“Oh, man,” says David Gebben, a senior copywriter. “What the hell?” and plants himself with a deep sigh in one of my chairs. Here comes Bill Kelly, one of our best art directors. Slouches on the couch. “Talk to us, Tim! What’s going on?”

“Look, guys. I don’t know much more than you do, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon, and then we’ll deal with it together.”

“Semper fi?” I hear from Julie Reich, who’s out in the hall.

My catchphrase in the office. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” And I get a couple of nods in semi-agreement.

Another text…

What terrible timing. It’s from Tiffany Stone, an actress we cast in the first CrawDaddy Super Bowl commercial way back when I first joined Marterelli out of the Marines. The first CrawDaddy girl—buxom, bawdy, and naturally funny, with some…interesting past video experience. I met her on the shoot, she’s stayed in touch over the years a bit—but now she won’t leave me alone.

I need to see you!

I ignore it. This is absolutely the last person I want to deal with right now.

I have to think about my 150 agency colleagues who are about to find out that one of our own has been murdered. And this is no accidental killing. This is a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

Madness.

Chapter 8

Paul sends a company-wide e-mail asking us to meet him in fifteen minutes, at two o’clock, in the big third-floor reception and kitchen area, where we can talk.

The cops are hardly gone and here it comes. Some of the shit that I’m trying to make sense of is about to go public, and I know it’s only going to make it worse for me.

Each of the three floors at Marterelli & Partners is wide open. Workstations stretch side by side nearly the whole length of the floor, flush with computers, laptops, printers, scanners, and the like. At each end are a handful of cubicles for some of the senior people. There are open conference rooms on the third and fourth floors with sliding glass doors and drapes for private meetings and presentations. The fifth floor is the top floor, with easy access to the roof. The reception and kitchen area provides the biggest open space and makes it possible for most of us to close in around Paul, who’s standing behind the counter.

He asks me to join him.

“Free lunch?” from one of the creative wise guys. Gallows humor that stirs a few hesitant snickers.

“Okay, here goes,” and Paul clears his throat. Twice. He speaks louder than usual, choosing his words carefully. “It is as bad as you can imagine. We have lost one of our own.”

An audible gasp erupts from the crowd. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, my God!” moans Mo.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who, for Christ’s sake! Who?” demands David.

“We’ve lost…Ramon…our beloved Ramon…one of our finest.”

Cries of “No! It can’t be!”

Ramon is one of Marterelli’s earliest employees. He’s our self-taught tech guy, keeping us online and interconnected. Making sure the creatives’ Macs were humming, up-to-date, loaded with the latest software. He was the best.