“Detective, please. I know this stuff. I…”
He raises an open hand to shut me up: “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now, without an attorney, you have the right to stop anytime and request one. Knowing and understanding your rights, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney?”
I nod yes.
“I need to hear you say it, MacGhee.”
“Yes, of course, I am willing to answer more questions.”
“The other day you told us about Ramon. You told us he provided drugs to people in your office, presumably for money.”
“Yes.”
“What about you? Did you get drugs from Ramon?”
“Some occasional weed, yes, I admit it.”
“You did two years in the Marines before you started in the business.…”
“Yes, and damned proud of it.”
“We checked your records. Good marks all around. Guess what else we found out?”
“I can’t imagine.” I’m hoping against hope.…
“Ramon served in the Marines, too. With you. In Iraq. He was in your battalion. In your squad. Ramon Martinez was in the same Marine Corps squad in Iraq that you led. You must have known each other a hell of a lot better than you’ve admitted to so far.”
He’s got me there, for sure. “Yes, we served together. That was before the agency business. Didn’t think it mattered.…”
And my mind wanders, believe it or not. I’m out on checkpoint Foxtrot with Ramon, dug in between the corner walls of a decimated building on the outskirts of Fallujah, deep into the night before we are to launch Operation Vigilant Resolve to retake the city from the insurgents. Our orders were to prevent anyone from entering the city, or leaving it, and our responsibility covered some twenty-five meters to either side. The calm before the storm. I’m scoping the landscape with night vision binocs. No action out there so far.
And so we drift into Spanish. Ramon and I were close and I wanted to learn his native language.
“Mi amigo…” I hear Ramon say…and then…
“You’re not supposed to think! Christ, MacGhee, you even helped Ramon get his job at the agency back when you first worked there! And we know this: you were in the drug business with him.”
God help me. They’ve got it all. At least, they think they do.
“What’s that got to do with his murder? Why would I murder an old friend? A brother?” I’m desperate for anything.
“Well, while you were panicking on the way over here we searched the boxes you were taking out of the office, and found this.” He nods over, and Garrison holds up a Ziploc bag of coke. Shit!
“Yeah, okay, I did some blow every once in a while. But it’s not…”
“That wasn’t a question, MacGhee. But this is: what was your specialty in the service?”
“I…”
“Never mind. We know what it was. MOS 8541. US Marine Corps Scout Sniper, especially trained in marksmanship with an M40 sniper rifle and an M9 pistol. Ring a bell?”
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.
We’d get all this stuff from Ramon. Congenial, connected Ramon. Our dealer. Cash money. A lot of it. How else would a lowly tech guy have a nice big brownstone apartment in Brooklyn? He was our source, and he did well for himself.
Then…I ended up partnering with Ramon. He knew where to get all this shit. I didn’t, and I never asked. But I had the contacts, the connections, inside the agency and beyond. I was the man—which the detectives finally figured out.
We made a good team, Ramon and me. And some money. For a while.
I tapped my secret bank account and gave Ramon extra money so he could expand his supply. Investment capital, so we could both benefit from growing demand.
But pretty soon he’s asking me for more capital. And more. And then he’s not asking—he’s demanding. I ain’t got it anymore—but he’s not buying it.