitch.

  Hector cut his eyes between Lamda and Jordan. "So is it both of you on the boat, or…"

  "It's just me, your captain," Taters said. "Jordan stays on dry land and manages things here. She usually goes out when we have large charters, groups of four or more."

  Jordan leaned against the desk. "So, what will it be, cash or charge?" she asked.

  <><><>

  The TenFortyEZ slipped away from the dock, passing the old gray wooden planks with a whisper. The big V-8s emitted a brief cough as Taters gunned it just enough to push the old Connie into the channel, away from the dock. He flipped on assorted running lights, his rangefinder and the CD player.

  Jimmy Buffet's "Cheeseburger in Paradise" played as the TenFortyEZ put-putted out of the Key West Harbor. Taters called the harbormaster on the radio and announced the departure of the "entire Malley Tours fleet."

  "Admiral Malley, thanks for the head's up. Safe fishing," the harbormaster radioed back. It was actually Jordan, wearing one of her numerous vocational hats, but Hector and Lamda were oblivious as they sat in the fishing chairs mounted on the rear deck and watched the dock shrink away in the fading sunlight. Hector drank the Modelo Taters had proffered when he welcomed them aboard while Lamda chugged a ready-made pina colada mix out of a red Solo cup.