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  “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 oxycodone, 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.

  But what led the cops to me? When I think about it, maybe some of the creatives started getting suspicious. Lenny? That was a joke. And Chris was never a serious suspect, either. And once the detectives figured out my connection to Ramon, I’m buried in this. Fried.

  I ended up being the prime suspect.

  Sure, I have a Marine-issue Beretta M9, fitted with a threaded barrel to accommodate a suppressor. So what?

  Semper fi!

  Chapter 40

  Look, I’m a guy who was confronted with tough, unbearable situations that left me with no options. My world completely caved in—in the space of a single week! I was drowning in the pressure of it all.

  What’s a guy to do?

  I had to do something about all of it. And I did.

  Tiffany had rigged my iPhone text settings to “share my location” one night while I was in a postcoital shower at her place. Which is how she was waiting for me in Grand Central Station that night.

  We did second cocktails, and then a joint was a natural next step. So I took her down to the sub-basement—M42 it’s called—a totally secret space that houses all of Grand Central’s AC to DC converters. You won’t find it on any public maps. Ramon took me there one night to trade copious amounts of dope for serious cash.

  And that’s where they found her body. Her gorgeous body. With a bullet wound in the back of her head.

  And Bonnie Jo?

  I was seriously falling in love with Bonnie Jo Hopkins. The real deal, which was bittersweet because I’m already in love with another woman. My wife.

  But our sex was…genuine. Intimate lovemaking.

  We were genuine partners at work, too. BJ helped cast Tiffany for the CrawDaddy spot, and was on the shoot.

  Bonnie was a social user. Just weed, really. She got hers from Ramon, just like everybody else. Always had some when I came over. Cool. Then she finally put two and two together, and was convinced she knew what really happened to Ramon.

  And then in a world record slip of the tongue, I damned near called her Tiffany that night. Close enough. And that was it.

  Our last night together—the all-time high and the all-time low in the space of a few hours. We experienced lovemaking like neither one of us ever had before, ever. Not even close.

  And never will again.

  It’s no coincidence these people were found dead right after the last time I saw them.

  I murdered all three of them.

  Chapter 41

  Ramon was tough. My foxhole buddy. My partner. But he had to go. Squeezing me too hard.

  I waited for the roof to clear the other night. He was leaning against one of the chimneys on the roof of our building, lighting a joint. Facing to the back, toward the alley, which helped. I pull my M9 out of my serviceable attaché, suppressor already mounted, place it to the back of his head, and pull the trigger.

  I ease him down to the rooftop, brush his eyelids shut, straighten his legs out and fold his arms over his chest. Semper fi, my friend.

  Tiffany? Much easier. There we were in the depths of Grand Central. I mean, hell, she’s already on her knees, preoccupied. I’ve still got my bag over my shoulder, pull my gun out, pull her besotted head back and slide the suppressor tube mounted on my M9 into her mouth, and before she realizes what it is, she flops over backward, knees buckled underneath her, wearing a stunned look of disbelief on her beautiful face.

  And Bonnie Jo? That one hurt almost as much as Ramon. But she went ballistic on me, and who knows where that goes? I mean, she knows I’m a dealer. I’m afraid she’s got me pegged for Ramon. So when she was fast asleep, I did it.

  Felt all clear then—except for Juanita.

  She’s lucky. The cops saved her life the night they arrested me.

  Chapter 42

  I’m a kick-ass New York adman, Madison Avenue, yada yada. A wife who loves me. Two wonderful kids. I’m a family man.

  Like I told Linda Kaplan: I’m a guy that makes shit happen. And I did.

  I’m a guy who was confronted with tough, unbearable situations that left me with no options.

  Like they say, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

  Jean and the kids are on the way over for a visit. They still love me, and their husband and father loves them more than simple words can describe.

  Can’t wait to see my guys!

  “MacGhee.” It’s one of the jailers.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your family’s not coming.”

  “Not again! The fourth goddamned time, for Christ’s sake!”

  I hear some guys down the hall in front of a TV. “Hey!” one of them says. “Check this out. Shh! Quiet!”

  “…Esposito, for WNBC, with exclusive, breaking news. New York City police have just confirmed the arrest of their prime suspect in the triple homicide case that has had lower Manhattan on edge for the past week. His name is Timothy James MacGhee, and he is a senior partner at Marterelli and Partners, the advertising agency that all three victims were connected to. MacGhee’s being held at the Manhattan Detention Complex on White Street awaiting arraignment.

  “Here’s Detective Peter Quinn, lead officer on the case for the 21st Precinct. Detective Quinn, what finally led you to Timothy MacGhee?

  “These advertising people are crafty, I’ll give them that. He didn’t make it easy, that’s for sure. But…”

  And the guys down the hall erupt into spontaneous applause, just like my client did the other day.

  So, here I sit in this godforsaken jail cell. Successful New York adman. Family man. Husband. Father. Churchgoer. An upstanding member of the community. And now my family is deserting me.

  You know what? Fuck ’em.

  Besides, if you saw me sitting here now, you’d have to say…why, he wouldn’t even harm a fly.…”

  About the Authors

  James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

  During his thirty-five years in the advertising business, Tim Arnold had a regular column in Adweek. Currently a blog columnist for The Huffington Post, he continues to actively consult for a wide range of clients. He splits his time between New York and Florida.

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