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

know what you know about Ramon. God rest his soul.”

Here’s a guy who founded and runs a successful, midsize New York ad agency, and he’s basically clueless about a lot of the people who work for him.

“Okay, look. You know some of our creatives use a little—”

“A little what?” he asks. Seriously? He doesn’t know?

“Marijuana, Paul. Weed. A lot of them smoke it. You know that, right?”

“Well, sure, I’ve heard there’s some grass around.…”

“So…” I tell him, “Ramon is the guy they were getting it from. And other stuff, too. Who knows?”

“Oh, my God. It’s worse than I thought. Much worse. Do you think that had anything to do with him getting killed?”

“Of course I do. And I think the cops do, too. Which is why they’re all over the agency. And Tiffany’s murder only makes it worse. Apparently she was getting her drugs from him, too.”

“My God—what has become of my agency? And I have to tell you, Tim—you’re making it worse yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Paul?”

“I know you’re looking for another job.”

Oh, shit. Should have known that kind of thing doesn’t stay secret.

“Paul…that was before all this. It’s not that I’m unhappy here.…”

“Look, we’ve worked too long and too close together to tiptoe around,” Paul says. “This happens in our business, but I like you and so does everybody else here. We’d hate to lose you. And the timing absolutely sucks.”

He pauses, then says, “So, how’s the search going?”

I fumble for a response and say, “Well, yeah, got a couple of possibilities…I…”

“Good! Glad to hear it,” he says. Really?

I take a deep breath. “Thanks for your understanding, Paul. And for your support.” What else can I say? Nothing, so I reach for the door handle.

“By the way, Tim,” Paul says, “Bonnie Jo’s not at work again. Any idea what’s going on with her?”

Chapter 30

Home, finally. Late again, near eleven o’clock. New business pitch is tomorrow. Of course the kids are asleep, and surely disappointed we didn’t get to Pizza Pizazz, as promised. What about Jean? I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle of Signaterra from Monday and find her in the family room in her nightgown and robe, reading. Or acting as if.

“Hello, love. Can I get you anything?” and she finally looks up at me with an expression that is hard to read. It lingers somewhere between forced attention to the book in her lap and a question, probably about what the hell is going on with me.

“No, Tim, I’m fine. Well, not fine. But here I am, which is more than I can say for you lately.”

“I know, baby. What are you reading?”

“Jesus, Tim, who cares?”

“What’s the matter, love? Is something bothering you?”

“Hell, yes, something’s bothering me. Everything’s bothering me. Lately I’m with you like six hours a day, all of it after dark and most of it sound asleep. Or trying to be. That’s no life. At least not the life we planned on. Or I hoped for.

“And now another murder is all over the news. Another one—connected to your office! Did you know this woman?”

“I know, it’s terrible. Well, she was in our first CrawDaddy Super Bowl commercial, and I was on the shoot. So sure, I knew her from that, a long time ago.

“I know it’s been a little crazy these days, for us. I didn’t plan on it being this way, either. The advertising business is crazy. And where Marterelli is right now is even crazier. Especially with these murders.”

“To say the least,” she says.

“Plus, we need new clients, big time, and that’s on me. So I have to put in these insane hours to try to help give us a shot. To make shit happen—for myself, and for us, too. Which is what I told Linda Kaplan in our interview the other day.

“It’s a great job at Kaplan-Thaler, by the way, one that I really want. One that…we really need.”

“Define need,” she says.

“Fair enough,” I answer, and take another sip of my wine. “Look, my days at Marterelli are numbered. I’m done there. Paul knows I’m looking. It’s time to move on. And this job offers huge financial upside, which is always a good thing.…”

“Of course it is,” she says.

“Yeah, but there’s more to it than that. Which is what I mean about the need thing. So let’s be honest—we need the money. This house is a huge financial burden. And, well, our credit cards are maxed, too. Property taxes are due just around the corner.”

“So is our income tax.…”

“All of it’s piling up, making me nuts, and it’s about to bury us.”

“Define bury us.”

“Oh, baby. I’m just saying that with our debt, and taxes, if I can’t generate some more income, well, worst-case scenario, we might even have to…move…to a less expensive location. And trust me, I don’t want that to happen any more than you do.”

“My God, Tim. I had some sense of all this, but not to this degree. You’re scaring the hell out of me.”

“All I’m saying is we need the higher income this new job will get us. Then we’ll be fine. I want you to count on me, just like always,” I say, which I know by now is wishful thinking.

I set my glass of wine next to the lamp on the side table, kneel down in front of Jean and look into her eyes. “Listen, my love, I will never, ever, put you in a situation that’s not good for you. Not good for both of us.”

How the hell can she buy any of this?

“From the bottom of my heart, you have my word. My commitment.”

But maybe she is. She’s relaxing a bit. Her eyes soften, and with that I take her head in my hands and lean in and plant a loving kiss on her lips, hoping she’ll accept it. She does.

“Why don’t we take this conversation upstairs, you know?” It’s the moment of closeness we’ve needed.

“Okay,” she says. I click off the table lamp, take