by Mike Brogan
“It’s uh ... politically incorrect.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You’ll fire me.”
“Say it!”
“You’re cuter.”
“You’re fired!”
“I meant smarter!”
“What, I’m NOT cuter?”
He laughed. “You’re cuter and smarter!”
“In that case, Mr. Jordan, you’re rehired and promoted.” And, oh yeah, she thought, I’m pleased you think I’m cute.
They stepped over a rain puddle.
“So Dean can afford a big expensive yacht?”
“Yep. He’s rich. Self-made. He worked his way through NYU by repairing computers, then joined a small dotcom in Palo Alto and quadrupled their business in seven months. Later, he bought into three small dotcom startups that rocketed in value in the mid-90s. Then he somehow sensed the dotcom rockets were about to fizzle out and sold his stock five weeks before they actually did.”
“Sounds smart.”
“Over 70 million dollars smart.”
“Computers are his life?”
“Yep. But something else tickles his gigabytes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hacking.”
“What’s her first name.”
“Computer.”
She smiled. “Hacking into computers is against the law.”
“Not if the law asks you to. The FBI and Pentagon have asked Dean to try to hack into their sensitive computer networks and make them more secure.”
They stepped onto the dock of the West Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin. She saw about fifty vessels, sailboats, motorboats and yachts strung out along the piers. Kevin gave his name to a security guard who gestured for them to proceed. They walked up to Dean’s yacht, eighty feet of sleek, gleaming white fiberglass with tinted panoramic windows and satellite communication dishes on the bridge. She smiled at the name on the yacht’s deck: The Mad Hatteras.
“Yo, Dean, it’s Kevin and Madison.”
“Come aboard, mates.”
They stepped down into the salon and Madison found herself surrounded by beautiful teak paneling, stainless steel trim, several large flat-screen computer monitors and a lot of very sophisticated-looking communications equipment. The fifty-inch TV looked as thin as a credit card.
In the middle of the room, a red-haired, ruddy-complected man flailed away on a keyboard. He wore a faded NYU sweatshirt, tattered jeans, Nikes, and tiny headphones. Tufts of hair stuck out in back.
He stood up, at least six-feet-four-inches of him, lean to the point of skinny, and high-fived Kevin.
“Madison, meet Dean Dryden.”
She shook his hand. “Thank you, Dean, for offering to help.”
“Glad to.” He brushed back his curly red hair, sat back at his computer and smiled at her. “So, Madison, Kevin said you’re looking for a company back-up e-mail?”
“Yes.”
“Then pardon my pun, but let’s get crackin’.” He spun around and tapped away on a keyboard. Kevin handed him his personal Turner username and password to access the company’s internal computer network. In the darkened room, Dean’s fingers flew over the keyboard like a concert pianist’s. Within thirty seconds, he was accessing agency files and memos.
He tried entering the e-mail backup files, but was password-blocked. He immediately shifted to a software program that searched for passwords and ways around them.
“This may take some time,” Dean said. “Anybody for a snack?”
Kevin and Madison both nodded.
From a small refrigerator, Dean took out a prepared tray of brie, crackers, thinly sliced salmon, cream cheese and mini bagels.
Madison still had no appetite, thanks to losing the Nat-Care business in the morning, possibly losing the Mason Funds Ltd. account at lunch, and seeing her EVP Dana Williams holding hands with the CEO of a competitive agency. But she put some salmon on a bagel and nibbled anyway. It tasted great.
Suddenly, a trumpet blast erupted from Dean’s computer.
“Wow!” Dean said. “We’re in already! Let’s search for documents with key words like ‘misappropriation, ‘Mark McKean,’ and ‘resign’.” He typed in the words, hit ‘search’ and sat back. Within seconds a memo popped up on the screen. The memo, she realized. Her heart pounded as she began to read.
In view of compelling evidence now in the possession of this Turner Advertising executive, it has been demonstrated that Mark J. McKean has over the last sixteen years misappropriated company funds totaling 8.7 million dollars from various company accounts; and that on April 9 of this year, he deposited the entire sum in his name to an offshore account, #0632-AQ-54330 in the Caribe National Bank in St. Kitts-Nevis.
Mr. McKean will immediately wire transfer the aforementioned funds from the Caribe National Bank account back to the appropriate Turner Advertising RSQ-#6A Citibank account. In addition, Mr. McKean will resign as Chairman of Turner Advertising and leave the agency, effective tomorrow.
In consideration of Mr. McKean returning the aforementioned funds, resigning from Turner Advertising, selling his Turner Advertising stock at a forty percent discounted rate, and agreeing to never discuss this matter with anyone, Turner Advertising will, on its part, drop all charges that might have been brought against Mr. McKean in this matter. This settlement is offered for the express purpose of avoiding potentially negative and unfair publicity detrimental to Turner Advertising’s image and that of their distinguished clients.”
“The smoking gun....” Kevin said, staring at the memo.
“Can you determine who sent this e-mail?” Madison asked.
Dryden tapped in a few more commands, and moments later shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The sender used a proxy IP address, one of many available on the Internet. The proxy IP hides the identity of the sender. Could be anybody.”
Her frustration growing, Madison looked outside at the New Jersey shore. The dark gray clouds now looked like dirty balled-up sweat socks rolling across the river toward her. It was getting late.
Dean Dryden slid his finger along the keyboard. “Tomorrow, I’ll work on identifying the person behind the proxy IP. I’ll also enter your agency’s financial records to determine whether any money was in fact misappropriated. And if it was, I’ll then try to access the Caribe National Bank records to see if the money is still there. But the bank records might be impregnable. These offshore banks have firewalls behind firewalls.”
“Thank you, Dean,” she said, realizing that he’d uncovered as much as he could in one night. “I really appreciate your help.”
“Happy to, Madison.”
Madison and Kevin left The Mad Hatteras and walked down the long pier toward shore. The scent of roasted garlic drifted over from the nearby Boat Basin Café. She looked around for the dark Lincoln she thought had followed her earlier and didn’t see it. Still, she had the odd sense she was being watched.
A strong river breeze hit her and she shivered.
“You going to your father’s apartment now?” Kevin asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
“I can grab a taxi. You said you live way up near the Triborough Bridge.”
“Yes, but I’m heading back to the office for a casting session and to prepare for a client meeting tomorrow. Your dad’s place is right on the way.”
“OK,” she said, happy for the ride. They walked a while, then she turned and smiled at him. “Kevin ...?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re trying to impress the new boss by working late, you’re impressing her.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to not look like a doofus in front of our client tomorrow.”
You’ll never look like a doofus, she thought, not with those blue eyes....
Eleven
As Kevin helped Madison down into the passenger seat of his Chevy Impala, he couldn’t help but notice her long, shapely l
egs. She told him she’d run cross-country at Wellesley and still jogged a few times a week. Maybe he should offer to take her running in Central Park in the next few days to help ease the stress she was bound to be feeling.
He should help her. After all, she was his boss. But she was also a good person who’d had a lot of pain and responsibility thrown at her in the last few days. Considering everything, she seemed to be holding up well.
But beneath her controlled surface he sensed a certain vulnerability, probably because her friends were in Boston and her brother had flown back to Paris. She was all alone in Manhattan.
Kevin got behind the wheel and they drove off toward her father’s apartment.
“Your folks live in New York, Kevin?”
“Mom does. Dad died several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Fortunately, it was pretty fast. Cancer.”
She nodded. “Where’d you grow up?”
He paused, unsure how much to reveal. “Down in Camden....”
They drove in silence for a bit and he wondered if she sensed his reticence to talk about his family background. He decided to shift the focus to her.
“You have any friends in New York City, Madison?”
“My college roommate. Linda Langstrom. She’s like a sister. But she’s in London on business for two more days. We’ve been talking a lot since Dad....”
He nodded. “Talking helps.”
“It does. I have one other friend here.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’m talking to him.”
He smiled. “Hey, I gotta be your friend, boss!”
She laughed as her cell phone rang. She answered. “Hi, Linda. I was just talking about you.”
As they talked, Kevin wondered what Madison really thought of him personally? He had no clue. Nor should he concern himself. A personal relationship with her was out of the question. She was his chairman. And she came from an elite, rarified social stratum well above the one he’d come from. Madison’s parents had risen from middleclass to considerable affluence on the strength of Mark McKean’s skill and drive.
Kevin’s parents, Casimir and Anna Jowarski, had risen from the poverty of a one-room shack in Stoczek, a village near Warsaw. They’d arrived in New York thirty-eight years ago, carrying all their belongings in one suitcase and all their money, seventy-six dollars, in his mother’s bra. They spoke very little English.
Their sponsor, Kevin’s Uncle Jakub, a pediatrician in Albany, advised his father to anglicize his name to get work. His father grudgingly agreed, and Casimir Jowarski became Cassie Jordan.
Two days later, Cassie was hired as a stevedore on the Camden docks. Anna began cleaning offices. They saved every dime and soon moved into a small rental house. “Five rooms!” they bragged. And two years later, they bought the house because it was only two blocks from St. Joseph’s Polish Catholic Church.
Growing up Polish, Kevin often found himself the butt of jokes and slurs. In sixth grade, two eighth grade bullies, Karl and Drew, beat up ‘the dumb Polack’ badly. As he lay in the muddy field, wiping blood from his lips, Karl said, “Hey, Drew, how many Kevins does it take to change a light bulb?”
“How many, Karl?”
“None.”
“Why?”
“Cuz Kevin’s Polack house ain’t got no electricity!”
Which was true at the time, since New Jersey Power and Light had turned off their electricity when the bill wasn’t paid during Cassie’s dock strike. When Kevin got home that night, his father taught him to box.
Two years later, when Karl and Drew picked another fight with him, Kevin left them both lying in the alley moaning behind Thompson’s grocery store – the same store where the clerk told him, “No more credit for you Polacks! Cash only!” Kevin’s face had turned red and he’d run home, embarrassed.
Over time, Kevin learned to roll with most of the insults.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Caller ID read Lonnie Ray, his basketball buddy.
* * *
As she hung up from talking with Linda, Madison saw Kevin talking on his cell phone. Moments ago, she’d sensed he was reluctant to talk about his family and where he grown up. She wondered if his early life been difficult.
At a red light, she noticed a young couple holding hands as they walked down the street. It had been a long time since she’d held hands like that. So many years ago.
Brace Brenner and she were sophomores; he at Harvard, she at nearby Wellesley. They’d met in their freshman year and fallen in love.
Then came the raucous, hard-drinking, exams-are-over party. They drank too much. So much, in fact, she forgot to take her birth control pill. Five weeks later, she looked down at the results window of her Clearblue test and read – PREGNANT. Panicked, she hurried over to Brace’s apartment and told him. He smiled and pulled her into his arms.
“This is wonderful, Madison.”
“No –”
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage.”
“But Brace, I’ve got school, you’ve got med school, how can we –”
“Trust me, we’ll manage.”
She was shocked by his response. She’d been certain Brace would want to do the only reasonable thing in view of all the circumstances: an abortion. Instead, he seemed like he couldn’t wait to be a father.
She also wanted children, but not at nineteen, not with school and a career ahead, and especially not with traces of the cocaine she’d tried a couple of times last week still in her blood. Cocaine could have injured the fetus!
“I can’t do this, Brace. I’m just not ready. We’re in school. All the responsibility.”
“We can handle it.”
“I can’t! I’m very sorry!
With tears spilling from her eyes and her emotions spinning out of control, she ran to her dorm where her roommate, Linda Langstrom, listened to her story. Linda then called her uncle, an M.D. The following morning, she drove Madison to the WomensMed Institute in Boston. Brace didn’t come because he didn’t agree with Madison’s decision to have the abortion.
The morning after the procedure, she woke up depressed, dazed and regretting what she’d done. She remained in her dorm room for the next four days, cutting classes, not eating, not talking to friends, staring out the window. Gradually, she returned to her regular routine. But Brace called rarely and acted cooler toward her, distancing himself.
Two months later, he started dating an old girlfriend.
The following summer, he married her.
Now, as Kevin pulled up to her father’s apartment, she wondered if she’d ever love anyone as deeply as she’d loved Brace Brenner.
* * *
In his black Lincoln Town Car, Harry Burkett watched Kevin Jordan park his Corvette in front of the apartment building. Madison got out and walked inside.
Burkett looked down at his expensive laser-eavesdropping device on the passenger seat.
“What a piece of shit!”
The eavesdropper hadn’t picked up one damn word of their conversation inside Dean Dryden’s yacht, even though he’d aimed the device at the proper angle against the windows. Dryden had either coated his windows with Teflon to prevent eavesdropping, or he’d installed some kind of sophisticated, electronic shield-like helmet over his yacht.
Burkett had no idea what they’d discussed in the yacht.
That would drive his Executive VP boss ballistic.
But the EVP would calm down in an hour or so ... when Harry reported that Madison McKean was dead.
Twelve
The Executive Vice President sipped the twenty-five year old Glenfiddich. It went down smoothly. The office phone rang and Harry Burkett’s name popped up on Caller ID.
“Yes...?”
“Madison McKean just visited some guy on a big yacht over at the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin. Kevin Jordan was with her.”
“Jordan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“W
hy was he with her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whose yacht?”
“Guy named Dean Dryden.”
“What’d they talk about?”
Burkett paused, then sighed heavily. “Uh...I don’t know. My eavesdropping equipment didn’t work. This Dryden guy has some kinda advanced anti-listening shield.”
The Executive VP’s frustration rose. “Where is McKean now?”
“At her dad’s apartment. Jordan just dropped her off.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yeah.”
Then my problems are over, the EVP thought. “Keep an eye on Jordan.”
“OK.”
The EVP hung up and leaned back. The name Dean Dryden sounded familiar. A quick Google search brought up several hundred Dean Dryden references. Dryden was a computer guru, a dotcom multimillionaire who on occasion did computer freelance work for various Federal government organizations.
Did Madison ask Dryden to break into our company’s computer files? Why ask him? As CEO, she could demand access to any file in the company. It made no sense, unless she didn’t want anyone to know she was searching the company files. Which could only mean one thing: She was searching for the e-mail accusing her father. Waste of time. Harry Burkett had deleted the memo.
But had he deleted the backup file copy?
The Executive VP grabbed the phone and called Burkett.
The fool couldn’t remember if he’d deleted the backup or not.
Idiot!
The EVP directed him to delete it fast if he hadn’t already.
Harry Burkett. One more person I can’t rely on.
Fortunately, I won’t have to much longer.
Thirteen
In the basement of Mark McKean’s apartment, Eugene P. Smith pushed up the sleeves of his RCN Cable repairman’s uniform. On his hand-sized TV monitor he watched Madison enter the apartment. He waited a few moments, then walked over to the phone control room and quickly disconnected her alarm system and telephone.
Earlier that morning, he’d searched her apartment thoroughly and found no indication that Mark McKean had left his daughter any written clue about who had accused him of misappropriating the $8.7 million. The problem was, he might have told her something. And she might tell the police.