The Palm Beach Murders

by James Patterson

  “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 her hand in mine, and up the stairs we go, with a peek into the kids’ rooms on the way by. Once we’re in our bedroom she takes off her robe, I shed my clothes, and we climb into our king-size bed.

  Lights off. And while I’m still trying to figure out what else I can say to reassure my wife of nearly fifteen years, she pulls her nightgown up over her head and offers herself to me with a lingering, loving kiss. The kind of kiss built on a history of marriage and family that’s lost none of its flame or desire.

  It’s not sex we have. It’s pure love. Which instead of being good for me, breaks my heart.

  I toss and turn awhile, half awake.…

  Where is all this shit going?

  …And finally drift off into a reluctant sleep.

  Chapter 31

  Another day, another dollar, thanks to Paul, for now. Back at work.

  The day of the pitch, and first a quick run-through before Zimmerman and his colleagues from Weight Watchers come to the office and dare us to amaze them. And we’ve got to. We need this business.

  I’ve promised Steve some innovative, top-line insights into their business, and we’ll use some of the agency’s work to demonstrate how we’ve successfully addressed similar challenges for other clients. Weight Watchers has had, like, six agencies in the last ten years. Nobody can get it right, at least that’s what they think. But we can. I’m sure of it—with groundbreaking work that produces results.

  That’s what a lot of agencies lose sight of—the work has to work! If it doesn’t sell the brand, or something relevant—it’s a waste of the client’s money.

  I’m up in my cubicle, grabbing some stuff I need for the rehearsal, when I get a text from Barb Lundquist:

  Congratulations! You’ve got the job! Linda loves you! Call to discuss details.

  Yes!!! In the middle of all this chaos, all this horror happening around us, this lights me up!

  Will do!! I text back, then head downstairs to the third floor and walk over to the meeting room. I’ve got our heavy hitters set up to participate in this one: Chris Berardo, our top creative guy—overlooking his bullshit from the other day; David Gebben, the copywriter; Bill Kelly, our best art director.

  I’m taking the lead, as usual, and Bonnie Jo is set to partner with me on this one. So far everybody’s here except her.

  Guess the smile on my face is obvious, because this is what I hear from Chris: “Tim, what the hell are you so happy about all of a sudden?”

  “Something personal, but thanks for asking. I’ll let Paul know we’re ready for the run-through,” and I head over to his office while they set up.

  I rap a knock on my way in and he looks up. “Paul, I know the timing on this totally sucks, but since our talk yesterday…you need to know.…”

  “Know what?”

  “I got the job.”

  “Wow. Who’s it with, if I might ask?”

  “It’s with Linda Kaplan, at Kaplan-Thaler. I’m going in as a partner and president!”

  “Well, shit, fabulous! I’m actually happy for you. Seriously. Hate to lose you. You’re irreplaceable. But opportunities don’t come along every day, and when they do, you need to grab on to them.”

  “Thanks Paul, you’re the best…I…”

  “And now for some more reality, Tim, and I know you’ll understand this: We’re going to need you to leave right away. There’s no sense in you leading the Weight Watchers pitch when you’re on your way out the door. And word travels fast; I don’t want the others seeing you still here, knowing you’re leaving—which they’ll find out soon enough. Even worse when the client finds out, and they will, too. I’m still good for the two weeks’ severance pay, but that’s it.”

  “Fair enough, Paul. I understand. Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Yeah, well, everything else is coming apart at the seams, this just pours a little more gasoline on the freakin’ fire. Like…an inferno…” which he manages to say with a half smile.

  “Needless to say I’ll step in on the new business pitch, although you’re a hard man to replace,” he says, generous to the end. “Tell the guys I’m on my way over.”

  “Will do,” and I stand up and shake his hand, which is awkward, and he collapses right there in his chair, head in hands, scratching the hair on his head and rubbing his eyes. He’s actually moaning.

  Chapter 32

  I’m back in the conference room. “Guys, listen up. Got something to tell you. And this ain’t easy.”

  I get mixed looks from David and Bill, an agitated glance from Chris.

  “After five great years here, for which I’m grateful to all of you for making possible, I am leaving the Marterelli agency for a much-needed change of scenery. I know you guys can appreciate that, and…”

  “Wow! Who’s it with, Tim?” Bill asks.

  “Kaplan-Thaler, you know, with Linda Kaplan.”

  “Damn, she’s cool, that’s for sure. And she’s built a great agency,” David says, and even Chris is forced to nod in agreement.

  “Yes, she is. And indeed, she has. Now, the thing is, Paul, who has been incredibly supportive through all of this—for all of us—well, he’s asked me to pack up my stuff right away and get out of everybody’s hair. Which I totally understand.

  “So I’m heading upstairs, and will stop back by on my way out. Meanwhile Paul is on his way over and will take the lead on this. You’re in great shape, and I’m sure Weight Watchers is going to be impressed.” This time my smile is ear to ear, and genuine.

  And then it is absolutely crushed. Mo practically crashes through the sliding glass door before David can pull it open for her.

  She’s hysterical.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  She’s bawling, struggling to get a sentence out, and when I hear it my life is officially upside down.

  “Bonnie…is d…d…dead! Bonnie Jo is dead! Murde
red. They found her in her apartment, dead!”

  Chapter 33

  Stunned silence. Groans. Gasping breaths. Faces twisting into sorrow, and anger. Bill buries his face in his hands. Mo collapses into my arms, and I gently sit her down.

  The new business pitch is instantly forgotten. I can hardly breathe.

  Chris looks up toward the ceiling. “Sweet Jesus, what in the world is going on?” and shakes his head, unconvincingly. I’ve never heard him talk like this. Gebben picks up a chair and slams it against the wall, to shrieks from the others.

  I’ve got to see if I can do something, anything, to help. Can’t leave my mates like this.

  “Okay, guys. Okay. Let’s try to get a grip here. This is insane. Awful. And scary. And weird. Clearly somebody has it in for us. But we’ve got to try to keep our cool—otherwise they win.” I’m trying to create some calm, but it’s just barely working.

  “Tim. Tim…” Mo says. “What should we do? What can we do?”

  I know one thing I can do, something I should have done yesterday: call Quinn about Berardo and his gun.

  “Hang on, guys, give me a minute.” I head for the third-floor restroom, where I can call Pete.

  “Detective Quinn,” he answers.

  “Pete, it’s Tim. Sorry to bother you.…”

  “No problem, Tim. No problem at all. What’s up?”

  “Now this thing with Bonnie Jo is simply beyond the pale. Insane. Madness. I—”

  “It certainly is, Tim. Certainly is. And needless to say it just puts Marterelli’s deeper under the microscope. What the hell is going on over there?”

  “Damn good question, which is why I’m calling you…and Jesus, I feel like a traitor…but I know you guys are counting on me and something happened late yesterday that I think you need to know about.”

  “I’m listening.…”

  “Right before I left work last night, I had a visit from Chris Berardo, our creative director.”

  “I know who Chris is.”

  “Well, and I don’t know quite how to say this any other way…he’s carrying. He’s got a pistol. Showed it to me, and I have no idea why.”

  “Are you sure, Tim?”

  “Absolutely. And of course with an all-points out for a murder suspect who’s killing people with a gun, a pistol, and now Bonnie Jo, well…”

  “Absolutely, Tim. Would have liked to have known about this last night—but you’ve done the right thing, thank you,” he says, and hangs up.

  Chapter 34

  I run some water in the sink. Splash some on my face and take a cold, hard look at myself in the mirror.

  I don’t recognize the guy looking back at me.

  Who are you, MacGhee? Who the hell are you, really? Where does all this madness go? Where does it end? And why? Why is this shit happening now? And what does it mean for me?

  No answers…not yet…

  I dry off with a couple of paper towels, brush my hair back, take a deep breath, and head back for the conference room. Chris is looking at me, determinedly, like he’s searching for answers, too—a different kind, no doubt—and I’m wondering if he thinks he sees a look of betrayal on my face.

  “Tim. What can we do?” It’s Mo again.

  Before I can come up with anything, I see Detective Quinn and his partner through the glass wall, quick-stepping it past Mo’s desk, headed for a conference room where Paul is waiting.

  That didn’t take long.

  Then Paul sticks his head in and, despite our conversation just twenty minutes ago, asks me to join them. I follow him over to the conference room.

  My friend Pete doesn’t look quite as friendly anymore, standing there, straight as an arrow, arms folded.

  “Detective,” I nod. He nods back, expressionless, like a stranger. Like he was trained to be.

  “This is so awful, so sad. So impossible to even believe, much less deal with,” Paul says.

  “Tragic,” I say. “Absolutely tragic. Ramon was bad enough. And Tiffany. But Bonnie Jo Hopkins? The brightest light in this agency. An inspiration to everyone. What a terrible, terrible loss.…”

  “And what a wicked coincidence, isn’t it?” Quinn says. “Three people murdered, all of whom had a relationship with this advertising agency. We sure are missing something here, that’s a damned definite.”

  I have to sit down.

  “I know you guys will get to the bottom of this,” I tell them.

  Surely they can see the devastation written all over my face.

  “Count on it,” he says, leaving no doubt he’ll be talking to me again.

  “Understand, Detective, absolutely. But you need to know something that Paul and I have just discussed. I am leaving the agency as of today, at my own initiative, and going to work with Linda Kaplan over at Kaplan-Thaler. Great opportunity. Due to start Monday. But of course you can contact me there, and you have my cell and e-mail info.”

  “Understand,” says Quinn, looking down at the floor, and then back up at me. “We’ve got a lot more talking to do with people here, too, so we’re going to get back at it. But before I go there’s something you both should know, and it’s based on the input we just got from MacGhee: Chris Berardo has been seen carrying a weapon, a pistol, inside the office—we don’t know for how long—so we’re taking him in for questioning.”

  “Are you serious, Detective?” It’s Paul, in an extended state of disbelief.

  Then he looks over at me.

  “Slam dunk, based on what MacGhee’s telling us. Want to get him away from the others to talk. But you need to know because that’s where we’re headed right now, and that’s why he’ll be leaving with us.”

  Paul and I watch as the detectives approach the meeting room and gesture for Chris to step outside. There’s twenty seconds of detective speak from Quinn and then they turn him around, place his hands up against the wall and pat him down! Surreal.

  “How did you know about the gun, Tim?” Paul wants to know.

  “Don’t ask, Paul. You wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

  All anyone can do is stare in disbelief. Gloved, Quinn removes a pistol from Chris’s inside jacket pocket, drops it in the evidence bag Garrison’s holding, and pulls Berardo’s hands down behind his back to cuff him. As they escort him out I get a satanic stare from Chris that would pierce a granite wall.

  He’s not looking for answers anymore. He knows.

  At least now the cops have a lead suspect.…

  Chapter 35

  The agency is completely unwired, just like when Ramon got killed. No, worse. The sooner I get out of here, the better.

  Quinn’s across the way, and his eyes follow me as I cross the third floor and head for the back stairs, tracking my every step. What the hell?

  Bill Kelly approaches. “Tim, oh man, I am so, so sorry for all of this. And look, I just want you to know how especially sorry I am for you and…Bonnie Jo…I…”

  “Why, man? I mean, we all loved Bonnie Jo. I worked very closely with her over the years. Just like a lot of you.”

  “Just wanted you to know, that’s all,” he tells me, with what amounts to a knowing look.

  Jesus, what else do people know about me?

  I grab a couple of empty boxes from the kitchen storage room and head up the back stairs. And here’s Lenny smoking a joint! “What the hell, Lenny? Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”

  “Want a hit?” he says.

  “No, I don’t,” I lied. “Put that thing out and get the hell out of here!”

  Yeah, it’s time to go.

  I’m crossing over the fifth floor to my cubicle and pass Clay Caulkin’s workspace. He’s one of our top account guys. “Hey, Clay, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he says. For the first time I see the old Adweek column, “Making Stuff Happen,” actually framed and hanging on his wall.

  “Clay, I can’t believe you’ve still got that old Adweek column on your wall. So do I. No wonder you’re so damned good.”

/>   “Whatever,” he says. He looks defeated, and I don’t blame him.

  There’s nobody around when I get to my cubicle. Got one more thing to take care of, so I pull out the note Juanita gave me.

  “Como?” she answers on the second ring.

  “Juanita, buenas tardes. It’s Tim MacGhee, and I have some good news for you. We’ve been able to collect some money for you.…”

  “Bueno…” is all I get.

  “Sure, so I’d like to bring it to you after work tonight. Will you be at home?”

  “Sí.”

  “And will tu madre be there, too?”

  “Sí.”

  “Okay, good. I will try to be there by seven. Is that okay?”

  “Sí.”

  “Good. Bueno. I’ll see you then,” and hang up.

  Takes me just fifteen minutes to pack my stuff. I spend another minute catching my breath. Five years, five more good years here, and boom, it’s done. It’s hard to be excited when my entire universe has caved in on me. I’ve got one chance to make it right, and that’s the new job at Kaplan-Thaler.

  Thank God for minor miracles, I think, and head for the elevator.

  But no quick escape—because Detectives Quinn and Garrison are there waiting for me. How the hell’d they get back here so fast?

  “Pete?”

  “Let’s make it Detective Quinn, MacGhee. And I’m afraid we’ve got some more questions for you.”

  “Well, sure. What else can I tell you? Let’s go back to my cubicle where we can talk.”

  “No, not quite. We’re going to need to take you down to the station, where we can be sure our conversation is completely private.”

  “Seriously? Well…of course, if that’s what it takes. As you can see I’m in the process of leaving the agency.”

  “Yes, like you told us. And we want to make this as easy as possible, and attract as little attention as possible. So first, we’re going to ask you to drop off your things back in your cubicle. And then we’ll escort you downstairs to our car.”