I actually helped Ramon get his job at Marterelli, but that’s another story.…I’m going to miss this guy something awful. A genuine compatriot. A wonderful guy. A friend to everybody.

“Shit! My computer’s down! Now what?” we hear from another wiseass trying to lighten the load, I guess. A few more reluctant smirks. But more people are crying.

“Who the hell would want to kill Ramon?” Chris demands to know. “And why? Why?”

“Amen, brother,” is all I can say. This murder is starting to turn my entire world inside out.

And there’s two more to come.

Chapter 9

I call Jean at home. “Honey, you won’t believe what’s happened here.”

“Yes, I would—it’s on the news already. Somebody got murdered there?”

“Yeah, terrible. A guy named Ramon. Ramon Martinez, our tech guy. Great guy. Cops found him up on the roof, dead. Shot in the head sometime last night.”

“Wow, honey, that’s unbelievable. You okay?”

“Not exactly. I’m getting out of here. I’ll be home early, okay? Bye for now.”

“Sure, love. I’ll be here. Bye.”

It’s only three thirty, but there’s no damned reason to hang around work. For me or anybody else. And anyway, it’s Friday. I’m outta there, on my way over to the Union Square subway station when I pass by Fanelli’s Café on Prince Street, one of the oldest pubs in New York City.

What the hell? I turn around and head in for a beverage. I never drink before dinner, except on the agency roof, but God knows I could use one now, given all the shit that’s coming down around me.

The bar is abuzz with classic New York characters. I squeeze in and order a Ketel One, soda, lime. Fifteen minutes later I’m a lot braver, so I pay up. Time to head for the 6 train up to Grand Central, where I can catch the 4:47 to Croton-on-Hudson. But not before I cab it down to the bank again. Can grab the 6 from there.

At the Croton-on-Hudson station I climb in my car and head for our house, which is only five minutes away. It’s a big, five-thousand-square-foot 1920s Spanish Mediterranean, called Twin Eagles; there’s a stone sculpture of an eagle, wings spread, on each side of the driveway. And it’s twice as big, and twice as expensive, as we need.

But Jean and the kids love it. We’ve been here eight years.

I pull up around the circular drive in front of the house. The last thing I want is the kids—or anybody—to see me upset. So I honk the horn. Surprise! Here comes Brady racing out the front door, and jumps all over me. His sister, Ellie, follows out behind him. “What’s up, Dad?”

They stay with me, like kids who know their father loves them. We head out toward the pool.

Then I see Jean up on the porch.

“Oh, Tim, I hope you’re okay,” she asks, as I park the kids in the front hall and head for the kitchen. “Have to say I’m glad you’re here, but what a terrible way to get you home early.”