The Palm Beach Murders

by James Patterson

  Esposito and his cameraman are getting it all.

  You hear about murders all the time in the news. It’s awful, impossible to imagine, but you give it a thought and then life goes on for the rest of us.

  Well, not for me. Not anymore.

  The body is motionless, a stiffening corpse. Completely covered with a white canvas sheet. The gurney’s wheels collapse under its frame as the medics slide it against the rear deck and into the ambulance, where it’s locked into place and secured with straps.

  The driver closes the back doors. Our eyes meet for an instant before he climbs into the front. I offer a grim salute in appreciation, and he points a forefinger at me to acknowledge it.

  The flashing red lights are back on and they head down the street. No need for the sirens anymore.

  “Mr. Marterelli, can you come up here for a minute?” It’s Detective Quinn, from the top of the steps.

  Paul gestures to me to join him, and I do. Quinn assures us that everything’s under control. We’re allowed access to the agency, but not the roof, which has been cordoned off while they continue to search for evidence.

  And—it is somebody from the agency. But who?

  Now Paul turns around and faces the crowd; WNBC’s Esposito points his mic at him, and the cameraman next to him is shooting all of it.

  “Okay, people, listen up. The police officers have secured the building. It is safe to reenter, and so I’m going to invite my colleagues to return to their workspaces and any area in our office—except the roof, which the police have secured while they continue their search for evidence.

  “And hear this, this is important: if any of you, for any reason, are not comfortable coming back in today, I completely understand.

  “Just know that we are assured that the killer, or killers, is no longer on the premises.”

  A killing. And not just one of those random killings you read about in the New York Post. It’s somebody I know.

  Chapter 7

  Four more police officers come out through the front door and down the steps, where they gather on the sidewalk and then spread out into the street.

  Detectives Quinn and Garrison come back over. Paul and I lean in close.

  “In strictest confidence, here’s what we can tell you.” It’s Quinn. “We’ve already acknowledged that the victim is an agency employee, but need to notify the immediate family before we can share further information on that. You guys will figure it out soon enough, I’m sure. But know this—it was no accident. The victim died from a single gunshot to the back of the head, at close range. Likely pre-meditated.

  “We are looking for a murderer. We will keep you fully advised, and please let us know if you hear anything. Anything.”

  Paul and I share a look between us that comes from someplace deep and dark, like we’re both thinking the same unspeakable thing.

  He takes a deep breath, thanks the officers, and turns back to the crowd.

  “Okay, guys,” Paul announces to the agency multitude, waving both hands above his head. “Let’s regroup.” He holds the door open, and people begin to file back in with no idea what they might find after an actual murder has taken place right here in our building.

  The officers out in the street keep a close eye on our people as they pass by on the way in. The one at the door is asking the women to open their purses. And anybody with a shoulder bag. Even me, and mine. Not taking any chances.

  I’m opposite Paul, on the other side of the door where I can connect with my fellow employees as they walk between us, gripped by a shared silence. Nothing to be said, aside from probing eye contact. A lot of them look to me as if they’re searching for answers, but there aren’t any I can offer. I do my best to assume a posture of confidence and reassurance.

  Mo passes through with the same two agency girls, still arm in arm for mutual support. She looks at me, teary-eyed, and starts to say something—but can only exhale what must be a long-held breath, laden with sorrow. And fear.

  Bonnie Jo Hopkins, one of the long-time Marterelli creatives I work closest with, lingers just a bit longer, making familiar eye contact so that I feel her concern.

  Two cop cars pull away with four officers inside. No lights flashing. No longer necessary for them, either. I follow Paul back in after the others.

  Quinn is following us in. “We need to talk to your people,” he says. “Might as well start right now.” And Garrison falls in behind him.

  I assume there are still more cops up on the roof, and that police will probably be in and out of here for days.

  We’re met with nothing resembling order—nobody’s going back to any kind of actual work. How could they? For all they know, it could be one of their coworkers who’s been murdered, and everyone is trying to figure out who’s missing.

  There’s an elevator, but few take it, opting for the stairs in the back. Many linger in the main reception area on the third floor, still trying to fathom what the hell just happened.

  I make it up to my office, or, more accurately, my expanded cubicle, in the windowed corner of the fifth floor. People are gathering around my space, peering in over the half walls, and I suddenly feel like the eye in the middle of a storm gathering around me.

  Madness. And not the typical ad agency madness, either. This is the bad kind.

  “Oh, man,” says David Gebben, a senior copywriter. “What the hell?” and plants himself with a deep sigh in one of my chairs. Here comes Bill Kelly, one of our best art directors. Slouches on the couch. “Talk to us, Tim! What’s going on?”

  “Look, guys. I don’t know much more than you do, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon, and then we’ll deal with it together.”

  “Semper fi?” I hear from Julie Reich, who’s out in the hall.

  My catchphrase in the office. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” And I get a couple of nods in semi-agreement.

  Another text…

  What terrible timing. It’s from Tiffany Stone, an actress we cast in the first CrawDaddy Super Bowl commercial way back when I first joined Marterelli out of the Marines. The first CrawDaddy girl—buxom, bawdy, and naturally funny, with some…interesting past video experience. I met her on the shoot, she’s stayed in touch over the years a bit—but now she won’t leave me alone.

  I need to see you!

  I ignore it. This is absolutely the last person I want to deal with right now.

  I have to think about my 150 agency colleagues who are about to find out that one of our own has been murdered. And this is no accidental killing. This is a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

  Madness.

  Chapter 8

  Paul sends a company-wide e-mail asking us to meet him in fifteen minutes, at two o’clock, in the big third-floor reception and kitchen area, where we can talk.

  The cops are hardly gone and here it comes. Some of the shit that I’m trying to make sense of is about to go public, and I know it’s only going to make it worse for me.

  Each of the three floors at Marterelli & Partners is wide open. Workstations stretch side by side nearly the whole length of the floor, flush with computers, laptops, printers, scanners, and the like. At each end are a handful of cubicles for some of the senior people. There are open conference rooms on the third and fourth floors with sliding glass doors and drapes for private meetings and presentations. The fifth floor is the top floor, with easy access to the roof. The reception and kitchen area provides the biggest open space and makes it possible for most of us to close in around Paul, who’s standing behind the counter.

  He asks me to join him.

  “Free lunch?” from one of the creative wise guys. Gallows humor that stirs a few hesitant snickers.

  “Okay, here goes,” and Paul clears his throat. Twice. He speaks louder than usual, choosing his words carefully. “It is as bad as you can imagine. We have lost one of our own.”

  An audible gasp erupts from the crowd. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, my God!” m
oans Mo.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who, for Christ’s sake! Who?” demands David.

  “We’ve lost…Ramon…our beloved Ramon…one of our finest.”

  Cries of “No! It can’t be!”

  Ramon is one of Marterelli’s earliest employees. He’s our self-taught tech guy, keeping us online and interconnected. Making sure the creatives’ Macs were humming, up-to-date, loaded with the latest software. He was the best.

  I actually helped Ramon get his job at Marterelli, but that’s another story.…I’m going to miss this guy something awful. A genuine compatriot. A wonderful guy. A friend to everybody.

  “Shit! My computer’s down! Now what?” we hear from another wiseass trying to lighten the load, I guess. A few more reluctant smirks. But more people are crying.

  “Who the hell would want to kill Ramon?” Chris demands to know. “And why? Why?”

  “Amen, brother,” is all I can say. This murder is starting to turn my entire world inside out.

  And there’s two more to come.

  Chapter 9

  I call Jean at home. “Honey, you won’t believe what’s happened here.”

  “Yes, I would—it’s on the news already. Somebody got murdered there?”

  “Yeah, terrible. A guy named Ramon. Ramon Martinez, our tech guy. Great guy. Cops found him up on the roof, dead. Shot in the head sometime last night.”

  “Wow, honey, that’s unbelievable. You okay?”

  “Not exactly. I’m getting out of here. I’ll be home early, okay? Bye for now.”

  “Sure, love. I’ll be here. Bye.”

  It’s only three thirty, but there’s no damned reason to hang around work. For me or anybody else. And anyway, it’s Friday. I’m outta there, on my way over to the Union Square subway station when I pass by Fanelli’s Café on Prince Street, one of the oldest pubs in New York City.

  What the hell? I turn around and head in for a beverage. I never drink before dinner, except on the agency roof, but God knows I could use one now, given all the shit that’s coming down around me.

  The bar is abuzz with classic New York characters. I squeeze in and order a Ketel One, soda, lime. Fifteen minutes later I’m a lot braver, so I pay up. Time to head for the 6 train up to Grand Central, where I can catch the 4:47 to Croton-on-Hudson. But not before I cab it down to the bank again. Can grab the 6 from there.

  At the Croton-on-Hudson station I climb in my car and head for our house, which is only five minutes away. It’s a big, five-thousand-square-foot 1920s Spanish Mediterranean, called Twin Eagles; there’s a stone sculpture of an eagle, wings spread, on each side of the driveway. And it’s twice as big, and twice as expensive, as we need.

  But Jean and the kids love it. We’ve been here eight years.

  I pull up around the circular drive in front of the house. The last thing I want is the kids—or anybody—to see me upset. So I honk the horn. Surprise! Here comes Brady racing out the front door, and jumps all over me. His sister, Ellie, follows out behind him. “What’s up, Dad?”

  They stay with me, like kids who know their father loves them. We head out toward the pool.

  Then I see Jean up on the porch.

  “Oh, Tim, I hope you’re okay,” she asks, as I park the kids in the front hall and head for the kitchen. “Have to say I’m glad you’re here, but what a terrible way to get you home early.”

  The kids head upstairs and Jean follows me into the kitchen.

  “You look terrible, Tim. Talk to me.”

  “Not sure I’ve ever told you about Ramon. I helped him get his job at Marterelli’s. Our IT guy. One of the sweetest, nicest people you’d ever meet. Everybody loved him. It’s like…ripping a hole in the agency’s heart. Everybody seems in shock.”

  “And how about you, love?” she asks.

  “You know, I guess I’m okay, all things considered. Truth is, I’ve seen worse, as you probably know.

  “Remember when I’d call you from over there, in Iraq, when I was in the middle of all that mayhem and violence?”

  “Yes, I…”

  “Well, I tried to make sure you couldn’t feel the horror. I suppose it was some kind of warped preparation for all this.

  “This is definitely tough, this murder, so close to home, but I’ll be fine. Got to be. Agency’s counting on me for support.”

  “Oh, honey. I know they can. You’re the best.” I’m even more thankful than usual for my wife’s love.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday morning I grab Brady and take him to his soccer game down at Croton Point Park, which juts out into the Hudson and offers gorgeous views of Rockland County on the other side of the river, a few miles south of West Point.

  Soon as we get there Brady jumps out of the car and runs off to join his teammates. The eight- and nine-year-olds are all dressed up in their Croton Kickers T’s. I think, what a gift this boy is. And his sister, Ellie, three years older.

  Jean and I got married after college, where we dated for the last three years. I joined the Marines that fall. We got hitched after Parris Island and Camp Lejeune—right before I shipped out to Iraq! A hell of a move for two young people. She insisted. And she was right. Hey—she’s smart!—and wears the kind of beauty and presence that is ageless. One of those independent souls that doesn’t depend on others for her own internal happiness. If you didn’t know better you’d think we lived an idyllic life. If you didn’t know better.

  But I do.

  “Hey, Tim!” It’s Charlie Raffin, a neighbor. We’ve shared many a dinner with Charlie and his wife, Jennifer. Their son, Andy, is on Brady’s team.

  “Wasn’t that murder yesterday at your agency? Saw it on the news last night. Jesus.”

  “Awful. Just awful,” I say. “Lost a great guy. How the hell does a freakin’ murder take place in your office? It’s like something out of a movie.”

  “Hope you’re managing okay.”

  “I’m okay, actually…truth is, I’m waiting to hear about a possible new job. A job I really want—just between you and me.”

  “Of course,” Charlie assures me. “Mum’s the word. Good luck on the job!”

  A cheer erupts from the crowd of parents across the field. Brady’s team’s just scored a goal, and the boys are yelling and hopping all over the place. Coach blows his whistle and lines them back up for the kick-off.

  I live in the highest-taxed county in the country—Westchester. I own a five-thousand-square-foot house, a cottage on the property, a fifty-foot pool, the works—with property taxes approaching $40,000 a year. Well, I don’t actually own it. The banks do. Had to take a second mortgage on it a couple of years ago to pay down some other debt. Robbed Peter to pay Paul—the other Paul—and still am. Constantly bouncing dollars from one bank account to another—including the one Jean doesn’t know anything about.

  And now, I’m buried in all of it. My credit cards are pretty much maxed.

  I see Diane Elvin, who Jean and I play tennis with every Sunday morning. I get my best game face back on.

  “Good to see you, Di. You and Joe ready for tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see.” She winks. “Tim, it’s just so terrible, the murder at your agency. I am so sorry.”

  “Appreciate it, my friend. Thanks. Best to Joe.”

  For all Jean knows, we’re fine. She has no reason to think we’re not. That’s how secretive I’ve been. I’m not proud of it.

  And we’re not fine. If I don’t get this new job, we are done with Westchester. The house, the neighbors, these soccer games, the kids’ friends, Jean’s girlfriends. They would all be devastated. So would I.

  I can almost see the freakin’ moving trucks in the driveway. The situation, along with the murder, is weighing on me like a ton of bricks.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself….

  My phone rings. It’s Barbara Lundquist, the recruiter. On a Saturday?

  “Hey, Barb, what’s up?”

  “Hi, Tim. I know it’s Saturd
ay. I figure you’re with your kids or something, but I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Know…what?”

  “I just talked to Linda Kaplan.”

  And I can feel some of the weight lifting off my back.

  Soon enough the game’s over, and Brady and I head home to Twin Eagles. Jean’s in the kitchen, fixing lunch. Ellie’s helping.

  “Guess what, baby? Just heard from the recruiter. That interview I had yesterday went great. She’s got me number one on her list! Wants to see me again, soon.”

  “That’s fantastic, honey. I hope it’s something you really want?”

  Want? Hell, I need this job. We need this job. Bad. If she only knew just how bad.

  “Absolutely, love. It’s a great opportunity!”

  Meanwhile, I send those movers on their way, out of my head, trucks empty. For now.

  Chapter 11

  It’s a beautiful fall night. Sun’s dropping down out over the Hudson, full moon’s following it up behind us. I roll the BBQ grill down by the pool and fire it up. Fillets for Jean and me and burgers for the kids. Poolside with the family is my favorite way to dine.

  The kids are inside, doing whatever kids do, so I pop open a bottle for Jean and me. We love champagne, especially Dom Perignon, and have special flutes for nights like this one.

  I fill our glasses, pouring just right to minimize the bubbles, and offer a toast: “Here’s to life, our lives, blessed with good fortune and good health. And here’s to us and our partnership, warmed by our love and devotion.…”

  We raise our glasses in a mutual, loving gesture. “L’Chaim,” she says, and I subconsciously inhale mine smack empty. No effervescent mouth feel on this one.

  Jean can’t help but laugh, a sympathetic chuckle. “My love!” and pats me on the shoulder. “Hope it helps.”