The Palm Beach Murders

by James Patterson

  “Yeah, yes…yeah, I’ve got it, thanks. See you downstairs.”

  My mind is wandering.…

  Will we be through with this meeting in time for a late lunch?

  It’s a sixty-minute meeting. Done. No wordy slides. No extraneous BS. We headline the pitch with an innovative brand strategy to convey that Chubb understands life’s risks, and can relate to customers’ needs. Two fabulous ideas, both on strategy: the one with the most potential upside scarier than the other.

  Mary Claire describes the brand personality in the colorful language she authored herself.

  Then our creative director reads the last scripted line from another satisfied Chubb customer appearing in the TV spot and turns to me for the capper, the tagline that will separate this client’s business from the rest of the category.…

  I look the CMO in the eye and announce in my rehearsed voiceover “Insurance Against Regret”…and the room is as quiet as a funeral. For an instant. And then an uncommon reaction in the agency business: applause! Our clients are smiling from ear to ear, and clapping!

  They buy it on the spot. Damn, I love this business.

  “Tim,” said the Chubb CMO, Kevin Magnus, shaking my hand, “you’ve just reminded me in dramatic fashion why I hired you guys in the first place. Send me the summary and a production estimate, and let’s get it done!”

  My team hears all this and responds with enthusiastic, polite applause of their own. The client’s not out the front door before we’re gathering into a group hug, backslaps all around.

  “Guys, this is the result of some fabulous teamwork. Never forget that. Together, we make shit happen.

  “Now, get your asses back to work!” I say with a broad smile, which is returned in kind by every one of them.

  Perfect timing for a lunch break. And I think I’ve earned a long one.

  Chapter 3

  By the time I get back, it’s four-ish, and the proverbial cocktail hour is within reach.

  “Well done, MacGhee!” Paul Marterelli is at my door before I can get my jacket off. “Magnus just called me to say how excited he is about the possibilities! I’ve never heard him so enthusiastic. Must have been great. Obviously he bought the big one.…”

  “Absolutely. Thanks, Paul, really appreciate it. It’s days like today that remind me why I came back to work with you,” I tell him. Hey, I’m an adman.

  “Wanna grab a beverage?”

  “Damn, man, would love to. Can’t. Got plans.”

  “Ah, okay, see you tomorrow,” Paul says, and heads downstairs.

  I first met Paul Marterelli right out of the Marines. With my Columbia journalism degree there was only one gig for me: adman! Soon enough some good networking connected me with Paul, and we clicked instantly.

  Paul was a creative guy, a writer, and a good one. Clean-cut, glasses, conservative dresser; would have assumed he was an account guy if you didn’t know better. Met him the first time downtown at McSorley’s. We hung out, had beers, told stories. Tells me he’s got the CrawDaddy account, an up-and-coming tech company, with their kick-ass cowboy CEO—an ex-Marine!—and wants my own Marine self to take him on. Perfect—at least for an advertising moment. More on that later.

  Paul founded Marterelli & Partners in 2003, positioning his team as a feisty “ad store,” and soon established his agency as an early and proactive user of social media on behalf of their clients.

  On my first day, he called the agency team together to introduce me. “Okay, guys, listen up,” he said. “It is my great pleasure to introduce Tim MacGhee, a kindred spirit if there ever was one. An adman in the truest sense of the word. New to our business, but he’s got a couple of years and some genuine leadership experience under his…ammo belt. A natural leader. A teammate. He’s joining us to, well, call CrawDaddy’s bluff and help us get their kick-ass brand on the Super Bowl!”

  There was warm applause all around. A couple of whistles.

  “Tim, as a small token of our sincere welcome, I want you to have this, a present from all of us.” He handed me a gift-wrapped box.

  “Wow, this is amazing!” I patted my heart a few times. “Thank you, Paul. Thank you all.” They’d given me a really nice canvas attaché. I recognize the maker—J.W. Hulme. Damn!

  “And by no means does this suggest that you are a bag-carrier.”

  “Beautiful. And it sure beats the hell out of my Marine assault backpack!”

  A genuinely wonderful reception. Turns out it was the perfect gift. I offered a few positive words of appreciation, and Paul showed me to my desk. That was day one, about three lifetimes ago.

  Now I’m on my way back up to my corner cubicle on the fifth floor, and I’m getting universal smiles and nods in the hallways, colleagues glowing in the shared success of our Chubb meeting. Feels good. Word travels fast.

  I’ve got time to kill, and here’s Ramon to help. As you can tell by now, I’m not one of those stuffed suits that wears his title on his tailored sleeve, looking down his nose. I love the troops. I’m a team guy. And over the years I’ve discovered I have a lot more in common with some of these guys than I do with my so-called peers.

  “Everything work?” he asks.

  “Like a charm. Thanks, as always. Well done.”

  “I’m here to serve,” he says with a grin.

  “So, meet you up on the roof?” I say.

  “Let’s do it,” Ramon says. What a good guy. And a good partner.

  “Okay, man. I’ll get it wrapped here—then I’ve got to run out for a quick stop. Back in a flash. Sun’s already dropping. See you upstairs.”

  The agency occupies the top three stories of a five-story brownstone in downtown Manhattan, so we have exclusive access to the roof, a convenient escape that offers a view of historic surroundings and fresh air—as fresh as Manhattan air gets. A place to hang. On nights like tonight, it’s an after-work gathering space for us kindred spirits.

  Got to get to the bank first, down on Canal Street. I grab my attaché and catch a cab on Second Avenue. “Canal and Broadway,” I tell the driver. “Wait for me, okay? I’ll be in and out in a flash.”

  “Sure,” she says, and off we go.

  Thirty minutes down and back, and I’m on the roof in another fifteen. Ramon’s already there with a handful of other agency types, each one with a beer in hand from various coolers downstairs.

  It will take an hour or so for me and Ramon to be left up there, alone.

  Chapter 4

  Tough night. Couldn’t sleep. Since when does this kind of stuff get to me?

  Now I’m in the kitchen at three a.m. when my wife, Jean, comes up close behind me and puts her arm around my waist.

  “You okay?” She’s asking because I’m never like this. I’m the calm at the center of the storm.

  “Yeah, sorry. Had a crazy day. Crazy good, most of it. Worked late, you know? No big deal. Just need to unwind.”

  She heads back up to the bedroom and I look in on the kids, stop by the bathroom, pop a rare Xanax and shuffle back to bed, reminded again that I am part of a wonderful, loving family. A gift.

  I crawl in under the covers and the love of my life slides over next to me.

  “Honey?” She’s not convinced I’m okay.

  “Don’t worry, baby. Got this important interview tomorrow at lunch, great opportunity, a job I really want.” Little does she know how much I need this job.

  “Anyway, I can hang in here a little later in the morning.”

  She’s already asleep again.

  The alarm erupts at seven a.m. and it feels like I’ve been struck by lightning. Shower, shave. Pull on some selvedge denims and a cashmere sport coat, both black, out of the closet along with an Essex multi-check lavender shirt and the hand-painted tie I bought down in the Village.

  First impressions are important. Never thought of myself as a slave to fashion, but this is the advertising business and I’m headed for a critical interview.

  The office doesn’t expect me
in until early afternoon, which means I have time for a rare breakfast with the kids before Jean takes them to school. A second cup of coffee with the New York Times and I’m off to the train station.

  I’m about to experience the kind of day that most people could never imagine, not in their wildest dreams. Or nightmares. Neither could I.

  Chapter 5

  The 8:57 Hudson Line express from Croton-on-Hudson into the city gives me enough time to make a quick stop and grab one more cup of coffee downstairs at Grand Central Station, so I can get focused on my meeting with Kaplan.

  But now, pitching myself for a job I absolutely must have, there’s a thousand conflicting thoughts spinning around inside my head that have nothing to do with the agency business.

  She’s familiar with my résumé. This is about chemistry.

  Me…in a single sentence…?

  “That’s a damned good question,” I say to this agency superstar, snapping back to the here and now. “I’ve thought about how best to describe what I do, who I am. And here’s my answer, if you’ll pardon my French: I’m a guy who makes shit happen.”

  “That’s certainly to the point.” She chuckles. “Especially in our business. And especially for an account guy. Great attitude.”

  The waiter sets our salads in front of us, escarole for me, farro and quinoa for her, and asks if we want any more iced tea. Tea? I want a martini.

  “Read this column in Adweek right after I started at Marterelli. Headline was ‘Making Stuff Happen,’ but what the columnist wrote about was making shit happen. Especially for account leaders. That was all I needed. It spoke to me.”

  “You’ve got a great track record,” she says, “a strong, unique résumé, that’s for sure. Loaded with references.”

  “Thank you! Hey—I’m an ex-Marine. Heard the call, 9/11 changed my whole perspective on life. Signed on for two years right out of Columbia University, and ended up in Iraq, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines, Platoon Leader.…”

  “Thank you for your service! Where?”

  “Fallujah. Second Battle—the bloodiest conflict of the entire Iraqi war. We lost a lot of soldiers. They lost more. Tough stuff. I saw things I’ll never be able to erase from my mind. But we ran the insurgents out and took the city back. And I helped make it happen.”

  “Your résumé isn’t quite that…colorful.”

  “That was a lifetime ago. Honorable discharge, and I leverage my journalism degree and my leadership experience from the real world into a starting job with Marterelli. Fabulous, for a little while. Did the CrawDaddy thing. Then we lost the account—no fault of ours, hell, we made history with that spot, blew their business through the roof! Anyway, back then the agency was far from flush, had to pare down. So I jumped ship, painful for both Paul and me. Landed the job at Thompson—where I ended up running the Burger King business, as you know.

  “Couple of lifetimes later Paul and I reconnect, over beers. They’ve grown to a fabulous midsized agency by now, and we simply had to get back together! We did, ‘partners,’ in theory, and now I’ve got the biggest job in the agency—unless they want to make me president.”

  “Maybe they should…”

  “If it were up to me…but, Paul’s not ready to go, not even close. So, there’s nothing left for me to accomplish there. Time to move on.”

  The waiter’s back with our main courses—strozzapreti for Linda and the seared scallops pour moi.

  My iPhone’s in my pocket, and vibrates with a text message. Of course, I ignore it.

  “Another question: what’s the biggest mistake you’ve made in this business?”

  She’s good.

  “Oh, man, where to start?” I say, which evokes the laughter I was hoping for. “The biggest mistake? Giving up box seats for the 2007 Super Bowl, when the Giants, the wild-card team, come all the way back and beat the undefeated Patriots! The Eli Manning fourth-quarter comeback. The David Tyree one-handed helmet catch?”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” she asks, wearing a teasing grin from ear to ear.

  “Gave ’em to a client—and the asshole puts us in review six months later. Sure wasn’t thinking about that!

  “But seriously, folks…a few years ago I had a chance to hire David Hale, and didn’t. He went on to semi-greatness, as you know, and it could have been with us. Woulda, coulda, shoulda—but I regret that one to this day.”

  “Hard to see untapped potential sometimes,” she says. I note the empathy.

  “The chemistry just wasn’t there, then,” I answer. “And sometimes that’s everything.”

  “I feel a good chemistry here, though,” I hear her say. Which means she can’t tell my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour.

  She signals for the waiter, and the check. Another iPhone text vibration…

  “I’m looking for a partner, someone capable of helping me run the agency. There’s a couple of other people I want to talk to, but I definitely want to reconnect with you. And soon. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

  “Fantastic!” I say. “Thank you. Want to split the check?”

  “Oh, please,” she says, with a laugh.

  Back out on 9th Avenue on this stunning fall afternoon, the sidewalk’s alive with New Yorkers acting as if they’ve got places to go, things to do.

  So do I.

  “I’ve genuinely enjoyed meeting you,” she tells me, “and look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  “Same here. And count on it!”

  A firm, eye-to-eye handshake, and we part company on a great note. Her driver pulls up for her and she climbs in the backseat.

  I hail a cab and check my texts. They’re from Chris Berardo, our creative director:

  Where the hell are you?

  And…

  You need to get your ass here NOW!

  Chapter 6

  “East 11th Street, between Third and Fourth,” I tell the cabbie.

  Marterelli & Partners’ office is across town in the East Village, south of Union Square Park. It’s a classic New York neighborhood, and Union Square is a great place to hang out during lunch, or for other stuff.

  What the hell is Chris so excited about?

  We reach 11th and Third and my stomach drops when I see a cop car parked sideways at the intersection with his red and blue lights flashing, blocking the entrance to 11th Street. There’s yellow tape stretching all the way across, from one side of the street to the other.

  This looks bad. Real bad.

  “Far corner,” I say, and pay the cabdriver.

  I approach the officer sitting in the driver’s seat and explain who I am. He lets me through after I show him my agency ID and driver’s license.

  Halfway down the block I can see four police cars and an ambulance double-parked in front of our building, lights flashing.

  Jesus. It’s worse than I thought.

  Looks like the entire agency is outside, on the sidewalk or in the street.

  I get there just in time to see two medics jump out of the ambulance, open the rear doors, and pull out a wheeled gurney. Oh, God—they’re headed inside the agency building!

  As soon as I’m in front of our brownstone, a dozen coworkers are surrounding me.

  Maureen, our receptionist, is shaking like a leaf, crying. Middle-aged, widowed, pleasantly overweight, with a face that’s usually beaming, Mo’s the agency den mother. I take her hand and pull her in close. She leans on my shoulder and loses it.

  “What the hell is going on, Mo?”

  “It’s awful. Unbelievable.” She’s sobbing.

  I spot Chris Berardo out in the street. Lanky, shoulder-length hair pulled back in an attempt at a ponytail. He’s white as a ghost. He shoves his hands up in the air and looks at me as if to say It’s about goddamned time you got here!

  “What? Jesus, talk to me, Mo!”

  “There’s somebody up on the roof. Dead! Somebody who lives next door saw the body and called the cops. They got here about an hour ago and cleared the buildin
g, and still aren’t allowing anyone back in.…”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “And for all they know the killer’s still inside!”

  Paul Marterelli’s down the sidewalk, beyond the building entrance, with a reporter and a cameraman. I recognize Chuck Esposito, the Emmy Award–winning crime reporter from the local NBC affiliate, Channel 4. Damn—bad news travels fast in New York. Paul looks like he’s shaking his head more than he’s talking.

  “Hang on, Mo, let me see what I can find out.”

  A couple of plainclothes cops are standing on the top step, blocking the front door, eyes fixed on the crowd out front.

  Nearest one says, “Sorry sir, we cannot allow entry just yet.”

  I introduce myself. “I’m second in command here, and I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. I’d like to be able to reassure my coworkers that they’re in no danger.”

  “Understood. But you’re going to have to wait with the rest of them.”

  “Do we know who it is?”

  “The victim has been identified, but until we can notify the family, we cannot release the identity. I’m Detective Peter Quinn, with the 13th precinct, over on 21st Street. I’ll be in charge of this investigation. This is the second officer in charge, Detective Scott Garrison.”

  A reluctant silence has settled over the crowd, which has grown with neighbors and passersby.

  I see nothing but deeply worried looks on my colleagues’ faces. I’m still on the steps when some of them move in a little closer to me—for some kind of reassurance?

  “Oh, Tim,” Mo says. “I’m so glad you’re here now. We all are.” She pulls a couple of the agency women in against her, an arm around each one.

  “All I can say is, we’ll find out what’s going on together. I’m sure we’re in good hands,” I say, trying to reassure them, with no visible success.

  Soon one of the police officers pushes through the front door and holds it open for the medics.

  And here comes something I haven’t seen since Fallujah, and never wanted to see again. A gurney with a medic on each end moving the victim, this time to the rear of an ambulance, to load it up for transport to the medical examiner’s office.