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

could be helpful. Look, we’re a downtown, independent New York ad agency. Nearly two hundred employees. Highly creative. Break a lot of rules.

“So it shouldn’t surprise you that a lot of these guys smoke some marijuana every once in a while. Some of them a lot.”

He’s nodding his head. “No surprise there.”

“For all I know they’re into other stuff as well…”

Another nod. And insistent eye contact. Not exactly comforting.

“I’m not saying I was one of them. But what I hear is most people got their stuff from Ramon. I think Ramon might have been the office dealer, the guy they went to for their weed. And who knows what else? Everybody loved Ramon. Maybe that’s why.”

More nodding. He’s not saying so, but I can tell he’s still not surprised. These guys know more than they’re letting on.

“That’s fairly serious stuff, Tim. Why didn’t you share this with us earlier?”

He’s got me. “I should have, I guess. I really didn’t know for sure until just yesterday, and it didn’t make any sense to me at first.”

Is he buying it?

“Look, Tim. None of these things ever make any sense. Until they do…”

Yeah, but not before one more person in my quickly collapsing world gets murdered.

“Listen, Tim, I really appreciate your input. Rest assured, you’ve been a big help. I know we can count on you.”

“Absolutely, Pete, anytime.”

“Now I’ve got some things to follow up on.” We shake hands and he’s off again.

Chapter 24

I sit down and open my laptop so I can send out an agency-wide e-mail to see if we can raise some money for Ramon’s family.

“Lenny?” He’s back. This time with Chris. Chris has got his blues hat on, which pushes his now unleashed locks close against his face, and he looks like he’s twisted as tight as Lenny. Unusual for him.

“Chris, you okay?”

“Well, Tim, not exactly. Not really. You sure are talking to the dicks a lot. You and this Quinn guy have really buddied up. What’s that all about?”

“Yeah, dude,” pipes in Lenny. “What’s going down with that?”

“Guys, what’s the deal? Don’t you trust me?”

“Well,” Chris says. “You know, we’re all in this together, right? You know pretty much everything that goes on here. It’s no wonder these detectives keep talking to you.”

These guys are losing it. So am I.

“So, what exactly have you been telling them?” Chris wants to know.

“I’m not telling them shit. Don’t have to. They already know. They know guys here at work smoke weed. And worse. They know most people get it from Ramon. They know that. So back off, guys.”

Two guys I thought I knew really well are standing there facing me like total strangers. Pissed-off strangers.

Then Chris blows me away: “Tim, don’t take this the wrong way, but you should know…I’m carrying.…” and he pulls open his jacket to reveal some kind of pistol stuck in the inside pocket. He’s staring me down, fully intending for me to take it the wrong way.

“What the hell is that, Chris? This is insane. We’re friends, for Christ’s sake. I was just at your gig Monday night. What the hell?”

“I’m just sayin’,’’ Chris says.

Lenny’s got this smirk on his face. “Yeah, you know?”

“Saying what, that you’ll shoot me if you see me talking to a law enforcement officer who has come to my desk, in full view of the office, to ask about a murder that happened right here?”

“Whatever, man,” says Chris. “Just thought you should know.”

What I know is that Chris has now got to be the number one suspect.

I take a deep breath. Back to my laptop…

I’m reaching out to my agency friends and colleagues to join me in honoring the passing of our dear, beloved Ramon. Some of you met Juanita—the love of his life—at the wake last night. She’s a strong and dedicated woman who loved and supported Ramon for many years. And now she’s left to confront life’s challenges without him—which is going to be difficult. So I’m setting up a website so we can pool our efforts. Please go to www.ramonmartinezpm.org and you’ll see the easy steps to contribute something. I know Ramon and Juanita will appreciate any help we can provide. I certainly do,

Tim

And tap Send…

My phone rings. “Tim MacGhee,” I answer.

“Tim, this is Chuck Esposito, WNBC, New York.…”

“Ah…sure, how can I help?”

“Well, there’s been another murder. Tiffany Stone, whom your agency hired several years ago for a CrawDaddy Super Bowl commercial.…”

How the hell do these guys get this stuff so fast? “Yes, we…”

“Would you care to comment, Tim? You were with Marterelli’s back then, right?”

“No. Well, yes, I was. But no can do, Chuck. I’m sure you’ll understand. Again.”

“Not exactly. But of course it’s your option. I may call again though.”

Damn, these guys are persistent. Lucky me.

Chapter 25

I’m sitting here in my desk chair still trying to get a grip on what’s happening when my cell rings again. This time it’s Bonnie Jo.

I tap Accept. “Hi…”

“So hey, Tim. Thinking about you…”

“Where are you, BJ?”

“I’m home. Playing hooky.”

And then she says, “Why don’t you come on over?”

Okay, I admit it: Bonnie Jo Hopkins and I have a…relationship. And I’m not talking about the one at work.

I’m not exactly proud of it. But with the stress I’m under…damn, it’s good.

“I don’t know, baby.…”

“C’mon, things are nuts there. That’s why I stayed home. And I’ve been thinking of you since I woke up this morning.”

My temperature’s starting to rise. She has that way about her.

“Get your sexy self over here and maybe we can help each other forget all about it.…”

That’s all the encouragement I need.

“Meeting Steve Zimmerman for early drinks and dinner,” I tell Mo on the way out the door, explaining why I’m leaving work at five—a final meet with the new business prospect from Weight Watchers before our pitch Friday.

“Got it. I know you’ll be your usual charming self,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

Bonnie Jo lives over in Tudor City, First Avenue and 40th way over on the East Side, near Turtle Bay, in