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

into the house somewhere and Jean and I are enjoying the last of our champagne. Very mellow, damn near at peace. It’s like I’m sitting here in a protective bubble, isolated from the madness of the real life that swirls around me. My thoughts drift to Ramon, and that last night…losing him…painful…

“Now I am the master!” A growly voice lances my universe. There’s a small, hard cylinder at the back of my head. I hear my champagne glass crash to the ground. Jean lets out a yelp and I spin around in my chair, sick with fear.

“What—”

It’s Brady, in his Darth Vader Halloween costume. He drops his light saber and erupts into tears.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry!” he says, and I gather him up in my arms. We’re both shaking.

My bubble has burst.

Chapter 12

We climb out of bed and roust the kids. Time to get ready for church—like I’ve always said, I need all the help I can get.

For the past nine years, we’ve belonged to Union Church of Pocantico Hills—a nondenominational protestant church that counts John D. Rockefeller among its founders. I even served on the board of deacons for six of those years, serving communion occasionally to David and Laurance Rockefeller, before Laurance died.

We pile in the car after breakfast and head for church. The small sanctuary is beautiful, lined on both sides with nine magnificent stained-glass windows by Marc Chagall—each one a depiction from the New Testament—and a large rose window up front designed by Henri Matisse, one of his last works. Nothing like a Rockefeller connection.

The preacher consistently delivers learned, insightful, and sometimes acerbic sermons.

This morning I hear him quote from Ecclesiastes 5, Verse 10: “Whoever loves money never has money enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with his income. This, too, is meaningless.”

Which is about the last thing I need to hear.

Reminds me of something George Carlin said: “Don’t give your money to the church. They should be giving their money to you.” That’s more like it.

We’re meeting the Elvins for dinner tonight at the Chappaqua Tavern.

I’m in a damned-near good mood, basking in what I heard from Barb yesterday. Diane and Joe are already at the bar when we get there, so we order a beverage to catch up: Ketel One, soda, lime for me, and a glass of chardonnay for Jean.

The TV’s on over the bar. Chuck Esposito from NBC is on camera, in front of the agency. I hear him say:

—murder at the Marterelli and Partners advertising agency in lower Manhattan. One of their employees, Ramon Manuel Martinez, of Brooklyn, was found dead early Friday morning up on the roof of the Marterelli offices, with a bullet to the back of the head. Police and city detectives continue to look for clues. Thus far, they have none. This is Chuck Esposito reporting from downtown Manhattan. Back to you, Stacy…

“Unbelievable,” Joe says, shaking his head. “So they really don’t know anything about it yet?”

“Far as I know,” I say. “They’ve got the roof off limits while they continue to search for any clues. And of course they’re talking to everyone at the agency, including me.”

“Sure hope they find this guy,” Joe says. “So what else is going on, anything?”

“Yeah, actually, there is. Between us folk, I’m getting some great feedback on a job I’m after, a really great job.”

“Fantastic,” says Diane, and Jean puts her arm around my back with a loving squeeze.

“Yeah. Don’t want to jinx it, but it could be good.”

We’re seated for dinner, and the conversation flowers among us friends, budding into lighter subjects, thank goodness. Imagine. Life could be good, if only…

Diane orders their oven-baked penne, Joe likes the grilled skirt steak, Jean splurges with fish and chips, and for me, the drunken salmon with bourbon cream sauce.

To go with the drunken salmon I order a bottle of limited edition Seyval blanc from St. George, a local winery up in Mohegan Lake. After the server pours it all around, I offer a toast.

“Here’s to good friends and the wonderful lives we share,” I pronounce, with a great deal of hope against hope.

“Hear! Hear!” and soon dinner is served, in the midst of animated chatter all around.

After dinner we share a round of vintage port and I ask for the check.

“Let’s split it, Tim,” Joe offers.

“Nah. Let me, I’ve got it.” I hand the server my MasterCard.

She’s back in five minutes and tries to be discreet. “I’m sorry, sir. Your card is refusing this charge.”

Jesus! It’s that bad.…

I get a look from Jean.

“Must be because I’ve been traveling. Sometimes the banks go overboard with their security precautions.”

Yeah, right.

“Hey, Tim, no sweat. I’m sure it’s a tech malfunction or something. Let me get it,” and Joe hands her his card.

Is there no escaping this shit? Well, actually, no, there isn’t.

Chapter 13

Monday morning…and I’m back at it. 7:20 express, gets me in to Grand Central at 8:08, time enough to read the New York Times on the way in. Then I grab the 6 train downtown to 14th Street and walk over to the office.

In I go, and the weekend has not helped anybody calm down much. The office is still in a state of jangled nerves, preoccupied would-be workers, and general chaos.

Mo’s at the front desk. “Hey, Tim, good morning! Welcome back.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“Those detectives, the two of them, were back. Waiting at the front door when I got here to open up. They’re all over it. And us. Interviewing everybody,” she tells me.

“Turns out they’ve been in the area most of the weekend.…”

“Well, there’s been a murder. I’m grateful they’re here. Did they talk to you, Mo?”

“Sure. Asked me all about Ramon, what I knew about him, his personal life. His family. Who he hung out with here at the agency. All I could tell them was how much we all loved him.”

I head up to my cubicle. Quinn’s at the top of the stairs…waiting for me? Well-dressed, mid-forties, close-cropped, graying hair. Fit.

“Mr. MacGhee, sorry