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

sure we’re going to find out soon, and then we’ll deal with it together.”

“Semper fi?” I hear from Julie Reich, who’s out in the hall.

My catchphrase in the office. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” And I get a couple of nods in semi-agreement.

Another text…

What terrible timing. It’s from Tiffany Stone, an actress we cast in the first CrawDaddy Super Bowl commercial way back when I first joined Marterelli out of the Marines. The first CrawDaddy girl—buxom, bawdy, and naturally funny, with some…interesting past video experience. I met her on the shoot, she’s stayed in touch over the years a bit—but now she won’t leave me alone.

I need to see you!

I ignore it. This is absolutely the last person I want to deal with right now.

I have to think about my 150 agency colleagues who are about to find out that one of our own has been murdered. And this is no accidental killing. This is a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

Madness.

Chapter 8

Paul sends a company-wide e-mail asking us to meet him in fifteen minutes, at two o’clock, in the big third-floor reception and kitchen area, where we can talk.

The cops are hardly gone and here it comes. Some of the shit that I’m trying to make sense of is about to go public, and I know it’s only going to make it worse for me.

Each of the three floors at Marterelli & Partners is wide open. Workstations stretch side by side nearly the whole length of the floor, flush with computers, laptops, printers, scanners, and the like. At each end are a handful of cubicles for some of the senior people. There are open conference rooms on the third and fourth floors with sliding glass doors and drapes for private meetings and presentations. The fifth floor is the top floor, with easy access to the roof. The reception and kitchen area provides the biggest open space and makes it possible for most of us to close in around Paul, who’s standing behind the counter.

He asks me to join him.

“Free lunch?” from one of the creative wise guys. Gallows humor that stirs a few hesitant snickers.

“Okay, here goes,” and Paul clears his throat. Twice. He speaks louder than usual, choosing his words carefully. “It is as bad as you can imagine. We have lost one of our own.”

An audible gasp erupts from the crowd. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, my God!” moans Mo.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who, for Christ’s sake! Who?” demands David.

“We’ve lost…Ramon…our beloved Ramon…one of our finest.”

Cries of “No! It can’t be!”

Ramon is one of Marterelli’s earliest employees. He’s our self-taught tech guy, keeping us online and interconnected. Making sure the creatives’ Macs were humming, up-to-date, loaded with the latest software. He was the best.

I actually helped Ramon get his job at Marterelli, but that’s another story.…I’m going to miss this guy something awful. A genuine compatriot. A wonderful guy. A friend to everybody.

“Shit! My computer’s down! Now what?” we hear from another wiseass trying to lighten the load, I guess. A few more reluctant smirks. But more people are crying.

“Who the hell would want to kill Ramon?” Chris demands to know. “And why? Why?”

“Amen, brother,” is all I can say. This murder is starting to turn my entire world inside out.

And there’s two more to come.

Chapter 9

I call Jean at home. “Honey, you won’t believe what’s happened here.”

“Yes, I would—it’s on the news already. Somebody got murdered there?”

“Yeah, terrible. A guy named Ramon. Ramon Martinez, our tech guy. Great guy. Cops found him up on the roof, dead. Shot in the head sometime last night.”

“Wow, honey, that’s unbelievable. You okay?”

“Not exactly. I’m getting out of here. I’ll be home early, okay? Bye for now.”

“Sure, love. I’ll be here. Bye.”

It’s only three thirty, but there’s no damned reason to hang around work. For me or anybody else. And anyway, it’s Friday. I’m outta there, on my way over to the Union Square subway station when I pass by Fanelli’s Café on Prince Street, one of the oldest pubs in New York City.

What the hell? I turn around and head in for a beverage. I never drink before dinner, except on the agency roof, but God knows I could use one now, given all the shit that’s coming down around me.

The bar is abuzz with classic New York characters. I squeeze in and order a Ketel One, soda, lime. Fifteen minutes later I’m a lot braver, so I pay up. Time to head for the 6 train up to Grand Central, where I can catch the 4:47 to Croton-on-Hudson. But not before I cab it down to the bank again. Can grab the 6 from there.

At the Croton-on-Hudson station I climb in my car and head for our house, which is only five minutes away. It’s a big, five-thousand-square-foot 1920s Spanish Mediterranean, called Twin Eagles; there’s a stone sculpture of an eagle, wings spread, on each side of the driveway. And it’s twice as big, and twice as expensive, as we need.

But Jean and the kids love it. We’ve been here eight years.

I pull up around the circular drive in front of the house. The last thing I want is the kids—or anybody—to see me upset. So I honk the horn. Surprise! Here comes Brady racing out the front door, and jumps all over me. His sister, Ellie, follows out behind him. “What’s up, Dad?”

They stay with me, like kids who know their father loves them. We head out toward the pool.

Then I see Jean up on the porch.

“Oh, Tim, I hope you’re okay,” she asks, as I park the kids in the front hall and head for the kitchen. “Have to say I’m glad you’re here, but what a terrible way to get you home early.”

The kids head upstairs and Jean follows me into the kitchen.

“You look terrible, Tim. Talk to me.”

“Not sure I’ve ever told you about Ramon. I helped him get his job at Marterelli’s. Our IT guy. One of the sweetest, nicest people you’d ever meet. Everybody loved