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.