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

him. It’s like…ripping a hole in the agency’s heart. Everybody seems in shock.”

“And how about you, love?” she asks.

“You know, I guess I’m okay, all things considered. Truth is, I’ve seen worse, as you probably know.

“Remember when I’d call you from over there, in Iraq, when I was in the middle of all that mayhem and violence?”

“Yes, I…”

“Well, I tried to make sure you couldn’t feel the horror. I suppose it was some kind of warped preparation for all this.

“This is definitely tough, this murder, so close to home, but I’ll be fine. Got to be. Agency’s counting on me for support.”

“Oh, honey. I know they can. You’re the best.” I’m even more thankful than usual for my wife’s love.

Chapter 10

Saturday morning I grab Brady and take him to his soccer game down at Croton Point Park, which juts out into the Hudson and offers gorgeous views of Rockland County on the other side of the river, a few miles south of West Point.

Soon as we get there Brady jumps out of the car and runs off to join his teammates. The eight- and nine-year-olds are all dressed up in their Croton Kickers T’s. I think, what a gift this boy is. And his sister, Ellie, three years older.

Jean and I got married after college, where we dated for the last three years. I joined the Marines that fall. We got hitched after Parris Island and Camp Lejeune—right before I shipped out to Iraq! A hell of a move for two young people. She insisted. And she was right. Hey—she’s smart!—and wears the kind of beauty and presence that is ageless. One of those independent souls that doesn’t depend on others for her own internal happiness. If you didn’t know better you’d think we lived an idyllic life. If you didn’t know better.

But I do.

“Hey, Tim!” It’s Charlie Raffin, a neighbor. We’ve shared many a dinner with Charlie and his wife, Jennifer. Their son, Andy, is on Brady’s team.

“Wasn’t that murder yesterday at your agency? Saw it on the news last night. Jesus.”

“Awful. Just awful,” I say. “Lost a great guy. How the hell does a freakin’ murder take place in your office? It’s like something out of a movie.”

“Hope you’re managing okay.”

“I’m okay, actually…truth is, I’m waiting to hear about a possible new job. A job I really want—just between you and me.”

“Of course,” Charlie assures me. “Mum’s the word. Good luck on the job!”

A cheer erupts from the crowd of parents across the field. Brady’s team’s just scored a goal, and the boys are yelling and hopping all over the place. Coach blows his whistle and lines them back up for the kick-off.

I live in the highest-taxed county in the country—Westchester. I own a five-thousand-square-foot house, a cottage on the property, a fifty-foot pool, the works—with property taxes approaching $40,000 a year. Well, I don’t actually own it. The banks do. Had to take a second mortgage on it a couple of years ago to pay down some other debt. Robbed Peter to pay Paul—the other Paul—and still am. Constantly bouncing dollars from one bank account to another—including the one Jean doesn’t know anything about.

And now, I’m buried in all of it. My credit cards are pretty much maxed.

I see Diane Elvin, who Jean and I play tennis with every Sunday morning. I get my best game face back on.

“Good to see you, Di. You and Joe ready for tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.” She winks. “Tim, it’s just so terrible, the murder at your agency. I am so sorry.”

“Appreciate it, my friend. Thanks. Best to Joe.”

For all Jean knows, we’re fine. She has no reason to think we’re not. That’s how secretive I’ve been. I’m not proud of it.

And we’re not fine. If I don’t get this new job, we are done with Westchester. The house, the neighbors, these soccer games, the kids’ friends, Jean’s girlfriends. They would all be devastated. So would I.

I can almost see the freakin’ moving trucks in the driveway. The situation, along with the murder, is weighing on me like a ton of bricks.

But I’m getting ahead of myself….

My phone rings. It’s Barbara Lundquist, the recruiter. On a Saturday?

“Hey, Barb, what’s up?”

“Hi, Tim. I know it’s Saturday. I figure you’re with your kids or something, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Know…what?”

“I just talked to Linda Kaplan.”

And I can feel some of the weight lifting off my back.

Soon enough the game’s over, and Brady and I head home to Twin Eagles. Jean’s in the kitchen, fixing lunch. Ellie’s helping.

“Guess what, baby? Just heard from the recruiter. That interview I had yesterday went great. She’s got me number one on her list! Wants to see me again, soon.”

“That’s fantastic, honey. I hope it’s something you really want?”

Want? Hell, I need this job. We need this job. Bad. If she only knew just how bad.

“Absolutely, love. It’s a great opportunity!”

Meanwhile, I send those movers on their way, out of my head, trucks empty. For now.

Chapter 11

It’s a beautiful fall night. Sun’s dropping down out over the Hudson, full moon’s following it up behind us. I roll the BBQ grill down by the pool and fire it up. Fillets for Jean and me and burgers for the kids. Poolside with the family is my favorite way to dine.

The kids are inside, doing whatever kids do, so I pop open a bottle for Jean and me. We love champagne, especially Dom Perignon, and have special flutes for nights like this one.

I fill our glasses, pouring just right to minimize the bubbles, and offer a toast: “Here’s to life, our lives, blessed with good fortune and good health. And here’s to us and our partnership, warmed by our love and devotion.…”

We raise our glasses in a mutual, loving gesture. “L’Chaim,” she says, and I subconsciously inhale mine smack empty. No effervescent mouth feel on this one.

Jean can’t help but laugh, a sympathetic chuckle. “My love!” and pats me on the shoulder. “Hope it helps.”

After dinner, the kids disappear