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

the ground. Because so far…we’re clueless.”

“I’m keeping my eyes and ears open, Detective,” I promise.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” he says, on the way out.

Can’t wait.

Chapter 17

“Okay, now what?” It’s Bonnie Jo, back at my door as soon as Quinn’s gone.

“Oh, man,” I say. “I’m seriously convinced they suspect somebody here at the agency. And I’ve got to tell ya, he’s asking me all about you creatives.”

“What! Why us?”

My iPhone vibrates with a text. Jesus, it’s Tiffany again.…

I must see you! Please respond!

“Jesus, BJ, take a look at this.” I show her the text and am instantly sorry I did.

“Tiffany? Tiffany Stone? From our CrawDaddy spot all those years ago? Why the hell is she texting you?”

“She’s looking for work. Thinks I can help her. Why the hell isn’t she after you about work, Bonnie, instead of me?”

“Good question.” There’s a look on BJ’s face I haven’t seen before.

“I mean, first of all, it’s you guys who cast the talent, not me,” I say. “I’d love to help, but I’m not a creative. Has she ever been after you?”

The emerging look of suspicion on Bonnie Jo’s face is unmistakable. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“What? You think I’m hiding something? C’mon, you know me better than that.”

“Well, I thought I did. Just let me know if you hear anything else, okay?”

“Definitely. You going to the wake?”

“Of course,” she says, and, as always, I watch her turn around and walk away.

In no time Lenny’s back at my door, looking only slightly better than he did when I sent him home yesterday.

“Hey bro, everything good?” he asks. Instead of the glassy-eyed smile, I get one that’s decidedly twitchy.

“Far as I know, Len. Have the cops talked to you yet?”

“No, man, why?” For him it’s rapid-speak. “Feels like they’re leaving me out for some reason.”

No wonder, I’m thinking. You’re half stoned all the time.

“Just curious. I know they’re talking to all the creatives. Which shouldn’t be a surprise based on what you told me yesterday, should it?”

He’s clearly nervous, shifting from one foot to the other. He could sure use a couple of hits to mellow out.

“Guess not,” he admits, rubbing his ass, which is no doubt getting tighter by the minute.

“Take it easy, Lenny. Be cool.”

He starts to leave, but stops at the door and looks back at me. And what do I get from this drug user and now murder suspect?

A thumbs-up. Seriously?

My cell rings. It’s Bob Nardone, my tax accountant for the past ten years. A guy who has helped Jean and me through more financial shit than you can imagine.

“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

“Well, I’m looking at the paperwork you sent over the other day, and it’s not looking so good. There’s no way I can get you guys into a tax return scenario. You’ve got more coming in than you can apply expenses to.…”

“Damn, Bob, you sure couldn’t prove it by me.”

“I know, Tim. And you know I’d do anything within my powers to make it better, but I’m afraid I can’t this year. Looks like you’re going to owe approximately…twenty thousand dollars.…”

“Are you serious? I don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, Jesus—Jean has no idea this kind of shit is possible.”

“I understand,” he says. “I know you all too well, both of you. Look, there will be options. First of all we’ll get the maximum extension. And then we can file for extended monthly payments over time, like up to six years, so it should be manageable at least. Not pretty, but manageable.”

And I’m wondering what else can go wrong in a world that is coming apart at the seams.

My world.

Chapter 18

It’s six fifteen, time to get over to the wake. There’s still a handful of people at their laptops as I pass through the third floor, where most of the creatives are.

Chris’s packing up. “Hey, Tim. Got any thoughts about all this madness?”

“No more than anybody else, Chris. Have they talked to you yet?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Heard from Quinn they started with the creative guys. You must know about Ramon, right? What he was up to?”

“Well, you hear stuff. Won’t say I haven’t.”

“Exactly. You know damned well the detectives have heard the same stuff by now. Just between you and me, my guess is they actually suspect somebody here at work killed Ramon. We haven’t seen the last of these guys, you can count on that.”

“For sure. You’re going to the wake, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Want to grab a beverage on the way to the train?” he asks. The last thing I want to do right now is hang out with this guy. Or anybody else.

“Sorry man, I’ve got to make a stop on the way over.” I grab my shoulder bag and head straight for Fanelli’s to disappear into the bar crowd, to try to gather in a few minutes of sanity. Ketel One, soda, lime.

Then I’m off to Crown Heights to honor Ramon’s passing. Grab the downtown 5 to Fulton Street and the A over to Crown Heights. The walk to St. Bartholomew’s helps clear my head, and it needs clearing, that’s for damned sure.

On the way over I call Jean, like the broken record I am.

She answers before the second ring: “Now what?”

“Look, baby, I’m on my way to a wake for Ramon, over in Brooklyn. I know you’ll understand that I have to make an appearance. Won’t be too late, but you probably shouldn’t wait for me for dinner.”

“Okay, I do. And I won’t. And don’t be too late.”

“Later, love. Bye for now.”

Chapter 19

In ten minutes I’m climbing up the stairs into the St. Bartholomew church and the sanctuary. Damn near half the agency’s there, most of them with coffee in hand, chatting quietly in a handful of groups. And probably another fifty or sixty others, mingling at the side, near one of the naves. Obviously family and friends; I don’t recognize any of them.

I see Ramon’s casket up front, sitting between the two altars, isolated, bathed in glorious