“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…”
“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.