by Mike Brogan
Madison smiled, made sure they were still alone, then faced Whitaker. “Alison, you knew my dad a long time...”
Whitaker’s eyes saddened as she brushed a spec of lint from her sleeve. “About nineteen terrific years.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, someone here accused him of misappropriating $8.7 million from the company.”
Whitaker shook her head. “Your father would never steal money from anyone. Never!”
“I know. And our financial books just confirmed that. No company money is, or has been missing. But still, someone accused him.”
“Did he give you any indication who?”
“No. He remembered seeing the $8.7 figure somewhere in the agency, but by the time I got to Manhattan, he was already....” Her stomach churned at the reminder of her father’s death. Suddenly, her eyes welled up again. She paused and took a deep breath.
Whitaker reached over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Time will help, Madison.”
Madison nodded, then leaned close to the mirror and saw her eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep. “Do you recall anyone who was having a serious problem with my father?”
Whitaker appeared to search her memory. “Not really, but as you know, Karla Rasmussen is quite unhappy over your father’s intention to vote against the ComGlobe merger.”
“Enraged, I hear. Anyone else?”
Whitaker paused, then seemed to remember something. “Well, Leland Merryweather and Finley Weaver both want the merger. And they seem to be up to something. Today, when I walked into a conference room, they stopped whispering and looked suspicious.”
“What are they like?”
“Finley is a gifted direct marketer. But he complains about not having enough money ever since his wealthy wife stopped covering his gambling losses. And Merryweather ... well, he’s a solid international ad man. He wanted Evan Carswell’s job and never forgave your father for not giving it to him.”
Are Weaver and Merryweather behind everything? Madison wondered.
“Anyone else unhappy with my father?”
“Well, now that I think of it, Dana Williams had a big argument with your father a couple of weeks ago. I heard she was quite angry. I have no idea why. Which is strange, because they’d been good friends.”
Madison wondered why Dana Williams was so angry with him. And why was Dana holding hands with the CEO of a competitive agency at the ‘21’ Club yesterday?
“Dana favors the ComGlobe merger, right?”
“Right.”
“Maybe Dana was upset because Dad was against the merger.”
Whitaker shrugged. “My sense is it was something else. Maybe even something personal. Let me think about this a while and get back to you. But right now I’m late for another meeting.”
“Thanks, Alison. I’m out of the office for a couple of days, but if you learn anything, just leave me a voicemail.”
“Will do.”
As she left, Madison leaned back and took a deep breath. People said her father was well liked by everybody, but clearly his decision to vote against the ComGlobe merger had created a nest of enemies.
Including a murderer.
Twenty One
Madison sat in the conference room listening to the MedPharms client compliment the agency’s creative team on the new television commercial storyboards. Next to the client sat Dana Williams, EVP of Strategic Planning, whom Alison Whitaker said had recently been extremely upset with Madison’s father. Why was she upset? And why was Dana holding hands with Lamar Brownlee, CEO of Griffen-Girard at the ‘21’ Club? Was it strictly romantic – or were they talking about business? Specifically Turner business?
Williams’ Strategic Planning group developed research and advertising strategies for the agency clients. According to Kevin, Williams had an uncanny ability to identify precisely what it was that made customers buy a product, as evidenced by her string of highly successful advertising campaigns.
Madison studied Williams, a very attractive, trim woman in her late thirties. Her thick blonde hair framed large light-brown eyes and delicate, high cheekbones, a face that hinted at a previous nip and tuck. Kevin had said that Williams, a former model, was intelligent, organized, focused, and at times a control freak.
There were even rumors that she could be ruthless. Years ago, when a CEO at a rival agency tried to steal one of Dana’s clients, she’d reportedly mailed the CEO photos of himself in bed with two twelve-year-old Thai girls. The accompanying note warned that if he ever talked to her client again, his wife and the police would see the photos within an hour. The CEO never contacted her client again, and apparently retired months later.
The MedPharms meeting ended and everyone herded out into the hallway, where Madison caught up to Williams.
“Dana?”
Williams turned and smiled. “Oh, hi, Madison. Good client meeting....”
“Very good.”
So ... how’s your agency learning curve going?”
“Like a shuttle launch. Straight up!”
Another smile. “I’m still learning, too.”
“You’ve been here quite a few years, right?”
Dana ran her manicured fingers through her hair. “This August, it will be, let’s see ... seventeen years.”
“So you knew my father quite well?”
Dana’s eyes seemed to freeze, then go dark. “Yes. We worked together on many successful new business pitches.”
Madison leaned close so no one could overhear them. “Dana, do you have any idea who might have accused him of taking company money?”
Dana’s cheek muscle twitched a couple of times. “No, and frankly I was shocked when you mentioned that in yesterday’s board meeting. I can’t imagine anyone accusing him of any financial wrongdoing.” She inched toward the elevator.
“Dana ...?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask you about a rumor?”
Williams hesitated, then nodded.
“I heard that recently you were quite upset with my father.”
Dana’s notepad fell to the floor and she picked it up. “Did Karla Rasmussen tell you that?”
“No. But I’d rather not say who did.”
Williams’ cheeks flushed and she averted Madison’s eyes. “Well, it was nothing. Your father and I simply had a heated disagreement over a strategy for World Motors. That’s all. Nothing more.”
But Madison sensed there was more. Like the truth.
“Listen, Madison, I’m late for a client conference call. Can we continue this later?” She hurried toward the elevator.
“Sure. Come and see me when you get a chance. I have a couple of other questions.”
* * *
And I’ve got questions, too, Dana Williams thought as the elevator doors closed. Like, what do you know about your father’s death? Do you believe he committed suicide? Do you believe he was murdered?
Do you suspect me?
And, yesterday at ‘21’, did you see me with Lamar Brownlee?
Twenty Two
Back in her office, Madison settled in at her desk and began working through a stack of memos. Minutes later, she sensed someone nearby. Looking up, she saw Karla Rasmussen staring at her from the door. How long had she been lurking there?
“How’d the MedPharms meeting go?” Rasmussen asked, fingering her thick gold necklace.
“The client loved the media plan and the TV commercials.”
“Good.” She stepped into the office. “But Alison Whitaker thinks we pay too much for our MedPharms TV time at National Media.”
“Really? What do you think?”
“I think we get a very good rate.”
“Maybe I can find out,” Madison said.
“How?”
“I have a very close friend at National Media. I’ll ask her to compare our MedPharms rates.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Linda Langstrom.”
Rasmussen’s nod suggested she knew La
ngstrom. “Let me know what she tells you.”
“I will.”
Rasmussen opened her mouth to say something further, paused, started to speak again, then simply turned and walked away.
What did Rasmussen start to say? Strange woman....
Madison remembered something Kevin had mentioned about Karla. The woman always funneled an inordinately large share of client money to televison advertising at National Media. Was it because she honestly believed that TV advertising was the smartest way to spend a client’s money? Or was there a more personal, more nefarious reason?
Madison glanced at her watch. It was time to leave for the airport and her flight to St. Kitts.
“Guess what I have?”
Madison looked up and saw Christine holding something behind her back.
“My future husband?”
Christine laughed and held up a thick, red file. “The missing ComGlobe Merger file.”
“You found it!”
“The cleaners did.”
“Where?”
Christine looked toward the door, then walked over and whispered, “Didn’t Karla just tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“They found it behind her credenza.”
Madison slumped in her chair. “She told me she didn’t have it.”
Christine nodded.
“What’s her excuse?”
“She has no idea how it got there.”
“Here’s a thought – maybe she put it there,” Madison said, her pulse increasing with her suspicion of Rasmussen. Madison placed the file in her briefcase, then grabbed her suitcase and headed toward the door.
“Madison...?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful and have a safe trip.”
Christine sounded wonderfully maternal, reminding her of all the times her mother had uttered those same comforting words as she headed off somewhere.
“I will, Christine. And I’ll call you.”
On the elevator, she decided to stop off and tell Kevin that the MedPharms client really liked his new commercials. She walked into his office and saw him on the phone. He mouthed “Hi” and waved her to a chair.
As she sat down, she noticed an old family photo on a file cabinet. Kevin, and probably his sister, stood beside an old blue Chevy Nova with a rusted fender. Kevin looked about six in the photo and had tufts of windblown brown hair, a swath of freckles over sunburned cheeks and a big smile minus some front teeth. His sister, about nine, had a cute face dominated by dimples and a cherubic smile. They wore red and green Polish costumes similar to those worn by children Madison had seen dancing at South Boston’s Polish Festival.
She saw no photos of beautiful young women. Was he dating anyone special? Young women seemed to constantly sashay past his office like runway models auditioning to be his significant other. His quick smile and light blue eyes were as seductive as his sense of humor and easy way with people. All that, plus his creative talent, explained why Evan Carswell and others considered Kevin a fast-tracker at Turner.
“What brings you to my bailiwick?” he asked, hanging up.
“I just wanted to tell you the MedPharms client loved your television commercials.”
Kevin smiled big. “That’s great! And thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure.”
“So, you’re off to St. Kitts now?”
“This very minute.”
“What about your disguise?”
She pointed to her suitcase.
“You’re going as a suitcase?”
She laughed and stood up.
His face grew serious. “Madison...?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
She realized that a lot of people were warning her to “be careful.” She was being careful! She was wearing a disguise, flying under an alias, and staying at a hotel booked under the same alias. Only Christine and Kevin knew where she’d be.
Kevin handed her his business card with his various phone numbers.
As she walked out, he said, “Call and tell me how it went at the bank. I’ll worry until I hear from you....”
She nodded, then remembered something.
I’ll worry until I hear from you,’ Grant Hartwell’s exact words three years ago as she’d left on a business trip.
She’d been attracted to Grant, a Boston Brahmin lawyer, to his breezy outgoing charm, keen legal mind and stunning good looks. He was the first man she’d really cared for after Brace Brenner dumped her in college and married his ex-girlfriend.
She was infatuated with Grant. He’d even mentioned marriage. She remembered the wonderful weekend on Cape Cod during which he’d repeatedly professed his love for her. Three heavenly days.
Followed by the night from hell. That evening, after wrapping up a Gillette commercial, she stopped by Grant’s Boston law office. As she approached his office, she saw a “Vacation Day” sign on the desk of his secretary, Tanya, whom his law partners referred to as The Treasure Chest.
Grant’s office door was closed, but Mantovani’s music seeped out. She knocked but got no response.
She opened the door and her life ended.
Fifteen feet away on the sofa, Grant was making love to Tanya. Tanya’s smile suggested that she and Grant had vacationed often on the sofa.
Even now, Madison felt the sharp, searing, heart-crushing betrayal of that moment.
Grant had turned and saw her. “Madison, this ... just happened....”
She tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“Really, I can explain at dinner!”
“Forget dinner! And forget me!” she shouted as she stormed down the hall and back outside into a hard rain. She got drenched as she walked faster and faster, turning corner after corner, going nowhere, feeling lost and injured. Why hadn’t she believed her friends who warned her that Grant had a reputation as a womanizer?
Simple. She thought she could change him. Thought she had changed him. But she was wrong. So pathetically wrong.
Now she looked back on the whole Grant Hartwell affair as yet another painful lesson: The packaging-is-sometimes-better-than-the-product lesson. She was president of the Smitten and Bitten Club and it would be a long time again before she gave her heart away to anyone.
Besides, these days, she had no time for affairs of the heart. She had to focus on her new responsibilities.
She left, and took the elevator down to the area near the garage. She entered a small restroom and locked the door. She opened her suitcase and took out the frizzy blonde wig and put it on. Next, she squeezed into a tight red leather jacket, applied flaming red gloss to her lips, and clipped on some fake gold banana earrings. She topped it off with large gold-rimmed sunglasses. She looked in the mirror and marveled at the brazen hussy grinning back at her.
She walked into the agency garage where Neal Nelson, her bodyguard, smiled at her.
“Nice disguise,” he said, opening the passenger-side door to his TrailBlazer.
She got in and they drove out of the building. As they headed up Madison Avenue, she decided to check the side mirror to see if a car was following them. She gave up when all she saw were yellow cabs.
Forty minutes later, she passed through JFK Airport security and headed down toward the departure area to board her American Airlines non-stop flight to St. Kitts.
* * *
Eugene P. Smith followed Madison McKean toward their departure gate. The tiny spy cam he’d placed in her underground garage had given him a clear view of her getting into the TrailBlazer. Her disguise was ridiculous. She had on the same slacks she’d worn to work and carried the same expensive COACH briefcase. Amateur mistakes. She might as well have stenciled MADISON across the back of her red jacket.
Although, he had to give her some credit. Last night she’d ditched him by changing hotels at the last moment. But he’d been given her flight number and was waiting for her at JFK.
She continued walking down th
e long runway past the departure gates. He liked how she walked. Long, shapely legs. Fast, no-nonsense stride. Clearly she was on a mission.
Me too, Madison.
Smith flipped open his cell phone and called Harry Burkett.
“She’s about to get on the flight to St. Kitts.”
“She’s going to the bank!” Burkett said nervously.
“So it would appear.”
“Don’t let her learn anything.”
“Sorry, but she will learn something.”
“What?” Burkett asked, panic-stricken.
“What dying feels like.”
Twenty Three
Madison felt her American Airlines 737 bank hard right. Her three-and-a-half-hour direct flight from JFK had been smooth and uneventful.
“If you look out the right side of the aircraft,” the pilot announced, “you can see St. Kitts and Nevis.”
Madison glanced out at both islands and some smaller ones, sparkling out like an emerald necklace on the blue Caribbean. She loved the islands. Their peaceful hills, ocean breezes and sunny beaches always seemed to melt away the stress she picked up in congested, hornhonking, brake-squealing cities.
But she wasn’t here for the sunny beaches. She was here to get a tight-lipped banker to cough up some information about $8.7 million deposited in her father’s name. And even though the banker might not divulge anything about the deposit, he might inadvertently reveal something about the depositor.
She looked down at the ComGlobe file in her lap. During the flight, she’d scrutinized each page, but found no hint of who her father suspected. Of course, any hint easily could have been removed from the file by Karla Rasmussen, who’d apparently hidden the file behind her office credenza.
Madison felt a hard jolt as the landing gear locked into place. Moments later, they touched down at Robert L. Bradshaw International Airport. She breezed though customs and the crowded Arrivals Hall, then stepped outside into a warm, humid night. She took a deep breath and was rewarded with the sweet, honey-like scent of jacaranda flowers.
“Taxi, ma’am?”
She turned and saw a tiny old man with snow-white hair and a weathered brown face. His wrinkled hands looked like they’d been microwaved.