“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 cab driver.
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 building, 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.
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. Work stations 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 t
o 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!” moans 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.”
Nooners Page 2
