The Palm Beach Murders by James Patterson (best novels in english .txt) 📗

team, come all the way back and beat the undefeated Patriots! The Eli Manning fourth-quarter comeback. The David Tyree one-handed helmet catch?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” she asks, wearing a teasing grin from ear to ear.

“Gave ’em to a client—and the asshole puts us in review six months later. Sure wasn’t thinking about that!

“But seriously, folks…a few years ago I had a chance to hire David Hale, and didn’t. He went on to semi-greatness, as you know, and it could have been with us. Woulda, coulda, shoulda—but I regret that one to this day.”

“Hard to see untapped potential sometimes,” she says. I note the empathy.

“The chemistry just wasn’t there, then,” I answer. “And sometimes that’s everything.”

“I feel a good chemistry here, though,” I hear her say. Which means she can’t tell my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour.

She signals for the waiter, and the check. Another iPhone text vibration…

“I’m looking for a partner, someone capable of helping me run the agency. There’s a couple of other people I want to talk to, but I definitely want to reconnect with you. And soon. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Fantastic!” I say. “Thank you. Want to split the check?”

“Oh, please,” she says, with a laugh.

Back out on 9th Avenue on this stunning fall afternoon, the sidewalk’s alive with New Yorkers acting as if they’ve got places to go, things to do.

So do I.

“I’ve genuinely enjoyed meeting you,” she tells me, “and look forward to seeing you again soon.”

“Same here. And count on it!”

A firm, eye-to-eye handshake, and we part company on a great note. Her driver pulls up for her and she climbs in the backseat.

I hail a cab and check my texts. They’re from Chris Berardo, our creative director:

Where the hell are you?

And…

You need to get your ass here NOW!

Chapter 6

“East 11th Street, between Third and Fourth,” I tell the cabbie.

Marterelli & Partners’ office is across town in the East Village, south of Union Square Park. It’s a classic New York neighborhood, and Union Square is a great place to hang out during lunch, or for other stuff.

What the hell is Chris so excited about?

We reach 11th and Third and my stomach drops when I see a cop car parked sideways at the intersection with his red and blue lights flashing, blocking the entrance to 11th Street. There’s yellow tape stretching all the way across, from one side of the street to the other.

This looks bad. Real bad.

“Far corner,” I say, and pay the cabdriver.

I approach the officer sitting in the driver’s seat and explain who I am. He lets me through after I show him my agency ID and driver’s license.

Halfway down the block I can see four police cars and an ambulance double-parked in front of our building, lights flashing.

Jesus. It’s worse than I thought.

Looks like the entire agency is outside, on the sidewalk or in the street.

I get there just in time to see two medics jump out of the ambulance, open the rear doors, and pull out a wheeled gurney. Oh, God—they’re headed inside the agency building!

As soon as I’m in front of our brownstone, a dozen coworkers are surrounding me.

Maureen, our receptionist, is shaking like a leaf, crying. Middle-aged, widowed, pleasantly overweight, with a face that’s usually beaming, Mo’s the agency den mother. I take her hand and pull her in close. She leans on my shoulder and loses it.

“What the hell is going on, Mo?”

“It’s awful. Unbelievable.” She’s sobbing.

I spot Chris Berardo out in the street. Lanky, shoulder-length hair pulled back in an attempt at a ponytail. He’s white as a ghost. He shoves his hands up in the air and looks at me as if to say It’s about goddamned time you got here!

“What? Jesus, talk to me, Mo!”

“There’s somebody up on the roof. Dead! Somebody who lives next door saw the body and called the cops. They got here about an hour ago and cleared the building, and still aren’t allowing anyone back in.…”

“Oh, my God!”

“And for all they know the killer’s still inside!”

Paul Marterelli’s down the sidewalk, beyond the building entrance, with a reporter and a cameraman. I recognize Chuck Esposito, the Emmy Award–winning crime reporter from the local NBC affiliate, Channel 4. Damn—bad news travels fast in New York. Paul looks like he’s shaking his head more than he’s talking.

“Hang on, Mo, let me see what I can find out.”

A couple of plainclothes cops are standing on the top step, blocking the front door, eyes fixed on the crowd out front.

Nearest one says, “Sorry sir, we cannot allow entry just yet.”

I introduce myself. “I’m second in command here, and I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. I’d like to be able to reassure my coworkers that they’re in no danger.”

“Understood. But you’re going to have to wait with the rest of them.”

“Do we know who it is?”

“The victim has been identified, but until we can notify the family, we cannot release the identity. I’m Detective Peter Quinn, with the 13th precinct, over on 21st Street. I’ll be in charge of this investigation. This is the second officer in charge, Detective Scott Garrison.”

A reluctant silence has settled over the crowd, which has grown with neighbors and passersby.

I see nothing but deeply worried looks on my colleagues’ faces. I’m still on the steps when some of them move in a little closer to me—for some kind of reassurance?

“Oh, Tim,” Mo says. “I’m so glad you’re here now. We all are.” She pulls a couple of the agency women in against her, an arm around each one.

“All I can say is, we’ll find out what’s going on together. I’m sure we’re in good hands,” I say, trying to reassure them, with no visible success.

Soon one of the police officers pushes through the front door and holds it open for the medics.

And here comes something I haven’t seen since Fallujah, and never wanted to see again. A gurney with a medic on each end moving the victim, this time