The Palm Beach Murders Page 15

  “And I’ll take that bag,” this from Detective Garrison. I hand it to him. Nothing in it except my laptop.

  Jesus—is this their way of showing me how valuable I am to their investigation?

  By the time we head back to the elevators the entire fifth floor is watching us, with a range of expressions—curiosity, surprise, some smirks. Mary Claire, Julie Reich. All of them. Clay stands up and I get the raised fist and arm slap of indignation—the old Iberian finger, which Ramon would appreciate.

  Downstairs we pass Mo on the way out. I can’t bear to look at her, but I can see she’s clapped her right hand over her mouth in genuine concern.

  “It’s okay, Mo. We’re just going to find a more private place to talk.”

  Out on the street, Garrison locks my bag in the trunk, opens the front door, gets into the driver’s seat of their unmarked car and cranks up the engine. Quinn opens the back door so I can climb into the backseat. It’s caged, with no way to open the doors from the inside.

  What the hell is going on?

  Chapter 36

  Off we go.

  “I’m a little confused at why all this security stuff is necessary,” I ask.

  “Not to worry, MacGhee. Just official procedure. We want to get you away from the office so we can get down to business.”

  “Got it…I guess. What’d you do with Berardo?”

  “Sent him with two other officers.”

  We pull up in front of the precinct office on East 21st Street. Quinn opens the door for me and walks me inside. Garrison gets my bag out of the trunk and turns it in at the front desk.

  “Coffee? Water?” Quinn offers.

  How ’bout a cocktail?

  “Ah, water’s fine, thanks.”

  “Come with me.” I follow him over to the watercooler and then down the hall to a private…interrogation room?

  “Have a seat, MacGhee. My partner will be here momentarily.”

  I take a seat and Quinn sits down on the other side of the table. This room has no windows, bare walls, a table, and four chairs. Just like the interrogation rooms you see on TV.

  Two knocks on the door and Garrison joins us without waiting for a response.

  “Detective Scott Garrison, 21st Precinct.” A formal introduction again, and this time he presents his badged credentials to me.

  Quinn sets his Samsung smartphone on the table, taps one of the apps and then taps it again.

  “I’m going to record our conversation, MacGhee. Understand?” He slides the phone toward me, so it’s in the middle of the three of us.

  “Okay, sure…”

  “Okay, let’s get down to basics.” Here it comes. “There’s been three murders connected to the Marterelli and Partners agency, where you’ve worked for more than five years, this time around, and earlier, for some sixteen months when you first started with them back in 2004. By all indications, you are the main man there, the one with the best connections to and relationships with just about everybody there.”

  “Well, sure, you know, five years is long enough…” but I’m interrupted.

  “Correct. And of course that includes Bonnie Jo Hopkins.”

  My gut tightens.

  “What exactly is your relationship with Bonnie Jo Hopkins?”

  “You know this, Detective. I’ve worked with her ever since I got there, most recently, and she was already there back when I started with Paul right out of the Marines. She’s the key, hands-on creative in the agency, so she’s involved in virtually every aspect of our advertising, from writing, to production, and including new business pitches. So I work with her all the time.”

  “Right. What about after work hours?”

  “Well, sure, we have long days, a lot of times. Sometimes some of us unwind together at a local pub or something. In fact a bunch of us went to hear Chris Berardo’s band just, what? Monday night.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Detective.”

  “What else does your relationship with Bonnie Jo Hopkins involve?”

  “Nothing, really. I mean, sure, we’re close. We share a lot of things, professional and even personal.…”

  “Have you ever been to her apartment?”

  My tightening gut twists its way up to my throat, which I have to clear.

  “No, no. Well, wait. There was this one time when I helped her get a bunch of art bags home for an out-of-town client trip she was taking the next morning, but…”

  “That’s it? That’s the only time you were at her apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “MacGhee, we’ve checked the LUDs from her cell. And there are dozens of calls from you, and from her to you, most of them after hours. What’s that all about?”

  My pulse is quickening.

  “Like I said, we’re close. The agency business is 24/7. We had lots of stuff to talk about, all the time.”

  And I realize my right leg is pumping under the table at a hundred miles an hour, and I hope he’s not seeing it.

  “Put that aside for the moment…Now, I want you to have a look at something.” He picks up his phone, swipes it a few times, and holds it out to me. Video starts playing.

  Jesus!

  “This is the lobby in Bonnie Jo’s apartment. As you can see, the lobby monitor has you entering her apartment building. This one’s from two weeks ago.”

  Yup, there I am.

  The video cuts to the next piece—me leaving.

  “And, as you can see from the time/date code, you’re leaving her building some three and a half hours later. Can you explain that—since you’ve just told us you were only there once, to drop some stuff off?”

  “Right…” I gulp. Hard. “Forgot. We had to crash on a new business pitch, so I hung around so we could work together, till the wee hours, you know?”

  “So you say. There’s more. But I want you to look at this one. As you can see from the time/date code, this is from two nights ago.…”

  Holy shit!

  “The last time anyone saw her alive…”

  “Okay, look. Yes, we had a relationship. We had an affair, actually. For a long time.”

  “Obviously, MacGhee. We’ve searched her apartment. We’ve got pictures. The hall closet is filled with clothes that are your size, that will no doubt have your DNA all over them. The bathroom is loaded with men’s toiletries, presumably yours.”

  “Oh, my God. Fine. We loved each other. And yes, I was there Wednesday night. She was alive and well. Anything that happened, happened after I left.”

  “Really? Here’s the lobby video from the next morning. You were there until seven forty-five a.m.”

  “Exactly! And we found out at work a day later that she had been murdered. Which of course is plenty of time for the killer to do his deed after I’m gone.”

  “The medical examiner’s report on time of death isn’t going to support that,” Quinn tells me.

  “Detective—ask my colleagues—I was crushed, shocked, heartbroken when we found out. Jesus Christ, I wouldn’t kill her. I loved her!”

  “A strange coincidence, all of this, don’t you think, MacGhee? But that’s okay, you don’t have to answer that. Now I want to ask you about Tiffany Stone, the actress who was killed in Grand Central Station Tuesday night, the night of Ramon’s wake.”

  “Can I have some more water?” I need a minute to try to bring some order to the utter chaos in my head.

  The detectives leave me alone in the room. It is a very long time before they return.

  Chapter 37

  I am about to be hoisted by my own petard, by the kinds of cruel coincidences that get the wrong guys accused. I search for some corner of my spinning head that can respond with plausible answers to these determined detectives.

  I gulp down my water and ask for more.

  “Yes, clearly I knew Tiffany…I hired her for that CrawDaddy commercial way back when.” Shut up, asshole. Just answer the questions.

  “And just how
well did you know her?”

  “Not well. Honestly. She knew the creatives better, since she was in the business. She knew Bonnie Jo.” Uh-oh. Too much information!

  But of course, if they know about me and Bonnie, they probably know about me and Tiffany.

  “I mean…I knew her…but I didn’t really know her, if you get the drift…”

  “Would you be surprised to learn that we know otherwise? We’ve talked to people. Clearly you had an extended, ongoing relationship with her, too. It’s obvious she was in love with you, MacGhee. Even CrawDaddy’s CEO knew all about it.”

  “Sure. Parker Roberts and I stayed in touch for a while after the shoot. He was cool.” I babble on. “First time we met Tiffany out in LA he takes one look at her boobs and says, ‘Are those real?’ She goes, ‘Real expensive.’ From then on it was like a match made in heaven.”

  “Stop the bullshit, MacGhee. How could all of that be if you didn’t know her well? Really well. Can you answer that?”

  It’s time to come clean. Past time. I’ve got my fists clenched in full view…relax!

  I take a deep breath.

  “Actually, yes. I plead guilty. I have a weakness where women are concerned. Not especially proud of it…but I’ll own it. Tiffany and I stayed in touch over the years. Or more accurately, she stayed in touch with me. Anyway, we’d see each other from time to time, you know. Get together. Long lunches…

  “So it’s no wonder she would feel like this was the real deal.” I try a joke. “I can tell you from experience those boobs were worth every cent she spent on them…”

  “C’mon, MacGhee. Let’s make this easy on both of us. Enough of the bullshit…”

  “This isn’t a crime. Grounds for divorce, maybe, though I hope my wife doesn’t have to know. But not a crime…”

  Detective Quinn isn’t listening anymore. His eyes pierce mine.

  Chapter 38

  I’m sweating bullets. I stand up and take my jacket off. I suck down more water.

  “Listen carefully, MacGhee.…” Quinn says.

  “Is all this really necessary? I…” and I get the unmistakable stare that says Yes, it is, so shut up and listen.

  “You have the right to remain silent, and refuse to answer any questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney.…”

  “Detective, please. I know this stuff. I…”

  He raises an open hand to shut me up: “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now, without an attorney, you have the right to stop anytime and request one. Knowing and understanding your rights, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney?”

  I nod yes.

  “I need to hear you say it, MacGhee.”

  “Yes, of course, I am willing to answer more questions.”

  “The other day you told us about Ramon. You told us he provided drugs to people in your office, presumably for money.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you? Did you get drugs from Ramon?”

  “Some occasional weed, yes, I admit it.”

  “You did two years in the Marines before you started in the business.…”

  “Yes, and damned proud of it.”

  “We checked your records. Good marks all around. Guess what else we found out?”

  “I can’t imagine.” I’m hoping against hope.…

  “Ramon served in the Marines, too. With you. In Iraq. He was in your battalion. In your squad. Ramon Martinez was in the same Marine Corps squad in Iraq that you led. You must have known each other a hell of a lot better than you’ve admitted to so far.”

  He’s got me there, for sure. “Yes, we served together. That was before the agency business. Didn’t think it mattered.…”

  And my mind wanders, believe it or not. I’m out on checkpoint Foxtrot with Ramon, dug in between the corner walls of a decimated building on the outskirts of Fallujah, deep into the night before we are to launch Operation Vigilant Resolve to retake the city from the insurgents. Our orders were to prevent anyone from entering the city, or leaving it, and our responsibility covered some twenty-five meters to either side. The calm before the storm. I’m scoping the landscape with night vision binocs. No action out there so far.

  And so we drift into Spanish. Ramon and I were close and I wanted to learn his native language.

  “Mi amigo…” I hear Ramon say…and then…

  “You’re not supposed to think! Christ, MacGhee, you even helped Ramon get his job at the agency back when you first worked there! And we know this: you were in the drug business with him.”

  God help me. They’ve got it all. At least, they think they do.

  “What’s that got to do with his murder? Why would I murder an old friend? A brother?” I’m desperate for anything.

  “Well, while you were panicking on the way over here we searched the boxes you were taking out of the office, and found this.” He nods over, and Garrison holds up a Ziploc bag of coke. Shit!

  “Yeah, okay, I did some blow every once in a while. But it’s not…”

  “That wasn’t a question, MacGhee. But this is: what was your specialty in the service?”

  “I…”

  “Never mind. We know what it was. MOS 8541. US Marine Corps Scout Sniper, especially trained in marksmanship with an M40 sniper rifle and an M9 pistol. Ring a bell?”

  I’m speechless. And not by choice.

  “In fact, your entire squad was sniper qualified, and that included Ramon. You guys were brothers in arms. No wonder you worked the drug business together. And you clearly knew how to handle a firearm.”

  Holy shit. Maybe they do have it all.

  “Now, my partner has a couple of questions. Detective Garrison…?”

  “I do. We also found this in your boxes.” He holds up a key. “You know what this is, right? It’s the key to a safety deposit box. Yours. Bank of America, down on Canal Street. Separate bank from your family checking accounts. Guess what we found in it?”

  I start to stand up.

  “Sit down, MacGhee,” commands Quinn, in a distinctly military voice.

  “This is a Marine-issued M9 pistol. Yours. With the barrel threaded for an Airsoft suppressor. This one.” He holds that up, too.

  And then Quinn says, “What do you think the odds are that the bullet slugs we found in Ramon, in Bonnie Jo Hopkins, and in Tiffany Stone will all match this weapon?”

  Chapter 39

  So now, here I sit, helpless. I hear talk down the hall.…

  “Remember the end scene from Psycho? You know, Mrs. Bates’s boy, Anthony Perkins, sitting in that jail cell, with this sick, haunted stare? That shit-eating grin on his face, like he’s sitting on some dark secret, and enjoying it?”

  “Yeah, I do. Only it sure as hell wasn’t a secret.”

  “Exactly. Well, that’s that guy sitting down there in the ding wing, cell block number 9. Scary, man.”

  How did I get here?

  Being in the advertising business is like being in a pressure cooker. Got to get it right, every time—only none of those final decisions are yours. They’re the client’s—it’s his money—and you can only hope they make the right decisions. If they don’t, it’s your damned fault, not theirs. It’s your ass. Every time. They can always fire the agency, before they get fired themselves.

  Big-time stress. Enough to make you nuts.

  That’s one thing.

  Plus, I was in way over my head financially. Big house. Big mortgage. Two mortgages.

  Obscene taxes. Credit cards maxed. Spending out of control. Switching money from one account to another to cover checks, if only temporarily. Sound familiar? Maybe not. But that’s where I was. Where we were, thanks to me. Although Jean never complained much about any of it. So…you look for some relief from all the freakin’ pressure. Extracurricular activities. A cocktail. Or three. A little weed. More weed. Xanax to cool down. Or oxycodon
e, if you can get it. Maybe some coke to pick you back up.

  Most nights after work, me and the guys would end up on the agency roof passing joints around before I went home, or wherever. Last time I saw Ramon was the night he was murdered, up on the roof, where we were sharing a joint after work. And that’s where they found him, with a bullet to the back of his head.

  We’d get all this stuff from Ramon. Congenial, connected Ramon. Our dealer. Cash money. A lot of it. How else would a lowly tech guy have a nice big brownstone apartment in Brooklyn? He was our source, and he did well for himself.

  Then…I ended up partnering with Ramon. He knew where to get all this shit. I didn’t, and I never asked. But I had the contacts, the connections, inside the agency and beyond. I was the man—which the detectives finally figured out.

  We made a good team, Ramon and me. And some money. For a while.

  I tapped my secret bank account and gave Ramon extra money so he could expand his supply. Investment capital, so we could both benefit from growing demand.

  But pretty soon he’s asking me for more capital. And more. And then he’s not asking—he’s demanding. I ain’t got it anymore—but he’s not buying it.

  So he starts threatening me, more or less. And then more. Unacceptable. Got out of control. Had me in a corner.…

  I had a great time with Tiffany over the years. She stayed hot, in every way imaginable. Her Super Bowl commercial put her on the map. Hell, a year later she’s on the cover of Playboy! Fully revealed inside. Like a dream come true for this guy. Every guy’s dream—never comes true. Except it did, for me. Had me a Playmate! For a while. We’d…see each other.

  I loved her. Well…I loved…being with her. But she didn’t love me. She was using me because she thought I could help her career.

  And worse, she was seriously into junk on her own. Turned out she was getting hers from Ramon, too, after connecting with him through some creatives. Then she’s leaning on me to get her more stuff—and pay for it! Which got to be unacceptable and it freaked me out, knowing the cops might soon be onto us.