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

flowers. It’s an open casket, which I didn’t expect. Catches my breath.

Paul comes over. “Hello, Tim, we all sure appreciate you coming over.”

We’re speaking in subdued, respectful tones, like everyone else.

“Of course, you know I loved and respected Ramon as much as anybody. Had to come. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” and I walk down the center aisle to the coffin.

There’s sweet Ramon, placid, pallid, at some kind of peace. His hands folded over his chest. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, here he is in a suit and tie.

Needless to say, there’s no visible evidence of a gunshot wound. Thank God.

I set my shoulder bag down, and with one hand on a casket handle for support, I kneel to the floor and share a silent, very private, and personal message with Ramon.

When I stand up and turn around a young woman is approaching me, Hispanic, dressed in black, including a black scarf covering her head, and wearing a pained, miserable look on a beautiful face, with searching black eyes.

Tears are streaming down her face. “Pardon, sir. You Mister Tim MacGhee?” I get an inquiring, hopeful look.

And it hits me. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. And…you must be Juanita.…”

“Sí, señor.”

This is the woman Ramon has lived with for seven or eight years. He talked about her all the time.

I pull her in close and offer some kind of condolence, and then extend my arms so I can look at her. “I am so, so sorry for your loss. Ramon has told me so much about you. He is…was…so proud of you and loved you so much. He made that very clear to me over the years.

“We all loved Ramon, very much.”

More tears, which she wipes away with an overused handkerchief.

“And…por favor, amiga…don’t call me sir. Mi nombre es Tim, mi amiga. Okay?”

“Sí. Okay. I just want you know how much you mean to mi Ramon, and so much he respected you and your business. Ramon always glad he know you so good.” Her broken English interspersed with more tears and more dabs from her handkerchief.

“Thank you so much, Juanita. That means a lot to me. And here, please, take my card. If there is ever anything I can do for you, will you please call me?”

“Sí. Gracias. Thank you.” We hug again, although she’s oddly a little distant this time, and I start back down the aisle.

“One thing,” I hear her say, and pause in my steps to turn around and re-approach her.

“Sorry, señor…”

“No, please, what is it, Juanita? Anything.”

“Well, couple weeks ago Ramon tell me that…when anything happen to him…I should come to you.”

“Ah…yes,” I say, bracing for something I had not expected.

“Sorry, señor, but Ramon pay for apartment. Without him, mi madre y yo, esta nada…he said…”

And suddenly, in this church, in the midst of a wake for this woman’s longtime live-together mate and our beloved colleague, I’m being confronted with the same kind of bullshit I’ve been getting for days. Especially from Ramon.

“Oh, señora. What can I say? It pleases me that Ramon thought enough of me to tell you that, but…I’m just in no position to offer that kind of financial help right now, much as I’d like to.”

“Si, señor. Forgive me for saying. It’s just…”

“I understand, Juanita. Yo entiendo. Do not worry. And you have my word, if things change, and I’m in a position to help, I certainly will.”

And I start to pass her to go back down the aisle. But she’s holding her place.

Suddenly there’s some kind of bad vibe hanging in the air. I can damned near taste it.

“No, señor. No.” And now I’m looking at a different Juanita. Much of her accent is gone, replaced by what sounds like assertion. Her posture stiffens.

“No. Mira,” and she’s got this piercing look in black eyes that one minute ago were bottomless wishing wells, and are now ablaze with anger. I actually rock back on my heels.

“Mira, I know about you and Ramon.” She actually gestures to his corpse. “I…know. He told me all about it. Your business together. Your moneymaking business. So, you want to…help me? So I say nothing? Then, share. Comprende, señor?”

I swallow hard. And I don’t need a translator.

“Look, we’re in a church. We’re here for Ramon’s service, for Christ’s sake.” It’s all I can do to keep my voice down.

“Share Ramon’s business with me. Or, no se what happens.”

Only one way to put an end to this shit, for now.

“Okay, okay. I will make some arrangements. Tell me how to reach you and I will do something. I am sure there are many people at the agency who will want to help, too.”

“Aqui,” and she hands me a crumpled piece of paper, obviously prepared for this moment. I open it and there’s a Brooklyn address scrawled on it, barely readable, with a cell number.

“Send money order. Then we see. Juanita Cisneros. C…I…S…”

“Yes, yes, got it. Okay, I will. Count on it. I…want to help. I do.”

And I’m looking at another metamorphosis. She’s reassuming the humbled look of a law-abiding illegal alien who has just suffered a painful loss, and is once again unclear about what tomorrow will bring….

“Muchas gracias, señor.” She imposes another hug, and I see now we’re being watched by some of the agency folks down by the coffee urn.

“De nada” is what I say, but not what I’m thinking.

I’m almost sympathetic, because of my relationship with Ramon.

Ay dios mio!

Chapter 20

I want to join some of the agency folk for a minute before I go—now more than ever. As I’m walking back down the aisle…there’s Detective Quinn, sitting in the last pew, way over on the far side.

I walk down behind the pew to greet him. “Pete? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Hello, Tim. Yeah, it’s an opportunity for a look at Ramon’s world, his people, his friends. I spoke with his father outside, and he welcomed me in.”

“See anything, Detective?”

“Tim, that’s out of order here. You take care of