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  This time I lead her by the hand, into the bedroom. We turn down the covers and lay facing each other, and pull the other close. There’s a rush of blood and a flash of light until finally, we lay back on the bed, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  She lights up her pipe for another hit and passes it over to me, and we linger in the moment for a while. I’m starting to think none of this tragic shit matters, that it will all blow over.

  A delusion that’s only going to last another few hours…

  Chapter 27

  Bonnie Jo rolls her naked self back over to me. “Hey, love, why don’t you just stay here tonight, with me? I really don’t want you to go.”

  “Neither do I.” She’s absolutely irresistible. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Let me see. I’ll be right back.”

  I grab my cell phone and step into the kitchen to call home, without a stitch of clothes on.

  “Not again,” Jean answers.

  “Afraid so, honey. We are totally jammed on this new business pitch. I’m not going to get out of here until who knows when. I’m afraid I won’t even get to leave until two a.m. or something, so I’m going to grab a room at that bed and breakfast down the street.”

  “Oh, dear. Good thing they’re paying you the big bucks.”

  “Thanks for understanding, baby. I hope. Anyway, kiss the kids good night for me—tell them tomorrow night we’ll have dinner at that place they love, Pizza Pizazz.”

  “Okay. Be careful. We’ll be here. Love you.”

  “Love you. Bye for now,” and on the way back into the bedroom I get a text from Barb Lundquist, the recruiter—she’s sure no nine-to-fiver.

  Hey Tim—Linda wants to see you again, 8 AM tomorrow! Possible? Landmark Diner, Grand/Lafayette. Let me know ASAP when you get this.

  Can’t say it’s perfect timing. But I tap a quick response.…

  Count on it. Thanks.

  By midnight Bonnie Jo and I are spent, physically, emotionally. No more weed. We climb in the shower together and hold each other there for a good while, close and soapy under the steaming hot water.

  She gets out first and is drying herself when I absolutely blow it: “Hey Tiff—Bonnie!—hand me a towel, baby?”

  “What the hell did you just call me? Fucking Tiffany?”

  She totally loses it, shrieking, with fire in her eyes.

  “You two-timing asshole!”

  Now I’ve blown it. How do I tell Bonnie Jo that she’s not the only other woman?

  “Jesus, baby…we were just talking about her, it was a slip of the tongue.”

  “Bullshit!!” She’s not buying it. “You goddamned psycho!”

  It takes everything I’ve got to calm her down. And now I’m stuck here the rest of the night.

  I sleep on the couch. Doesn’t help.

  Chapter 28

  My iPhone alarm buzzes at six thirty. Set on vibrate. No sound.

  I slip off the couch, headed for the shower, trying not to make any noise. I see through the cracked open bedroom door that Bonnie hasn’t moved a muscle since I left her in bed last night.

  Showered and shaved, I put on a fresh shirt and underwear out of the hall closet, where I keep a few things for just such occasions.

  Normally I’d leave a note or something. But after the blow-up last night we are by no means normal, so I slip out the front door and take the elevator down to the lobby.

  The Landmark Diner is back downtown, below the agency. I take a cab to save time and Linda’s already there, waiting for me. We have another great chat over breakfast and I insist on picking up the check this time.

  At least, I feel like it was great. But truth is I don’t remember a whole lot about our conversation. My fight with Bonnie Jo is weighing heavily on me; we’ve never had that kind of trouble before.

  To think that I could possibly lose her hurts like hell.

  Chapter 29

  I get to the agency by nine thirty, close enough, but not before I go by the bank, again.

  Up on the third floor Mo greets me. “Morning, Tim. Paul wants to see you right away. He’s in his office.” The president is after me early.

  “Hey, Paul, good morning,” I greet him, sliding open the glass door.

  “C’mon in, Tim, and close the door, okay? We need to talk. These murders are terrible, unbelievable. The only way we’re going to be able to deal with it is by being frank with each other.”

  “Of course, man. What’s up?”

  “I need to 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 p
lan 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 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 a while, 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 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! Murdered. 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—”