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

They’re the client’s—it’s his money—and you can only hope they make the right decisions. If they don’t, it’s your damned fault, not theirs. It’s your ass. Every time. They can always fire the agency, before they get fired themselves.

Big-time stress. Enough to make you nuts.

That’s one thing.

Plus, I was in way over my head financially. Big house. Big mortgage. Two mortgages.

Obscene taxes. Credit cards maxed. Spending out of control. Switching money from one account to another to cover checks, if only temporarily. Sound familiar? Maybe not. But that’s where I was. Where we were, thanks to me. Although Jean never complained much about any of it. So…you look for some relief from all the freakin’ pressure. Extracurricular activities. A cocktail. Or three. A little weed. More weed. Xanax to cool down. Or oxycodone, if you can get it. Maybe some coke to pick you back up.

Most nights after work, me and the guys would end up on the agency roof passing joints around before I went home, or wherever. Last time I saw Ramon was the night he was murdered, up on the roof, where we were sharing a joint after work. And that’s where they found him, with a bullet to the back of his head.

We’d get all this stuff from Ramon. Congenial, connected Ramon. Our dealer. Cash money. A lot of it. How else would a lowly tech guy have a nice big brownstone apartment in Brooklyn? He was our source, and he did well for himself.

Then…I ended up partnering with Ramon. He knew where to get all this shit. I didn’t, and I never asked. But I had the contacts, the connections, inside the agency and beyond. I was the man—which the detectives finally figured out.

We made a good team, Ramon and me. And some money. For a while.

I tapped my secret bank account and gave Ramon extra money so he could expand his supply. Investment capital, so we could both benefit from growing demand.

But pretty soon he’s asking me for more capital. And more. And then he’s not asking—he’s demanding. I ain’t got it anymore—but he’s not buying it.

So he starts threatening me, more or less. And then more. Unacceptable. Got out of control. Had me in a corner.…

I had a great time with Tiffany over the years. She stayed hot, in every way imaginable. Her Super Bowl commercial put her on the map. Hell, a year later she’s on the cover of Playboy! Fully revealed inside. Like a dream come true for this guy. Every guy’s dream—never comes true. Except it did, for me. Had me a Playmate! For a while. We’d…see each other.

I loved her. Well…I loved…being with her. But she didn’t love me. She was using me because she thought I could help her career.

And worse, she was seriously into junk on her own. Turned out she was getting hers from Ramon, too, after connecting with him through some creatives. Then she’s leaning on me to get her more stuff—and pay for it! Which got to be unacceptable and it freaked me out, knowing the cops might soon be onto us.

But what led the cops to me? When I think about it, maybe some of the creatives started getting suspicious. Lenny? That was a joke. And Chris was never a serious suspect, either. And once the detectives figured out my connection to Ramon, I’m buried in this. Fried.

I ended up being the prime suspect.

Sure, I have a Marine-issue Beretta M9, fitted with a threaded barrel to accommodate a suppressor. So what?

Semper fi!

Chapter 40

Look, I’m a guy who was confronted with tough, unbearable situations that left me with no options. My world completely caved in—in the space of a single week! I was drowning in the pressure of it all.

What’s a guy to do?

I had to do something about all of it. And I did.

Tiffany had rigged my iPhone text settings to “share my location” one night while I was in a postcoital shower at her place. Which is how she was waiting for me in Grand Central Station that night.

We did second cocktails, and then a joint was a natural next step. So I took her down to the sub-basement—M42 it’s called—a totally secret space that houses all of Grand Central’s AC to DC converters. You won’t find it on any public maps. Ramon took me there one night to trade copious amounts of dope for serious cash.

And that’s where they found her body. Her gorgeous body. With a bullet wound in the back of her head.

And Bonnie Jo?

I was seriously falling in love with Bonnie Jo Hopkins. The real deal, which was bittersweet because I’m already in love with another woman. My wife.

But our sex was…genuine. Intimate lovemaking.

We were genuine partners at work, too. BJ helped cast Tiffany for the CrawDaddy spot, and was on the shoot.

Bonnie was a social user. Just weed, really. She got hers from Ramon, just like everybody else. Always had some when I came over. Cool. Then she finally put two and two together, and was convinced she knew what really happened to Ramon.

And then in a world record slip of the tongue, I damned near called her Tiffany that night. Close enough. And that was it.

Our last night together—the all-time high and the all-time low in the space of a few hours. We experienced lovemaking like neither one of us ever had before, ever. Not even close.

And never will again.

It’s no coincidence these people were found dead right after the last time I saw them.

I murdered all three of them.

Chapter 41

Ramon was tough. My foxhole buddy. My partner. But he had to go. Squeezing me too hard.

I waited for the roof to clear the other night. He was leaning against one of the chimneys on the roof of our building, lighting a joint. Facing to the back, toward the alley, which helped. I pull my M9 out of my serviceable attaché, suppressor already mounted, place it to the back of his head, and pull the trigger.

I