I head up to my cubicle. Quinn’s at the top of the stairs…waiting for me? Well-dressed, mid-forties, close-cropped, graying hair. Fit.

“Mr. MacGhee, sorry we didn’t get to talk on Friday. We hear you’re the man. Got a few minutes?”

“Absolutely. Why don’t you step into my…cubicle? And please, call me Tim.”

“And call me Pete.…”

He spots my Marine eagle, globe, and anchor plaque on the wall before he can sit down.

“Seriously? Semper fi?”

“Damn straight! You?”

“Hell, yes! Desert Storm. 2nd Marines. Purple Heart.”

“Amazing, my brother. You beat me by a few years. But who’s counting? Here we are! And thank God, I didn’t win a Purple Heart. Please, have a seat, Pete, let’s talk.” He settles into the couch.

“Thanks, Tim. So, this is a tough one. Not a random murder out on the streets. This one’s in a place of business, in downtown Manhattan, full of what seem like good, professional people who care about each other. The victim is someone who is clearly well respected by everybody, near as we can tell. It just doesn’t make any sense. Not that most murders do, but still…”

“I get it, Pete. Please, how can I help?”

“So far, nobody we’ve talked to knows anything, not really. Or at least they’re not willing to say they do, yet. And they all say the same thing: Talk to Tim. He knows more about the agency than anybody else here.

“But I’ve got to tell you, so far we’re getting nowhere. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Absolutely. Anything.”

“What can you tell me about Ramon?” he asks.

“Well, he’s one of those self-made guys. Started in the old mailroom we still had. But every free minute he was on somebody’s computer. Got good at it. Soon enough he was our tech guy. A self-taught tech expert, monitoring computers, making sure everybody had the latest software, figuring out how to reboot when they crashed. All that stuff…

“I didn’t see him that much, day to day, but he sure made himself irreplaceable.”

“Did Ramon have any enemies that you know about?”

“Oh, man,” I tell him, “I cannot imagine anybody here having anything against Ramon. Zero. He would probably be voted most popular guy in the agency.”

“Damn. Sure makes you wonder who would murder this guy—and why—and how they would get up to the roof after hours,” Quinn says.

Sure does, I’m thinking.

“Understand completely, Detective,” I tell him.

“Look,” he says, “just do us all a favor and keep your eyes and ears open. Everybody talks about you like you’re the one most likely to hear anything. Here’s my card. Please call me if you do.”

“Absolutely. You have my word.”

I have a feeling I’ll see Peter Quinn again.

Chapter 14

“Yo…dude!”

Jesus, it’s Lenny Shapiro, poking his unkempt head into my space. Creative guy, writer—or supposed to be. Seems half stoned all the time. I can’t remember the last time he made any kind of significant contribution to anything at the agency. Remember Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High? That’s Lenny.