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

“Sorry to bother you, Tim, but we just…”

“Hold it, hold it! And please turn that damned thing off.” They do.

“Look. I respect what you guys are after, and what you do, searching for the truth, you know? It’s just that I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to add to what you already know.”

“We’ve talked to Detective Quinn, who said he was impressed with your knowledge of the agency and all the people who work here. That if anybody knew anything it’d be you…”

“Flattering, I guess. But I don’t. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting some folks.…”

“Okay, sure. But we’ll likely contact you again and…”

I’m headed down the street before he can finish his sentence. Give me a break!

Down at the corner I can finally take in a deep breath. Exhale. Helps. I’m making my way across Union Square up toward the Flatiron Building when I see a couple of guys I vaguely recognize. “Hey, buddy,” one of them says to me, with a slightly forced smile.

“Hey…” Who the hell are these guys?

“Hope you’re well. Don’t remember your name. But I know you were friends with Ramon. Terrible about Ramon. Fucking terrible.”

“Sure is,” I say, eager to move on.

“Got that right. Anyway, sorry. I know you guys were close.”

Which is totally weird. “Sure, thanks. Take care,” and I head on up to 26th Street.

This is getting crazy.

Hill Country is rockin’. Chris and his Desberardos are playing downstairs, and their music reaches up to the street. I can hear Chris blowing his harp, and that’s our Bill Kelly backing him up on guitar. Down I go, and spot a group of agency types over by the bar.

Bonnie’s out on the floor in front of the band dancing, and I join her. It’s a rockin’ tune, but I pull her in close for a spin, and drift off into fantasyland. The song’s over much too soon, so I release my grip on her and we head back to the bar.

“So, Tim…” David Gebben, the copywriter, speaks close to my ear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you and BJ were getting it on.”

“Oh, Jesus, no. Not saying I wouldn’t like to, but, you know, never dip your pen in company ink.…”

“Right,” he says, utterly unconvinced.

By the time I walk through the front door at home, Jean and the kids are upstairs, fast asleep.

I tiptoe into the kids’ rooms, first Ellie’s and then Brady’s, pull their covers up and steal a late kiss good night. Ellie cracks one eye open. “Hi, Daddy…” Brady’s out like a light. Jean rolls over as I’m approaching our bed and moans something loving. She’s at peace, for now.

If she only knew.…

A soft kiss good night and I’m back downstairs to pour myself a glass of pinot noir, Signaterra 2012. Then I settle into my chair in the den and drift off into thoughts about the life I’m living.

Up until a few days ago, it was semi-perfect. Or at least it looked that way to the rest of the world, including Jean and the kids. A good life. Great family. Comforts. Peace and love. Church. All of it.

At the bottom of my second glass of wine I can only agonize over a pipe dream. If only it could stay just like it is, forever. But it can’t.

I drag my raggedy ass upstairs and climb into bed with Jean. If she only knew.…

This damned murder has already made any semblance of a normal life impossible.

And it’s only the first one.

Chapter 16

Same 7:20 express Tuesday morning and I’m back in the city. I wave at Mo on the way in to the office. “Hey, Mo!”

“They’re baaaack,” she says, and she’s not talking about the poltergeist.

I grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen and head upstairs to my cubicle. Surely the cops have turned up every bit of so-called evidence that would be here in the office. Why the hell do they keep coming back every day?

Do they think somebody here did it?

I get into my e-mails and see one from Paul to the entire office, subject line: A wake for Ramon.

To my dear colleagues:

I’ve been informed there’s a wake for Ramon tonight at the St. Bartholomew’s Church, 1227 Pacific St (at Bedford Ave), Brooklyn. 6-9p. A or C train, Nostrand Ave stop and walk a couple of blocks. I know his family, loved ones, and friends will appreciate our support. Hope to see many of you there. Paul

I click Reply All.

Absolutely Paul, I’ll be there.

Before I can finish my coffee, Detective Quinn stops by. “Hey, Tim, how’s it going?”

“Morning, Pete. If it wasn’t for this murder business, things would be pretty good. Just found out there’s a wake for Ramon tonight, over in Crown Heights. Of course I’m going.”

“Good to hear. You guys have a nice shop here. Lots of solid people. But I’ve got to tell ya, I’m getting a weird vibe from some of your creative types.”

“Whaddaya mean, Detective?”

“Well, best I can put it is, we don’t speak the same language. And worst case is, they know something and they’re not telling me.”

“Weird. Yeah, they’re unique, that’s for sure. Have to be to work in this business. You know, the more you act out in this business, the more creative you appear to be, the higher the rewards. Where’s the disconnect? What’s going on, Pete?”

“We’ve talked to most of them. People who have worked in the same, relatively small company together for a good while, and know the deceased, one way or the other. But they’re not saying shit. It’s almost like they’re protecting somebody. And why the hell would they? Based on what you’re telling me about Ramon, what’s to protect?”

“Beats me,” I say, avoiding the obvious. For now. “But this is a crazy business. I’ve got a good feeling about most of these guys, for what it’s worth.”

“Understand. But I’m not getting the feeling that I can count on what little they’re telling me. We’re really counting on you to keep your ear to