The Palm Beach Murders

by James Patterson

  “Beats me,” I say, avoiding the obvious. For now. “But this is a crazy business. I’ve got a good feeling about most of these guys, for what it’s worth.”

  “Understand. But I’m not getting the feeling that I can count on what little they’re telling me. We’re really counting on you to keep your ear to the ground. Because so far…we’re clueless.”

  “I’m keeping my eyes and ears open, Detective,” I promise.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” he says, on the way out.

  Can’t wait.

  Chapter 17

  “Okay, now what?” It’s Bonnie Jo, back at my door as soon as Quinn’s gone.

  “Oh, man,” I say. “I’m seriously convinced they suspect somebody here at the agency. And I’ve got to tell ya, he’s asking me all about you creatives.”

  “What! Why us?”

  My iPhone vibrates with a text. Jesus, it’s Tiffany again.…

  I must see you! Please respond!

  “Jesus, BJ, take a look at this.” I show her the text and am instantly sorry I did.

  “Tiffany? Tiffany Stone? From our CrawDaddy spot all those years ago? Why the hell is she texting you?”

  “She’s looking for work. Thinks I can help her. Why the hell isn’t she after you about work, Bonnie, instead of me?”

  “Good question.” There’s a look on BJ’s face I haven’t seen before.

  “I mean, first of all, it’s you guys who cast the talent, not me,” I say. “I’d love to help, but I’m not a creative. Has she ever been after you?”

  The emerging look of suspicion on Bonnie Jo’s face is unmistakable. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “What? You think I’m hiding something? C’mon, you know me better than that.”

  “Well, I thought I did. Just let me know if you hear anything else, okay?”

  “Definitely. You going to the wake?”

  “Of course,” she says, and, as always, I watch her turn around and walk away.

  In no time Lenny’s back at my door, looking only slightly better than he did when I sent him home yesterday.

  “Hey bro, everything good?” he asks. Instead of the glassy-eyed smile, I get one that’s decidedly twitchy.

  “Far as I know, Len. Have the cops talked to you yet?”

  “No, man, why?” For him it’s rapid-speak. “Feels like they’re leaving me out for some reason.”

  No wonder, I’m thinking. You’re half stoned all the time.

  “Just curious. I know they’re talking to all the creatives. Which shouldn’t be a surprise based on what you told me yesterday, should it?”

  He’s clearly nervous, shifting from one foot to the other. He could sure use a couple of hits to mellow out.

  “Guess not,” he admits, rubbing his ass, which is no doubt getting tighter by the minute.

  “Take it easy, Lenny. Be cool.”

  He starts to leave, but stops at the door and looks back at me. And what do I get from this drug user and now murder suspect?

  A thumbs-up. Seriously?

  My cell rings. It’s Bob Nardone, my tax accountant for the past ten years. A guy who has helped Jean and me through more financial shit than you can imagine.

  “Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

  “Well, I’m looking at the paperwork you sent over the other day, and it’s not looking so good. There’s no way I can get you guys into a tax return scenario. You’ve got more coming in than you can apply expenses to.…”

  “Damn, Bob, you sure couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “I know, Tim. And you know I’d do anything within my powers to make it better, but I’m afraid I can’t this year. Looks like you’re going to owe approximately…twenty thousand dollars.…”

  “Are you serious? I don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, Jesus—Jean has no idea this kind of shit is possible.”

  “I understand,” he says. “I know you all too well, both of you. Look, there will be options. First of all we’ll get the maximum extension. And then we can file for extended monthly payments over time, like up to six years, so it should be manageable at least. Not pretty, but manageable.”

  And I’m wondering what else can go wrong in a world that is coming apart at the seams.

  My world.

  Chapter 18

  It’s six fifteen, time to get over to the wake. There’s still a handful of people at their laptops as I pass through the third floor, where most of the creatives are.

  Chris’s packing up. “Hey, Tim. Got any thoughts about all this madness?”

  “No more than anybody else, Chris. Have they talked to you yet?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Heard from Quinn they started with the creative guys. You must know about Ramon, right? What he was up to?”

  “Well, you hear stuff. Won’t say I haven’t.”

  “Exactly. You know damned well the detectives have heard the same stuff by now. Just between you and me, my guess is they actually suspect somebody here at work killed Ramon. We haven’t seen the last of these guys, you can count on that.”

  “For sure. You’re going to the wake, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Want to grab a beverage on the way to the train?” he asks. The last thing I want to do right now is hang out with this guy. Or anybody else.

  “Sorry man, I’ve got to make a stop on the way over.” I grab my shoulder bag and head straight for Fanelli’s to disappear into the bar crowd, to try to gather in a few minutes of sanity. Ketel One, soda, lime.

  Then I’m off to Crown Heights to honor Ramon’s passing. Grab the downtown 5 to Fulton Street and the A over to Crown Heights. The walk to St. Bartholomew’s helps clear my head, and it needs clearing, that’s for damned sure.

  On the way over I call Jean, like the broken record I am.

  She answers before the second ring: “Now what?”

  “Look, baby, I’m on my way to a wake for Ramon, over in Brooklyn. I know you’ll understand that I have to make an appearance. Won’t be too late, but you probably shouldn’t wait for me for dinner.”

  “Okay, I do. And I won’t. And don’t be too late.”

  “Later, love. Bye for now.”

  Chapter 19

  In ten minutes I’m climbing up the stairs into the St. Bartholomew church and the sanctuary. Damn near half the agency’s there, most of them with coffee in hand, chatting quietly in a handful of groups. And probably another fifty or sixty others, mingling at the side, near one of the naves. Obviously family and friends; I don’t recognize any of them.

  I see Ramon’s casket up front, sitting between the two altars, isolated, bathed in glorious flowers. It’s an open casket, which I didn’t expect. Catches my breath.

  Paul comes over. “Hello, Tim, we all sure appreciate you coming over.”

  We’re speaking in subdued, respectful tones, like everyone else.

  “Of course, you know I loved and respected Ramon as much as anybody. Had to come. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” and I walk down the center aisle to the coffin.

  There’s sweet Ramon, placid, pallid, at some kind of peace. His hands folded over his chest. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, here he is in a suit and tie.

  Needless to say, there’s no visible evidence of a gunshot wound. Thank God.

  I set my shoulder bag down, and with one hand on a casket handle for support, I kneel to the floor and share a silent, very private, and personal message with Ramon.

  When I stand up and turn around a young woman is approaching me, Hispanic, dressed in black, including a black scarf covering her head, and wearing a pained, miserable look on a beautiful face, with searching black eyes.

  Tears are streaming down her face. “Pardon, sir. You Mister Tim MacGhee?” I get an inquiring, hopeful look.

  And it hits me. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. And…you must be Juanita.…”

  “Sí, señor.”

  This is the woman Ramon has lived with for se
ven or eight years. He talked about her all the time.

  I pull her in close and offer some kind of condolence, and then extend my arms so I can look at her. “I am so, so sorry for your loss. Ramon has told me so much about you. He is…was…so proud of you and loved you so much. He made that very clear to me over the years.

  “We all loved Ramon, very much.”

  More tears, which she wipes away with an overused handkerchief.

  “And…por favor, amiga…don’t call me sir. Mi nombre es Tim, mi amiga. Okay?”

  “Sí. Okay. I just want you know how much you mean to mi Ramon, and so much he respected you and your business. Ramon always glad he know you so good.” Her broken English interspersed with more tears and more dabs from her handkerchief.

  “Thank you so much, Juanita. That means a lot to me. And here, please, take my card. If there is ever anything I can do for you, will you please call me?”

  “Sí. Gracias. Thank you.” We hug again, although she’s oddly a little distant this time, and I start back down the aisle.

  “One thing,” I hear her say, and pause in my steps to turn around and re-approach her.

  “Sorry, señor…”

  “No, please, what is it, Juanita? Anything.”

  “Well, couple weeks ago Ramon tell me that…when anything happen to him…I should come to you.”

  “Ah…yes,” I say, bracing for something I had not expected.

  “Sorry, señor, but Ramon pay for apartment. Without him, mi madre y yo, esta nada…he said…”

  And suddenly, in this church, in the midst of a wake for this woman’s longtime live-together mate and our beloved colleague, I’m being confronted with the same kind of bullshit I’ve been getting for days. Especially from Ramon.

  “Oh, señora. What can I say? It pleases me that Ramon thought enough of me to tell you that, but…I’m just in no position to offer that kind of financial help right now, much as I’d like to.”

  “Si, señor. Forgive me for saying. It’s just…”

  “I understand, Juanita. Yo entiendo. Do not worry. And you have my word, if things change, and I’m in a position to help, I certainly will.”

  And I start to pass her to go back down the aisle. But she’s holding her place.

  Suddenly there’s some kind of bad vibe hanging in the air. I can damned near taste it.

  “No, señor. No.” And now I’m looking at a different Juanita. Much of her accent is gone, replaced by what sounds like assertion. Her posture stiffens.

  “No. Mira,” and she’s got this piercing look in black eyes that one minute ago were bottomless wishing wells, and are now ablaze with anger. I actually rock back on my heels.

  “Mira, I know about you and Ramon.” She actually gestures to his corpse. “I…know. He told me all about it. Your business together. Your moneymaking business. So, you want to…help me? So I say nothing? Then, share. Comprende, señor?”

  I swallow hard. And I don’t need a translator.

  “Look, we’re in a church. We’re here for Ramon’s service, for Christ’s sake.” It’s all I can do to keep my voice down.

  “Share Ramon’s business with me. Or, no se what happens.”

  Only one way to put an end to this shit, for now.

  “Okay, okay. I will make some arrangements. Tell me how to reach you and I will do something. I am sure there are many people at the agency who will want to help, too.”

  “Aqui,” and she hands me a crumpled piece of paper, obviously prepared for this moment. I open it and there’s a Brooklyn address scrawled on it, barely readable, with a cell number.

  “Send money order. Then we see. Juanita Cisneros. C…I…S…”

  “Yes, yes, got it. Okay, I will. Count on it. I…want to help. I do.”

  And I’m looking at another metamorphosis. She’s reassuming the humbled look of a law-abiding illegal alien who has just suffered a painful loss, and is once again unclear about what tomorrow will bring….

  “Muchas gracias, señor.” She imposes another hug, and I see now we’re being watched by some of the agency folks down by the coffee urn.

  “De nada” is what I say, but not what I’m thinking.

  I’m almost sympathetic, because of my relationship with Ramon.

  Ay dios mio!

  Chapter 20

  I want to join some of the agency folk for a minute before I go—now more than ever. As I’m walking back down the aisle…there’s Detective Quinn, sitting in the last pew, way over on the far side.

  I walk down behind the pew to greet him. “Pete? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Hello, Tim. Yeah, it’s an opportunity for a look at Ramon’s world, his people, his friends. I spoke with his father outside, and he welcomed me in.”

  “See anything, Detective?”

  “Tim, that’s out of order here. You take care of your people. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Absolutely. Sorry. I do appreciate your diligence on all this.” I turn to cross over to where my agency people are clustered in small groups. I’m getting no eye contact, although I catch a glance from Chris and continue to the coffee urn, where Bonnie Jo is refilling her cup.

  “Hey, Bon. Sorry to have to see you here, that’s for sure.”

  “For a whole lot of reasons. Right?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Shhhh…hold it down, Tim. Not the time or place. I know everyone’s glad you’re here.”

  “Really? Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Well, they can’t help but notice that the detectives seem to be talking to you more than anyone else.”

  “Gee, Bonnie, I wonder why? I’m second in command, they know that I know everyone, and they assume I know everything that goes on at work. Which, of course, I don’t.”

  “Sure, I believe you. You just better hope the others do.” She walks over to one of the groups.

  I fill my cup and head over to Paul, standing there with Mo, Bill, Julie, and Chris. Mo breaks the awkward silence. “Hi, Tim, thanks for being here.”

  “Of course, Mo. Of course.” My phone vibrates and I look down to see that it’s Tiffany again….

  Tim!!!!!!!!!!

  I sign the guest register on the way out. Is nothing sacred?

  Chapter 21

  By the time I get up to Grand Central, the schedule monitor next to the ramp to the lower level shows an 8:29 express to Croton-on-Hudson, track 119, downstairs, so I head down the ramp past the Oyster Bar—and here’s Tiffany Stone, leaning up against the wall like she’s waiting for me.

  Of course. She is waiting for me. How the hell did she know I’d be here?

  “Oh, Tim!” she bleats. “I am so glad to see you. I really need to talk to you!”

  “Listen, Tiffany, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to get home and don’t want to miss my train.”

  “No, you listen to me! I’m scared. Scared to death. It’s awful what happened to Ramon.”

  “How the hell did you know Ramon? I just came from his wake, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I connected with Ramon one time when I was at the agency, and then I got weed from him sometimes, just like everybody else. I even resold some of it every once in a while. Now Ramon’s dead. And I’m wondering who’s next?”

  Only way to describe the look on her face is somewhere between pain, fear, and anger. Which somehow makes her even more sexy.

  “Look, Tiffany. I’d love to help if I could. But I can’t, not now, anyway. Not tonight.”

  “Tim, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to avoid me! After all these years!”

  Shit. I can’t leave it like this…who knows what she’ll do next?

  “Okay, I can see you’re in rough shape. Tell you what. Let’s grab a cocktail. Come with me. This will help, I promise,” and we head down to the Oyster Bar.

  “Okay thank you, thank you.”

  By the time I’m done with Tiffany it’s the 9:54 I catch, barely. At home, this time ev
erybody’s long asleep.

  I crawl into bed with Jean. Her back’s to me. I sense she’s awake. But no acknowledgment I’m here.

  I take the hint.

  Chapter 22

  Next morning I’m walking back through Grand Central to catch the 6 train down to work and there’s cops all over the place. A hell of a lot more than usual.

  My blood pressure spikes. I instinctively pull my carry bag a little closer. What the hell’s going on?

  “Excuse me, sir,” I say to one of the cops standing next to the terminal clock. “Can’t help but notice you guys have, like, tripled up in presence here. Is something going on?”

  “Can’t say, sir. Please move on. Have a nice day.”

  Now what? Maybe it’s some kind of terror threat.…

  I try to figure out what’s going on the rest of the way to work.

  “Morning, Mo,” I say as I pass by her desk into the office.

  “Oh, Tim! The detectives are back talking to us again. There’s been another murder!”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, Mo! Who? Has the entire universe gone mad?” She shakes her head.

  I head up to my cubicle and Quinn’s sitting there waiting for me.

  “Good morning, Tim.”

  “Morning, Detective. Hardly good, though. I hear there’s been another murder?”

  “I’m afraid so. But first things first. How are you doing?”

  “Truth? Not great. This murder stuff is way too close to home. It’s seriously getting to me.”

  “I’m sure you’re feeling it more than most, given your history and standing with Marterelli’s.”

  “And now there’s been another one, Pete?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “So what’s this latest murder got to do with us?”