After dinner, the kids disappear into the house somewhere and Jean and I are enjoying the last of our champagne. Very mellow, damn near at peace. It’s like I’m sitting here in a protective bubble, isolated from the madness of the real life that swirls around me. My thoughts drift to Ramon, and that last night…losing him…painful…
“Now I am the master!” A growly voice lances my universe. There’s a small, hard cylinder at the back of my head. I hear my champagne glass crash to the ground. Jean lets out a yelp and I spin around in my chair, sick with fear.
“What—”
It’s Brady, in his Darth Vader Halloween costume. He drops his light saber and erupts into tears.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry!” he says, and I gather him up in my arms. We’re both shaking.
My bubble has burst.
Chapter 12
We climb out of bed and roust the kids. Time to get ready for church—like I’ve always said, I need all the help I can get.
For the past nine years, we’ve belonged to Union Church of Pocantico Hills—a nondenominational protestant church that counts John D. Rockefeller among its founders. I even served on the board of deacons for six of those years, serving communion occasionally to David and Laurance Rockefeller, before Laurance died.
We pile in the car after breakfast and head for church. The small sanctuary is beautiful, lined on both sides with nine magnificent stained-glass windows by Marc Chagall—each one a depiction from the New Testament—and a large rose window up front designed by Henri Matisse, one of his last works. Nothing like a Rockefeller connection.
The preacher consistently delivers learned, insightful, and sometimes acerbic sermons.
This morning I hear him quote from Ecclesiastes 5, Verse 10: “Whoever loves money never has money enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with his income. This, too, is meaningless.”
Which is about the last thing I need to hear.
Reminds me of something George Carlin said: “Don’t give your money to the church. They should be giving their money to you.” That’s more like it.
We’re meeting the Elvins for dinner tonight at the Chappaqua Tavern.
I’m in a damned-near good mood, basking in what I heard from Barb yesterday. Diane and Joe are already at the bar when we get there, so we order a beverage to catch up: Ketel One, soda, lime for me, and a glass of chardonnay for Jean.
The TV’s on over the bar. Chuck Esposito from NBC is on camera, in front of the agency. I hear him say:
—murder at the Marterelli and Partners advertising agency in lower Manhattan. One of their employees, Ramon Manuel Martinez, of Brooklyn, was found dead early Friday morning up on the roof of the Marterelli offices, with a bullet to the back of the head. Police and city detectives continue to look for clues. Thus far, they have none. This is Chuck Esposito reporting from downtown Manhattan. Back to you, Stacy…
“Unbelievable,” Joe says, shaking his head. “So they really don’t know anything about it yet?”
“Far as I know,” I say. “They’ve got the roof off limits while they continue to search for any clues. And of course they’re talking to everyone at the agency, including me.”
“Sure hope they find this guy,” Joe says. “So what else is going on, anything?”
“Yeah, actually, there is. Between us folk, I’m getting some great feedback on a job I’m after, a really great job.”
“Fantastic,” says Diane, and Jean puts her arm around my back with a loving squeeze.
“Yeah. Don’t want to jinx it, but it could be good.”
We’re seated for dinner, and the conversation flowers among us friends, budding into lighter subjects, thank goodness. Imagine. Life could be good, if only…
Diane orders their oven-baked penne, Joe likes the grilled skirt steak, Jean splurges with fish and chips, and for me, the drunken salmon with bourbon cream sauce.
To go with the drunken salmon I order a bottle of limited edition Seyval blanc from St. George, a local winery up in Mohegan Lake. After the server pours it all around, I offer a toast.
“Here’s to good friends and the wonderful lives we share,” I pronounce, with a great deal of hope against hope.
“Hear! Hear!” and soon dinner is served, in the midst of animated chatter all around.
After dinner we share a round of vintage port and I ask for the check.
“Let’s split it, Tim,” Joe offers.
“Nah. Let me, I’ve got it.” I hand the server my MasterCard.
She’s back in five minutes and tries to be discreet. “I’m sorry, sir. Your card is refusing this charge.”
Jesus! It’s that bad.…
I get a look from Jean.
“Must be because I’ve been traveling. Sometimes the banks go overboard with their security precautions.”
Yeah, right.
“Hey, Tim, no sweat. I’m sure it’s a tech malfunction or something. Let me get it,” and Joe hands her his card.
Is there no escaping this shit? Well, actually, no, there isn’t.
Chapter 13
Monday morning…and I’m back at it. 7:20 express, gets me in to Grand Central at 8:08, time enough to read the New York Times on the way in. Then I grab the 6 train downtown to 14th Street and walk over to the office.
In I go, and the weekend has not helped anybody calm down much. The office is still in a state of jangled nerves, preoccupied would-be workers, and general chaos.
Mo’s at the front desk. “Hey, Tim, good morning! Welcome back.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say.
“Those detectives, the two of them, were back. Waiting at the front door when I got here to open up. They’re all over it. And us. Interviewing everybody,” she tells me.
“Turns out they’ve been in the area most of the weekend.…”
“Well, there’s been a murder. I’m grateful they’re here. Did they talk to you, Mo?”
“Sure. Asked me all about Ramon, what I knew about him, his personal life. His family. Who he hung out with here at the agency. All I could tell them was how much we all loved him.”
I head up to my cubicle. Quinn’s at the top of the stairs…waiting for me? Well-dressed, mid-forties, close-cropped, graying hair. Fit.
“Mr. MacGhee, sorry we didn’t get to talk on Friday. We hear you’re the man. Got a few minutes?”
“Absolutely. Why don’t you step into my…cubicle? And please, call me Tim.”
“And call me Pete.…”
He spots my Marine eagle, globe, and anchor plaque on the wall before he can sit down.
“Seriously? Semper fi?”
“Damn straight! You?”
“Hell, yes! Desert Storm. 2nd Marines. Purple Heart.”
“Amazing, my brother. You beat me by a few years. But who’s counting? Here we are! And thank God, I didn’t win a Purple Heart. Please, have a seat, Pete, let’s talk.” He settles into the couch.
“Thanks, Tim. So, this is a tough one. Not a random murder out on the streets. This one’s in a place of business, in downtown Manhattan, full of what seem like good, professional people who care about each other. The victim is someone who is clearly well respected by everybody, near as we can tell. It just doesn’t make any sense. Not that most murders do, but still…”
“I get it, Pete. Please, how can I help?”
“So far, nobody we’ve talked to knows anything, not really. Or at least they’re not willing to say they do, yet. And they all say the same thing: Talk to Tim. He knows more about the agency than anybody else here.
“But I’ve got to tell you, so far we’re getting nowhere. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Absolutely. Anything.”
“What can you tell me about Ramon?” he asks.
“Well, he’s one of those self-made guys. Started in the old mailroom we still had. But every free minute he was on somebody’s computer. Got good at it. Soon enough he was our tech guy. A self-taught tech expert, monitoring computers, making
sure everybody had the latest software, figuring out how to reboot when they crashed. All that stuff…
“I didn’t see him that much, day to day, but he sure made himself irreplaceable.”
“Did Ramon have any enemies that you know about?”
“Oh, man,” I tell him, “I cannot imagine anybody here having anything against Ramon. Zero. He would probably be voted most popular guy in the agency.”
“Damn. Sure makes you wonder who would murder this guy—and why—and how they would get up to the roof after hours,” Quinn says.
Sure does, I’m thinking.
“Understand completely, Detective,” I tell him.
“Look,” he says, “just do us all a favor and keep your eyes and ears open. Everybody talks about you like you’re the one most likely to hear anything. Here’s my card. Please call me if you do.”
“Absolutely. You have my word.”
I have a feeling I’ll see Peter Quinn again.
Chapter 14
“Yo…dude!”
Jesus, it’s Lenny Shapiro, poking his unkempt head into my space. Creative guy, writer—or supposed to be. Seems half stoned all the time. I can’t remember the last time he made any kind of significant contribution to anything at the agency. Remember Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? That’s Lenny.
And now here he is, leaning his big head of hair around the corner, working to make glassy-eyed contact. He’s looking bad.
“What’s up, Tim? Did you hear…”
“Of course I heard, are you serious? You don’t look so good, man. You in some kind of pain?”
“Naw, man, I’m cool. It’s just—who the hell would kill a guy like Ramon? Unless it was somebody here, like, at work…”
“Why the hell would you think something like that?” I’m all over him.
“Well, Ramon helped us out, a lot of us. Who like to, well, imbibe…”
“What the hell does that mean, Lenny?”
“You know…weed…hash…sometimes a little upper. What I’m saying is…we buy our stuff from Ramon. Us creative guys. At least we used to.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Maybe he cut somebody off. Maybe somebody owed him money…you know?”
“Lenny, you look like shit. And it’s not even lunchtime. Why don’t you take your sorry ass home and crash?”
“Okay, okay. Later, bro.”
And I’m thinking, Lenny just qualified himself as a prime suspect. He better keep his mouth shut.
Bonnie Jo Hopkins, the group creative director, sticks her head in just as Lenny’s stumbling out.
“He looks totally wasted. What’s going on?” she asks.
“BJ, you know as much as I do.” I shrug, smiling, almost. As always, I’m a little struck by how damned hot she is.
“Whaddya gonna do?”
“Hey—you do what you gotta do,” she says, like the New Yorker she is, and shrugs back at me with one of those lingering, flirtatious smiles.
Bonnie Jo Hopkins turns around and walks her beautiful self back to her cubicle, making sure I get a good look on the way out.
There’s guys out there who would kill for some of that.
Chapter 15
“Hey, love. I’m jammed. Got to work late again, so don’t wait up for me. I’ll grab something in Grand Central and eat on the train.” I’m on my cell to Jean, with a story she’s heard all too often.
There’s a huge new business pitch end of this week, and I’m buried in it. It’s for Weight Watchers, a prospect I’ve been after for months. I’ve been cultivating them through e-mail, agency highlights, and successes, then took the top two guys out for drinks and dinner a couple of times—the latest last week. We had good chemistry. And they’ve finally agreed to visit the agency, to test my promise of some new insights into their business.
I’m damned good at this stuff.
But now this pitch, on top of everything else, is threatening my sanity.
Bonnie Jo sticks her head back in. “Hey, a bunch of us are going up to Hill Country after work. Chris’s band is playing. Why don’t you join us?”
What the hell. I’m already covered at home. “Sure, I’m in. I’ll see you guys there.”
Soon I pack up my laptop and head downstairs. It’s a beautiful night, and I’ve got to clear my head, so I decide to walk up to Hill Country, on 26th Street between Sixth and Broadway. I want to take the city in, feel the energy, remind myself of why I’m here.
And here’s Chuck Esposito from WNBC out on the sidewalk, and his cameraman’s with him, again! So much for clearing my head.
The cameraman points his camera at me and starts rolling.
“Sorry to bother you, Tim, but we just…”
“Hold it, hold it! And please turn that damned thing off.” They do.
“Look. I respect what you guys are after, and what you do, searching for the truth, you know? It’s just that I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to add to what you already know.”
“We’ve talked to Detective Quinn, who said he was impressed with your knowledge of the agency and all the people who work here. That if anybody knew anything it’d be you…”
“Flattering, I guess. But I don’t. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting some folks.…”
“Okay, sure. But we’ll likely contact you again and…”
I’m headed down the street before he can finish his sentence. Give me a break!
Down at the corner I can finally take in a deep breath. Exhale. Helps. I’m making my way across Union Square up toward the Flatiron Building when I see a couple of guys I vaguely recognize. “Hey, buddy,” one of them says to me, with a slightly forced smile.
“Hey…” Who the hell are these guys?
“Hope you’re well. Don’t remember your name. But I know you were friends with Ramon. Terrible about Ramon. Fucking terrible.”
“Sure is,” I say, eager to move on.
“Got that right. Anyway, sorry. I know you guys were close.”
Which is totally weird. “Sure, thanks. Take care,” and I head on up to 26th Street.
This is getting crazy.
Hill Country is rockin’. Chris and his Desberardos are playing downstairs, and their music reaches up to the street. I can hear Chris blowing his harp, and that’s our Bill Kelly backing him up on guitar. Down I go, and spot a group of agency types over by the bar.
Bonnie’s out on the floor in front of the band dancing, and I join her. It’s a rockin’ tune, but I pull her in close for a spin, and drift off into fantasyland. The song’s over much too soon, so I release my grip on her and we head back to the bar.
“So, Tim…” David Gebben, the copywriter, speaks close to my ear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you and BJ were getting it on.”
“Oh, Jesus, no. Not saying I wouldn’t like to, but, you know, never dip your pen in company ink.…”
“Right,” he says, utterly unconvinced.
By the time I walk through the front door at home, Jean and the kids are upstairs, fast asleep.
I tiptoe into the kids’ rooms, first Ellie’s and then Brady’s, pull their covers up and steal a late kiss good night. Ellie cracks one eye open. “Hi, Daddy…” Brady’s out like a light. Jean rolls over as I’m approaching our bed and moans something loving. She’s at peace, for now.
If she only knew.…
A soft kiss good night and I’m back downstairs to pour myself a glass of pinot noir, Signaterra 2012. Then I settle into my chair in the den and drift off into thoughts about the life I’m living.
Up until a few days ago, it was semi-perfect. Or at least it looked that way to the rest of the world, including Jean and the kids. A good life. Great family. Comforts. Peace and love. Church. All of it.
At the bottom of my second glass of wine I can only agonize over a pipe dream. If only it could stay just like it is, forever. But it can’t.
I drag my raggedy ass upstairs and climb into bed with Jean. If she only knew.…
This damned murder has already made any semblance of a normal life impossible.
And it’s only the first one.
Chapter 16
Same 7:20 express Tuesday morning and I’m back in the city. I wave at Mo on the way in to the office. “Hey, Mo!”
“They’re baaaack,” she says, and she’s not talking about the poltergeist.
I grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen and head upstairs to my cubicle. Surely the cops have turned up every bit of so-called evidence that would be here in the office. Why the hell do they keep coming back every day?
Do they think somebody here did it?
I get into my e-mails and see one from Paul to the entire office, subject line: A wake for Ramon.
To my dear colleagues:
I’ve been informed there’s a wake for Ramon tonight at the St. Bartholomew’s Church, 1227 Pacific St (at Bedford Ave), Brooklyn. 6-9p. A or C train, Nostrand Ave stop and walk a couple of blocks. I know his family, loved ones, and friends will appreciate our support. Hope to see many of you there. Paul
I click Reply All.
Absolutely Paul, I’ll be there.
Before I can finish my coffee, Detective Quinn stops by. “Hey, Tim, how’s it going?”
“Morning, Pete. If it wasn’t for this murder business, things would be pretty good. Just found out there’s a wake for Ramon tonight, over in Crown Heights. Of course I’m going.”
“Good to hear. You guys have a nice shop here. Lots of solid people. But I’ve got to tell ya, I’m getting a weird vibe from some of your creative types.”
“Whaddaya mean, Detective?”
“Well, best I can put it is, we don’t speak the same language. And worst case is, they know something and they’re not telling me.”
“Weird. Yeah, they’re unique, that’s for sure. Have to be to work in this business. You know, the more you act out in this business, the more creative you appear to be, the higher the rewards. Where’s the disconnect? What’s going on, Pete?”
“We’ve talked to most of them. People who have worked in the same, relatively small company together for a good while, and know the deceased, one way or the other. But they’re not saying shit. It’s almost like they’re protecting somebody. And why the hell would they? Based on what you’re telling me about Ramon, what’s to protect?”
The Palm Beach Murders Page 11
