“Wow, honey, that’s unbelievable. You okay?”
“Not exactly. I’m getting out of here. I’ll be home early, okay? Bye for now.”
“Sure, love. I’ll be here. Bye.”
It’s only three thirty, but there’s no damned reason to hang around work. For me or anybody else. And anyway, it’s Friday. I’m outta there, on my way over to the Union Square subway station when I pass by Fanelli’s Café on Prince Street, one of the oldest pubs in New York City.
What the hell? I turn around and head in for a beverage. I never drink before dinner, except on the agency roof, but God knows I could use one now, given all the shit that’s coming down around me.
The bar is abuzz with classic New York characters. I squeeze in and order a Ketel One, soda, lime. Fifteen minutes later I’m a lot braver, so I pay up. Time to head for the 6 train up to Grand Central, where I can catch the 4:47 to Croton-on-Hudson. But not before I cab it down to the bank again. Can grab the 6 from there.
At the Croton-on-Hudson station I climb in my car and head for our house, which is only five minutes away. It’s a big, five-thousand-square-foot 1920s Spanish Mediterranean, called Twin Eagles; there’s a stone sculpture of an eagle, wings spread, on each side of the driveway. And it’s twice as big, and twice as expensive, as we need.
But Jean and the kids love it. We’ve been here eight years.
I pull up around the circular drive in front of the house. The last thing I want is the kids—or anybody—to see me upset. So I honk the horn. Surprise! Here comes Brady racing out the front door, and jumps all over me. His sister, Ellie, follows out behind him, “What’s up Dad?”
They stay with me, like kids who know their father loves them. We head out toward the pool.
Then I see Jean up on the porch.
“Oh, Tim, I hope you’re okay,” she asks, as I park the kids in the front hall and head for the kitchen. “Have to say I’m glad you’re here, but what a terrible way to get you home early.”
The kids head upstairs and Jean follows me into the kitchen.
“You look terrible, Tim. Talk to me.”
“Not sure I’ve ever told you about Ramon. I helped him get his job at Marterelli’s. Our IT guy. One of the sweetest, nicest people you’d ever meet. Everybody loved him. It’s like…ripping a hole in the agency’s heart. Everybody seems in shock.”
“And how about you, love?” she asks.
“You know, I guess I’m okay, all things considered. Truth is, I’ve seen worse, as you probably know.
“Remember when I’d call you from over there, in Iraq, when I was in the middle of all that mayhem and violence?”
“Yes, I…”
“Well, I tried to make sure you couldn’t feel the horror. I suppose it was some kind of warped preparation for all this.
“This is definitely tough, this murder, so close to home, but I’ll be fine. Got to be. Agency’s counting on me for support.”
“Oh, honey. I know they can. You’re the best.” I’m even more thankful than usual for my wife’s love.
Chapter 10
Saturday morning I grab Brady and take him to his soccer game down at Croton Point Park, which juts out into the Hudson and offers gorgeous views of Rockland County on the other side of the river, a few miles south of West Point.
Soon as we get there Brady jumps out of the car and runs off to join his teammates. The eight- and nine-year-olds are all dressed up in their Croton Kickers T’s. I think, what a gift this boy is. And his sister, Ellie, three years older.
Jean and I got married after college, where we dated for the last three years. I joined the Marines that fall. We got hitched after Parris Island and Camp Lejeune—right before I shipped out to Iraq! A hell of a move for two young people. She insisted. And she was right. Hey—she’s smart! —and wears the kind of beauty and presence that is ageless. One of those independent souls that doesn’t depend on others for her own internal happiness. If you didn’t know better you’d think we lived an idyllic life. If you didn’t know better.
But I do.
“Hey, Tim!” It’s Charlie Raffin, a neighbor. We’ve shared many a dinner with Charlie and his wife, Jennifer. Their son, Andy, is on Brady’s team.
“Wasn’t that murder yesterday at your agency? Saw it on the news last night. Jesus.”
“Awful. Just awful,” I say. “Lost a great guy. How the hell does a freakin’ murder take place in your office? It’s like something out of a movie.”
“Hope you’re managing okay.”
“I’m okay, actually…truth is, I’m waiting to hear about a possible new job. A job I really want—just between you and me.”
“Of course.” Charlie assures me. “Mum’s the word. Good luck on the job!”
A cheer erupts from the crowd of parents across the field. Brady’s team’s just scored a goal, and the boys are yelling and hopping all over the place. Coach blows his whistle and lines them back up for the kick-off.
I live in the highest-taxed county in the country—Westchester. I own a five-thousand-square-foot house, a cottage on the property, a fifty-foot pool, the works—with property taxes approaching $40,000 a year. Well, I don’t actually own it. The banks do. Had to take a second mortgage on it a couple of years ago to pay down some other debt. Robbed Peter to pay Paul—the other Paul—and still am. Constantly bouncing dollars from one bank account to another—including the one Jean doesn’t know anything about.
And now, I’m buried in all of it. My credit cards are pretty much maxed.
I see Diane Elvin, who Jean and I play tennis with every Sunday morning. I get my best game face back on.
“Good to see you, Di. You and Joe ready for tomorrow?”
“We’ll see.” She winks. “Tim, it’s just so terrible, the murder at your agency. I am so sorry.”
“Appreciate it, my friend. Thanks. Best to Joe.”
For all Jean knows, we’re fine. She has no reason to think we’re not. That’s how secretive I’ve been. I’m not proud of it.
And we’re not fine. If I don’t get this new job, we are done with Westchester. The house, the neighbors, these soccer games, the kids’ friends, Jean’s girlfriends. They would all be devastated. So would I.
I can almost see the freakin’ moving trucks in the driveway. The situation, along with the murder, is weighing on me like a ton of bricks.
But I’m getting ahead of myself….
My phone rings. It’s Barbara Lundquist, the recruiter. On a Saturday?
“Hey, Barb, what’s up?”
“Hi, Tim. I know it’s Saturday. I figure you’re with your kids or something, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Know…what?”
“I just talked to Linda Kaplan.”
And I can feel some of the weight lifting off my back.
Soon enough the game’s over, and Brady and I head home to Twin Eagles. Jean’s in the kitchen, fixing lunch. Ellie’s helping.
“Guess what, baby? Just heard from the recruiter. That interview I had yesterday went great. She’s got me number one on her list! Wants to see me again, soon.”
“That’s fantastic, honey. I hope it’s something you really want?”
Want? Hell, I need this job. We need this job. Bad. If she only knew just how bad.
“Absolutely, love. It’s a great opportunity!”
Meanwhile, I send those movers on their way, out of my head, trucks empty. For now.
Chapter 11
It’s a beautiful fall night. Sun’s dropping down out over the Hudson, full moon’s following it up behind us. I roll the BBQ grill down by the pool and fire it up. Filets for Jean and me and burgers for the kids. Poolside with the family is my favorite way to dine.
The kids are inside, doing whatever kids do, so I pop open a bottle for Jean and me. We love champagne, especially Dom Perignon, and have special flutes for nights like this one.
I fill our glasses, pouring just right to minimize the bubbles, and offer a toast: “Here’s to life
, our lives, blessed with good fortune and good health. And here’s to us and our partnership, warmed by our love and devotion.…”
We raise our glasses in a mutual, loving gesture. “L’Chaim,” she says, and I subconsciously inhale mine smack empty. No effervescent mouth feel on this one.
Jean can’t help but laugh, a sympathetic chuckle. “My love!” and pats me on the shoulder. “Hope it helps.”
After dinner, the kids disappear 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 we didn’t get to talk on Friday. We hear you’re the man. Got a few minutes?”
“Absolutely. Why don’t you step into my…cubicle? And please, call me Tim.”
“And call me Pete.…”
He spots my Marine eagle, globe, and anchor plaque on the wall before he can sit down.
“Seriously? Semper fi?”
“Damn straight! You?”
“Hell, yes! Desert Storm. 2nd Marines. Purple Heart.”
“Amazing, my brother. You beat me by a few years. But who’s counting? Here we are! And thank God, I didn’t win a Purple Heart. Please, have a seat, Pete, let’s talk.” He settles into the couch.
“Thanks, Tim. So, this is a tough one. Not a random murder out on the streets. This one’s in a place of business, in downtown Manhattan, full of what seem like good, professional people who care about each other. The victim is someone who is clearly well respected by everybody, near as we can tell. It just doesn’t make any sense. Not that most murders do, but still…”
“I get it, Pete. Please, how can I help?”
“So far, nobody we’ve talked to knows anything, not really. Or at least they’re not willing to say they do, yet. And they all say the same thing: Talk to Tim. He knows more about the agency than anybody else here.
“But I’ve got to
tell you, so far we’re getting nowhere. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Absolutely. Anything.”
“What can you tell me about Ramon?” he asks.
“Well, he’s one of those self-made guys. Started in the old mailroom we still had. But every free minute he was on somebody’s computer. Got good at it. Soon enough he was our tech guy. A self-taught tech expert, monitoring computers, making sure everybody had the latest software, figuring out how to reboot when they crashed. All that stuff…
“I didn’t see him that much, day to day, but he sure made himself irreplaceable.”
“Did Ramon have any enemies that you know about?”
“Oh, man,” I tell him, “I cannot imagine anybody here having anything against Ramon. Zero. He would probably be voted most popular guy in the agency.”
“Damn. Sure makes you wonder who would murder this guy—and why—and how they would get up to the roof after hours,” Quinn says.
Sure does, I’m thinking.
“Understand completely, Detective,” I tell him.
“Look,” he says, “just do us all a favor and keep your eyes and ears open. Everybody talks about you like you’re the one most likely to hear anything. Here’s my card. Please call me if you do.”
“Absolutely. You have my word.”
I have a feeling I’ll see Peter Quinn again.
Chapter 14
“Yo…dude!”
Jesus, it’s Lenny Shapiro, poking his unkempt head into my space. Creative guy, writer—or supposed to be. Seems half stoned all the time. I can’t remember the last time he made any kind of significant contribution to anything at the agency. Remember Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? That’s Lenny.
And now here he is, leaning his big head of hair around the corner, working to make glassy-eyed contact. He’s looking bad.
“What’s up, Tim? Did you hear…”
“Of course I heard, are you serious? You don’t look so good, man. You in some kind of pain?”
“Naw, man, I’m cool. It’s just—who the hell would kill a guy like Ramon? Unless it was somebody here, like, at work…”
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