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

all of that be if you didn’t know her well? Really well. Can you answer that?”

It’s time to come clean. Past time. I’ve got my fists clenched in full view…relax!

I take a deep breath.

“Actually, yes. I plead guilty. I have a weakness where women are concerned. Not especially proud of it…but I’ll own it. Tiffany and I stayed in touch over the years. Or more accurately, she stayed in touch with me. Anyway, we’d see each other from time to time, you know. Get together. Long lunches…

“So it’s no wonder she would feel like this was the real deal.” I try a joke. “I can tell you from experience those boobs were worth every cent she spent on them…”

“C’mon, MacGhee. Let’s make this easy on both of us. Enough of the bullshit…”

“This isn’t a crime. Grounds for divorce, maybe, though I hope my wife doesn’t have to know. But not a crime…”

Detective Quinn isn’t listening anymore. His eyes pierce mine.

Chapter 38

I’m sweating bullets. I stand up and take my jacket off. I suck down more water.

“Listen carefully, MacGhee.…” Quinn says.

“Is all this really necessary? I…” and I get the unmistakable stare that says Yes, it is, so shut up and listen.

“You have the right to remain silent, and refuse to answer any questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney.…”

“Detective, please. I know this stuff. I…”

He raises an open hand to shut me up: “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now, without an attorney, you have the right to stop anytime and request one. Knowing and understanding your rights, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney?”

I nod yes.

“I need to hear you say it, MacGhee.”

“Yes, of course, I am willing to answer more questions.”

“The other day you told us about Ramon. You told us he provided drugs to people in your office, presumably for money.”

“Yes.”

“What about you? Did you get drugs from Ramon?”

“Some occasional weed, yes, I admit it.”

“You did two years in the Marines before you started in the business.…”

“Yes, and damned proud of it.”

“We checked your records. Good marks all around. Guess what else we found out?”

“I can’t imagine.” I’m hoping against hope.…

“Ramon served in the Marines, too. With you. In Iraq. He was in your battalion. In your squad. Ramon Martinez was in the same Marine Corps squad in Iraq that you led. You must have known each other a hell of a lot better than you’ve admitted to so far.”

He’s got me there, for sure. “Yes, we served together. That was before the agency business. Didn’t think it mattered.…”

And my mind wanders, believe it or not. I’m out on checkpoint Foxtrot with Ramon, dug in between the corner walls of a decimated building on the outskirts of Fallujah, deep into the night before we are to launch Operation Vigilant Resolve to retake the city from the insurgents. Our orders were to prevent anyone from entering the city, or leaving it, and our responsibility covered some twenty-five meters to either side. The calm before the storm. I’m scoping the landscape with night vision binocs. No action out there so far.

And so we drift into Spanish. Ramon and I were close and I wanted to learn his native language.

“Mi amigo…” I hear Ramon say…and then…

“You’re not supposed to think! Christ, MacGhee, you even helped Ramon get his job at the agency back when you first worked there! And we know this: you were in the drug business with him.”

God help me. They’ve got it all. At least, they think they do.

“What’s that got to do with his murder? Why would I murder an old friend? A brother?” I’m desperate for anything.

“Well, while you were panicking on the way over here we searched the boxes you were taking out of the office, and found this.” He nods over, and Garrison holds up a Ziploc bag of coke. Shit!

“Yeah, okay, I did some blow every once in a while. But it’s not…”

“That wasn’t a question, MacGhee. But this is: what was your specialty in the service?”

“I…”

“Never mind. We know what it was. MOS 8541. US Marine Corps Scout Sniper, especially trained in marksmanship with an M40 sniper rifle and an M9 pistol. Ring a bell?”

I’m speechless. And not by choice.

“In fact, your entire squad was sniper qualified, and that included Ramon. You guys were brothers in arms. No wonder you worked the drug business together. And you clearly knew how to handle a firearm.”

Holy shit. Maybe they do have it all.

“Now, my partner has a couple of questions. Detective Garrison…?”

“I do. We also found this in your boxes.” He holds up a key. “You know what this is, right? It’s the key to a safety deposit box. Yours. Bank of America, down on Canal Street. Separate bank from your family checking accounts. Guess what we found in it?”

I start to stand up.

“Sit down, MacGhee,” commands Quinn, in a distinctly military voice.

“This is a Marine-issued M9 pistol. Yours. With the barrel threaded for an Airsoft suppressor. This one.” He holds that up, too.

And then Quinn says, “What do you think the odds are that the bullet slugs we found in Ramon, in Bonnie Jo Hopkins, and in Tiffany Stone will all match this weapon?”

Chapter 39

So now, here I sit, helpless. I hear talk down the hall.…

“Remember the end scene from Psycho? You know, Mrs. Bates’s boy, Anthony Perkins, sitting in that jail cell, with this sick, haunted stare? That shit-eating grin on his face, like he’s sitting on some dark secret, and enjoying it?”

“Yeah, I do. Only it sure as hell wasn’t a secret.”

“Exactly. Well, that’s that guy sitting down there in the ding wing, cell block number 9. Scary, man.”

How did I get here?

Being in the advertising business is like being in a pressure cooker. Got to get it right, every time—only none of those final decisions are yours.