The Palm Beach Murders by James Patterson (the read aloud family .TXT) 📕

the guns and stick one in the right hand of each of the dead men in the room. I pulled the trigger with the gun in the hand of each man and didn’t really care where the bullet went. It was all part of the story I had planned.

I stepped back to make sure everything looked just the way I wanted it to. The bodies were well separated, and the police measurements would show that the bullets had traveled about the right distance. I went to the nearest bathroom and, using the back of my hand to avoid leaving fingerprints, double-flushed the gloves. Perfect.

I strolled through the house and started to climb the stairs, then dialed 911 on my cell phone, and as soon as the operator answered, I screamed, “They’re shooting each other, they’re shooting each other, what should I do?” Then I threw in a convincing cry.

The operator, keeping calm like they’re trained to, said, “Ma’am, ma’am, where are you? What’s the address?”

I continued to climb the stairs. Through a series of sobs I gave her the address. And told her, “He’s crazy and he has a gun.”

The operator said, “Where are you in the house? Are you safe?”

I gave her a good moan and said, “I’m hiding upstairs in a closet. Think I’m safe for now.”

The operator said, “Stay there. Help is on the way.”

When the cops found me in the closet, they would see that I’d been crying. What they wouldn’t understand was that they were tears of joy. I had just gotten my house back by winning a game. This game was called let’s play make-believe that I can get away with the murder of my husband.

Nooners

James Patterson

with Tim Arnold

Chapter 1

“So, Tim, how would you describe yourself in a single sentence?”

Friday lunch, and I was sitting across the table from Linda Kaplan, the president of one of the most successful advertising agencies in New York, Kaplan-Thaler. She’s in her mid-fifties, attractive, and exudes the confidence of well-deserved success.

I’m your typical New York adman, Madison Avenue through and through, but after a second stint at Paul Marterelli & Partners, I’d hit a wall. It was time to move on. Past time.

And at this lunch, it’s taking all I’ve got to stay in the moment. A lot of bad, crazy shit has come crashing down around me, and I’m trying to figure out what it all means.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.…

We’re at Soho House, a members-only restaurant, hotel, and spa down on 9th Avenue in the Meatpacking District. Linda Kaplan launched her agency in 1997 with the Herbal Essence shampoo “Yes! Yes! Yes!” campaign—think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally—and never looked back. Now the agency is part of the Publicis Group, a global organization with the financial means to pay their people well. My headhunter hooked us up because Linda is looking for a co-partner and managing director to assume responsibility for all of the agency’s clients.

I’m getting a good vibe. The light in her eyes suggests she has a good sense of humor and doesn’t take life—real life—too damned seriously. Just her job.

This is a big deal. Our first interview. I want this job. A lot. Possibility of a 25 percent salary hike, plus bonus. I know I’m qualified, and so does she.

I’m wearing a necktie for the first time in years. I usually just wear jeans and a button-down to work, unless we have a client in or a new business pitch, but this meeting calls for a tie. Lots at stake here. And the damned thing feels like a noose tightening around my neck.

This was the day of the first murder. Somebody I knew. By the end of next week, my life will have changed forever.

Chapter 2

Yesterday…

On bad days the advertising agency profession can get old fast. Especially with lousy clients. But this day is set to remind me why I got in this business in the first place.

We’re presenting a new campaign to a client who’s sat on the same advertising for five years: Chubb Insurance—Marterelli’s biggest client—has become one of those “unapproachable” insurance companies lost in the morass of indistinguishable brands in a category that’s competing on price, and little more. Worse, Chubb is premium priced. We’ve got a scary idea—the kind I love—to take Chubb to the next level. The plan is to confront consumers with the inevitability of some painful loss of assets during their lifetimes. Then we let them know that Chubb will be there to help, with a campaign built around humor to balance the grim forecast.

It’s enough to distract me from the real-life bullshit swirling all around me.

The meeting’s scheduled for eleven a.m. I’m in the office by eight; I stop by the break room, crank up the coffeepot, and head upstairs to go over some notes.

I’m wearing jeans, for sure—Ralph Laurens—pressed, and an oxford cloth open-collar long-sleeved shirt. Got my black-on-black brocade sports jacket slung over a chair, ready for the client. So I’m going formal. Cool New York formal.

“Hey, buenos dias, amigo.” It’s Ramon, our tech guy, at my cubicle door. A tall, dark, and handsome guy, as they say, with a bright, persistent smile on his face. “What’s up? And what am I doing here this early, you ask?”

“Looking for…?”

“No one. Just here to set you guys up in the conference room. Big meeting, huh?”

“Yeah, totally. But we’re ready to kick some client ass. Thanks, man, I’ll see you later.”

“Ciao.” I will definitely see Ramon later.

Back upstairs with my coffee. Now it’s Mary Claire Moriarty, my junior account leader—that’s what I like to call all of us account types. Early twenties, straight out of the Missouri School of Journalism, and she’s a terrific writer, too, so I’ve given her a small part in the pitch. It’s all about teamwork, and providing experience in the trenches for these bright up-and-comers.

“Good morning, sir,” she says. Her bright eyes are beaming. She’s a spark.

“MC, I keep telling you, no ‘sirs’ in this