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  “Why the hell would you think something like that?” I’m all over him.

  “Well, Ramon helped us out, a lot of us. Who like to, well, imbibe…”

  “What the hell does that mean, Lenny?”

  “You know…weed…hash…sometimes a little upper. What I’m saying is…we buy our stuff from Ramon. Us creative guys. At least we used to.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “Maybe he cut somebody off. Maybe somebody owed him money…you know?”

  “Lenny, you look like shit. And it’s not even lunchtime. Why don’t you take your sorry ass home and crash?”

  “Okay, okay. Later, bro.”

  And I’m thinking, Lenny just qualified himself as a prime suspect. He better keep his mouth shut.

  Bonnie Jo Hopkins, the group creative director, sticks her head in just as Lenny’s stumbling out.

  “He looks totally wasted. What’s going on?” she asks.

  “BJ, you know as much as I do.” I shrug, smiling, almost. As always, I’m a little struck by how damned hot she is.

  “Whaddya gonna do?”

  “Hey—you do what you gotta do,” she says, like the New Yorker she is, and shrugs back at me with one of those lingering, flirtatious smiles.

  Bonnie Jo Hopkins turns around and walks her beautiful self back to her cubicle, making sure I get a good look on the way out.

  There’s guys out there who would kill for some of that.

  Chapter 15

  “Hey, love. I’m jammed. Got to work late again, so don’t wait up for me. I’ll grab something in Grand Central and eat on the train.” I’m on my cell to Jean, with a story she’s heard all too often.

  There’s a huge new business pitch end of this week, and I’m buried in it. It’s for Weight Watchers, a prospect I’ve been after for months. I’ve been cultivating them through e-mail, agency highlights, and successes, then took the top two guys out for drinks and dinner a couple of times—the latest last week. We had good chemistry. And they’ve finally agreed to visit the agency, to test my promise of some new insights into their business.

  I’m damned good at this stuff.

  But now this pitch, on top of everything else, is threatening my sanity.

  Bonnie Jo sticks her head back in. “Hey, a bunch of us are going up to Hill Country after work. Chris’s band is playing. Why don’t you join us?”

  What the hell. I’m already covered at home. “Sure, I’m in. I’ll see you guys there.”

  Soon I pack up my laptop and head downstairs. It’s a beautiful night, and I’ve got to clear my head, so I decide to walk up to Hill Country, on 26th Street between Sixth and Broadway. I want to take the city in, feel the energy, remind myself of why I’m here.

  And here’s Chuck Esposito from WNBC out on the sidewalk, and his cameraman’s with him, again! So much for clearing my head.

  The cameraman points his camera at me and starts rolling.

  “Sorry to bother you, Tim, but we just…”

  “Hold it, hold it! And please turn that damned thing off.” They do.

  “Look. I respect what you guys are after, and what you do, searching for the truth, you know? It’s just that I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to add to what you already know.”

  “We’ve talked to Detective Quinn, who said he was impressed with your knowledge of the agency and all the people who work here. That if anybody knew anything it’d be you…”

  “Flattering, I guess. But I don’t. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting some folks.…”

  “Okay, sure. But we’ll likely contact you again and…”

  I’m headed down the street before he can finish his sentence. Give me a break!

  Down at the corner I can finally take in a deep breath. Exhale. Helps. I’m making my way across Union Square up toward the Flatiron Building when I see a couple of guys I vaguely recognize. “Hey, buddy,” one of them says to me, with a slightly forced smile.

  “Hey…” Who the hell are these guys?

  “Hope you’re well. Don’t remember your name. But I know you were friends with Ramon. Terrible about Ramon. Fucking terrible.”

  “Sure is,” I say, eager to move on.

  “Got that right. Anyway, sorry. I know you guys were close.”

  Which is totally weird. “Sure, thanks. Take care,” and I head on up to 26th Street.

  This is getting crazy.

  Hill Country is rockin’. Chris and his Desberardos are playing downstairs, and their music reaches up to the street. I can hear Chris blowing his harp, and that’s our Bill Kelly backing him up on guitar. Down I go, and spot a group of agency types over by the bar.

  Bonnie’s out on the floor in front of the band dancing, and I join her. It’s a rockin’ tune, but I pull her in close for a spin, and drift off into fantasyland. The song’s over much too soon, so I release my grip on her and we head back to the bar.

  “So, Tim…” David Gebben, the copywriter, speaks close to my ear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you and BJ were getting it on.”

  “Oh, Jesus, no. Not saying I wouldn’t like to, but, you know, never dip your pen in company ink.…”

  “Right,” he says, utterly unconvinced.

  By the time I walk through the front door at home, Jean and the kids are upstairs, fast asleep.

  I tiptoe into the kids’ rooms, first Ellie’s and then Brady’s, pull their covers up and steal a late kiss good night. Ellie cracks one eye open, “Hi, Daddy…” Brady’s out like a light. Jean rolls over as I’m approaching our bed and moans something loving. She’s at peace, for now.

  If she only knew.…

  A soft kiss good night and I’m back downstairs to pour myself a glass of pinot noir, Signaterra 2012. Then I settle into my chair in the den and drift off into thoughts about the life I’m living.

  Up until a few days ago, it was semi-perfect. Or at least it looked that way to the rest of the world, including Jean and the kids. A good life. Great family. Comforts. Peace and love. Church. All of it.

  At the bottom of my second glass of wine I can only agonize over a pipe dream. If only it could stay just like it is, forever. But it can’t.

  I drag my raggedy ass upstairs and climb into bed with Jean. If she only knew.…

  This damned murder has already made any semblance of a normal life impossible.

  And it’s only the first one.

  Chapter 16

  Same 7:20 express Tuesday morning and I’m back in the city. I wave at Mo on the way in to the office. “Hey, Mo!”

  “They’re baaaack,” she says, and she’s not talking about the poltergeist.

  I grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen and head upstairs to my cubicle. Surely the cops have turned up every bit of so-called evidence that would be here in the office. Why the hell do they keep coming back every day?

  Do they think somebody here did it?

  I get into my e-mails and see one from Paul to the entire office, subject line: A wake for Ramon.

  To my dear colleagues:

  I’ve been informed there’s a wake for Ramon tonight at the St. Bartholomew’s Church, 1227 Pacific St (at Bedford Ave), Brooklyn. 6-9p. A or C train, Nostrand Ave stop and walk a couple of blocks. I know his family, loved ones, and friends will appreciate our support. Hope to see many of you there. Paul

  I click Reply All.

  Absolutely Paul, I’ll be there.

  Before I can finish my coffee, Detective Quinn stops by. “Hey, Tim, how’s it going?”

  “Morning, Pete. If it wasn’t for this murder business, things would be pretty good. Just found out there’s a wake for Ramon tonight, over in Crown Heights. Of course I’m going.”

  “Good to hear. You guys have a nice shop here. Lots of solid people. But I’ve got to tell ya, I’m getting a weird vibe from some of your creative types.”

  “Whaddaya mean, detective?”

  “Well, best I can put it is, we don’t speak the same language. And worst case is, they know som
ething and they’re not telling me.”

  “Weird. Yeah, they’re unique, that’s for sure. Have to be to work in this business. You know, the more you act out in this business, the more creative you appear to be, the higher the rewards. Where’s the disconnect? What’s going on, Pete?”

  “We’ve talked to most of them. People who have worked in the same, relatively small company together for a good while, and know the deceased, one way or the other. But they’re not saying shit. It’s almost like they’re protecting somebody. And why the hell would they? Based on what you’re telling me about Ramon, what’s to protect?”

  “Beats me,” I say, avoiding the obvious. For now. “But this is a crazy business. I’ve got a good feeling about most of these guys, for what it’s worth.”

  “Understand. But I’m not getting the feeling that I can count on what little they’re telling me. We’re really counting on you to keep your ear to the ground. Because so far…we’re clueless.”

  “I’m keeping my eyes and ears open, Detective,” I promise.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” he says, on the way out.

  Can’t wait.

  Chapter 17

  “Okay, now what?” It’s Bonnie Jo, back at my door as soon as Quinn’s gone.

  “Oh, man,” I say. “I’m seriously convinced they suspect somebody here at the agency. And I’ve got to tell ya, he’s asking me all about you creatives.”

  “What! Why us?”

  My iPhone vibrates with a text. Jesus, it’s Tiffany again.…

  I must see you! Please respond!

  “Jesus, BJ, take a look at this.” I show her the text and am instantly sorry I did.

  “Tiffany? Tiffany Stone? From our CrawDaddy spot all those years ago? Why the hell is she texting you?”

  “She’s looking for work. Thinks I can help her. Why the hell isn’t she after you about work, Bonnie, instead of me?”

  “Good question.” There’s a look on BJ’s face I haven’t seen before.

  “I mean, first of all, it’s you guys who cast the talent, not me,” I say. “I’d love to help, but I’m not a creative. Has she ever been after you?”

  The emerging look of suspicion on Bonnie Jo’s face is unmistakable. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “What? You think I’m hiding something? C’mon, you know me better than that.”

  “Well, I thought I did. Just let me know if you hear anything else, okay?”

  “Definitely. You going to the wake?”

  “Of course,” she says, and, as always, I watch her turn around and walk away.

  In no time Lenny’s back at my door, looking only slightly better than he did when I sent him home yesterday.

  “Hey bro, everything good?” he asks. Instead of the glassy-eyed smile, I get one that’s decidedly twitchy.

  “Far as I know, Len. Have the cops talked to you yet?”

  “No, man, why?” For him it’s rapid-speak. “Feels like they’re leaving me out for some reason.”

  No wonder, I’m thinking. You’re half stoned all the time.

  “Just curious. I know they’re talking to all the creatives. Which shouldn’t be a surprise based on what you told me yesterday, should it?”

  He’s clearly nervous, shifting from one foot to the other. He could sure use a couple of hits to mellow out.

  “Guess not,” he admits, rubbing his ass, which is no doubt getting tighter by the minute.

  “Take it easy, Lenny. Be cool.”

  He starts to leave, but stops at the door and looks back at me. And what do I get from this drug user and now murder suspect?

  A thumbs-up. Seriously?

  My cell rings. It’s Bob Nardone, my tax accountant for the past ten years. A guy who has helped Jean and me through more financial shit than you can imagine.

  “Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

  “Well, I’m looking at the paperwork you sent over the other day, and it’s not looking so good. There’s no way I can get you guys into a tax return scenario. You’ve got more coming in than you can apply expenses to.…”

  “Damn, Bob, you sure couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “I know, Tim. And you know I’d do anything within my powers to make it better, but I’m afraid I can’t this year. Looks like you’re going to owe approximately…twenty thousand dollars.…”

  “Are you serious? I don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, Jesus—Jean has no idea this kind of shit is possible.”

  “I understand,” he says. “I know you all too well, both of you. Look, there will be options. First of all we’ll get the maximum extension. And then we can file for extended monthly payments over time, like up to six years, so it should be manageable at least. Not pretty, but manageable.”

  And I’m wondering what else can go wrong in a world that is coming apart at the seams.

  My world.

  Chapter 18

  It’s six fifteen, time to get over to the wake. There’s still a handful of people at their laptops as I pass through the third floor, where most of the creatives are.

  Chris’s packing up. “Hey, Tim. Got any thoughts about all this madness?”

  “No more than anybody else, Chris. Have they talked to you yet?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Heard from Quinn they started with the creative guys. You must know about Ramon, right? What he was up to?”

  “Well, you hear stuff. Won’t say I haven’t.”

  “Exactly. You know damned well the detectives have heard the same stuff by now. Just between you and me, my guess is they actually suspect somebody here at work killed Ramon. We haven’t seen the last of these guys, you can count on that.”

  “For sure. You’re going to the wake, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Want to grab a beverage on the way to the train?” he asks. The last thing I want to do right now is hang out with this guy. Or anybody else.

  “Sorry man, I’ve got to make a stop on the way over.” I grab my shoulder bag and head straight for Fanelli’s to disappear into the bar crowd, to try to gather in a few minutes of sanity. Ketel One, soda, lime.

  Then I’m off to Crown Heights to honor Ramon’s passing. Grab the downtown 5 to Fulton Street and the A over to Crown Heights. The walk to St. Bartholomew’s helps clear my head, and it needs clearing, that’s for damned sure.

  On the way over I call Jean, like the broken record I am.

  She answers before the second ring: “Now what?”

  “Look, baby, I’m on my way to a wake for Ramon, over in Brooklyn. I know you’ll understand that I have to make an appearance. Won’t be too late, but you probably shouldn’t wait for me for dinner.”

  “Okay, I do. And I won’t. And don’t be too late.”

  “Later, love. Bye for now.”

  Chapter 19

  In ten minutes I’m climbing up the stairs into the St. Bartholomew church and the sanctuary. Damn near half the agency’s there, most of them with coffee in hand, chatting quietly in a handful of groups. And probably another fifty or sixty others, mingling at the side, near one of the naves. Obviously family and friends; I don’t recognize any of them.

  I see Ramon’s casket up front, sitting between the two altars, isolated, bathed in glorious 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 c
asket 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.