The Palm Beach Murders James Patterson (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

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