Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  Kevin found himself thinking of Madison more each day. She was smart, honest, gutsy and fun to work with. He’d been attracted to her from the moment he bumped into her at the elevator. And, as he got to know her, he’d grown more attracted.

  He liked how she really listened to people, even though they were sometimes talking nonsense. And how she tackled her new CEO responsibilities, even though she felt unprepared. And how she resigned the cosmetic business of lecherous Maurice Dwarck, even though it reduced her agency’s revenue. And how she pursued the truth behind her father’s death, even though she was risking her life.

  Mostly though, he liked how her smile and large green eyes gave his heart an aerobic workout – which worried him. Because another adwoman had made his heart beat fast once, and then left it in pieces.

  Alexis Weatherly. A smart, terrific-looking young account executive with thick brown hair and large eyes the color of dark blue sapphires. Her quirky sense of humor and slightly outrageous spirit won him over fast. They began dating and growing more serious each week.

  Then came the invitation he wish he’d thrown out! It was to a VIP Park Avenue party. Show biz celebrities and ad agency heavy breathers would be there. Kevin was about to decline when the CEO of a respected agency asked him to attend and talk about an important job offer.

  Alexis begged Kevin to take her, which was a problem. The last party he’d attended in this same apartment had drugs available. Alexis had a history with pot and cocaine use a year earlier. Once they started dating, she stopped using and was doing well.

  Still, he worried the party atmosphere and drugs might prove too tempting for her. But she continued to beg him, and finally he caved in.

  As they walked into the party, Kevin saw the CEO waving him over. Kevin told Alexis he’d be out on the balcony with the CEO. She said she’d be schmoozing with the celebrities.

  Thirty-five minutes later, after accepting CEO Mark McKean’s very generous offer to become associate creative director of Turner Advertising, Kevin raced back inside to tell Alexis the great news. He found her in a small back bedroom that reeked of pot. She stood between an anorexic woman in black and a goateed man wearing thick gold chains around his neck.

  “I’ve got the job!” he whispered in her ear.

  “Awe ... some!” Alexis said, turning around to face him.

  He knew instantly. Her pinpoint pupils, thousand-yard stare and slow movements told him Alexis was very high, maybe on heroin.

  He led her from the apartment and took her home. There, he put her in her bed and sat nearby, watching her during the night for any adverse reactions.

  The morning sun awakened her. She opened her eyes and stared at him.

  “You OK?”

  She nodded, but looked as though she couldn’t remember going to bed.

  “I tried heroin.”

  He nodded.

  “Just to see what it was like.”

  “Now you know.”

  “Yeah....”

  “I hope it’s your last time, Alexis.”

  “It is.”

  It wasn’t. Six days later, the man who gave her heroin gave it to her again. Then he continued to supply her with heroin and cocaine over the next few weeks. Kevin knew. Her dazed eyes, slurred words and cold, moist skin were giveaways to her addiction.

  Two months later, she hit bottom.

  He got her into rehab. Twenty-eight days later, she was released and stayed clean, getting stronger week by week.

  Then he flew out to California to film some car commercials in the Mojave Desert. Two days later, a friend called him at 2:23 a.m. and said that Alexis’s body was found in an alley behind a seedy nightclub in Jersey City. A drug overdose.

  Even now, Kevin felt some guilt. He’d known her history. Yet he’d taken Alexis to the VIP party.

  Her death devastated him. To forget, he poured himself into his drug of choice – work. It helped soothe problems of the heart and left little time to brood about a loss.

  After her death, he dated infrequently. A stockbroker, a journalist, an attorney. Terrific, beautiful women. But when the relationships heated up, he hit the brakes.

  With Madison, however, the brakes didn’t seem to be working.

  How did she feel about him? he wondered. Did she see him as friend, or only a helpful employee schmoozing the big boss? Or maybe even as a sleazeball, lusting after her money and body?

  It didn’t matter. She was his boss. It was crazy to even think about a personal relationship with his CEO. Human resource experts condemned such incestuous corporate relationships. Employee tongues would wag about how she helped him at the expense of others.

  “Take a look!” Beauregard said as he ran the revised commercial. Kevin watched the funny new opening with the hemorrhoidal-strutting birds and couldn’t help but laugh.

  They high-fived each other, and moments later Kevin left the studio.

  He stepped outside into the cool night air and flagged down a taxi.

  As they drove up Third Avenue, his thoughts drifted to Madison’s father. Kevin was convinced that someone had faked his suicide to eliminate his vote against the ComGlobe merger ... the same someone who’d hired the man who almost killed Madison ... a man who told her he was coming after her again. Soon.

  Fortunately, she’d worn a disguise to the airport and traveled under an alias.

  But had the man somehow discovered she was in St. Kitts?

  Twenty Six

  Madison felt heat moving up her face....

  She opened her eyes and saw it was brilliant sunshine flooding through the lace curtains onto her and the flowery chintz bedspread.

  Yawning, she got up, pulled back the curtains, looked outside and smiled. Mother Nature was strutting her stuff.

  The blue Atlantic glistened under a fiery sun. Whitecaps curled toward the sandy shore. A thick green rain forest swept up the slopes of the huge volcano. The sweet fragrance of flowers and fresh-cut grass drifted into the room. And somewhere nearby, tennis balls thumped.

  I’m in paradise to visit a bank? she thought. How crazy is that?

  Thirty minutes later, after breakfast, she put on a lightweight blue suit and headed down to the lobby.

  “Taxi, ma’am?” the desk manager asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Seconds later, she got into the roomy back seat of Leonard’s Luxury Limo, a Toyota van. The driver was Leonard. On his right shoulder sat a beautiful blue and red parrot. The bird seemed to be searching for something in Leonard’s Afro.

  “The ferry to Nevis, please,” she said.

  “Straightaway, ma’am.” Leonard gave her a gold-toothed smile.

  In Nevis, she would visit the Caribe National Bank and try to find out who deposited the money using her father’s name, and whether the money was still there or was transferred back to Turner’s Citibank account as the e-mail demanded. She’d also try to see if the man who opened the account bore any resemblance to her father.

  Nevis, she’d read, was fast becoming one of the world’s most preferred offshore banking centers. The reason was simple: Nevis bankers were pit bulls when it came to guarding the confidentiality of their depositors.

  Her plan was simple: play the grieving daughter in hopes they might give her a morsel of helpful information.

  As the taxi hugged the narrow, winding roads, she saw sugarcane fields in the distance. She’d read that sugar production had been the island’s number one industry for centuries, and was astonished to learn that in 1660, little St. Kitts, only five miles by eighteen miles, had produced sugar profits greater than the combined profits of the original thirteen U.S. colonies.

  They drove past a beautiful, twin-spired church, the Immaculate Conception, and Independence Square lined with charming, pastelcolored houses, a business district, and finally the market area, already bustling with locals and tourists.

  Moments later, Leonard stopped next to the ferry, the Islander. Madison bought her ticket and watched severa
l people step off a bus and walk toward the boat where dozens more were boarding. Most men wore Bermudas and short-sleeve shirts. Women wore colorful, flowery dresses.

  Everyone walked a leisurely pace.

  Rush hour without the rush.

  As a breeze cooled her face, she boarded with a young couple and three small children, some elderly couples, and a bunch of noisy tourists wearing gaudy shirts.

  To get a better view of the harbor, she stepped behind a big blue LABOUR DAY PARTY banner and walked over to the rear deck. As she leaned against the railing, two five-year-old boys, identical twins, scampered past her, one boy trying to grab a GameBoy away from the other. She smiled and watched them disappear into the passenger cabin.

  She noticed dark clouds pushing in from the west. The wind kicked up and large waves began to rock the ferry.

  She leaned over the railing and stared down into the churning aquamarine water.

  * * *

  Eugene P. Smith couldn’t believe his good luck. The woman had foolishly separated herself from the other passengers. Everyone was inside the cabin. No one knew she was out here except the two small boys.

  And, of course, him.

  Even more helpful, the large blue banner blocked everyone from seeing her ... and what he was about to do to her.

  As the Islander chugged out of Basseterre Bay, he watched her lean further over the railing, obviously mesmerized by the foaming wake.

  How fortunate for me, Smith thought. Although he’d meticulously planned a credible “accident” for her on Nevis, experience had taught him to seize a fortuitous opportunity like this. And now that he thought about it, this “accident” would work out better. Even the windy weather was cooperating.

  A large wave slapped against the side of the boat, rocking it hard. The wind was gusting to about twenty-five miles per hour now. Inside the cabin, people were sitting down and talking or reading.

  In his coat pocket, Smith ran his fingers along the familiar hardcover case. The syringe inside brimmed with potassium cyanide. The poison would incapacitate her in seconds, kill her within two minutes. He’d simply ease her body into the churning water. The splash would be drowned out by the wind and engine noise.

  Days later, her body, or rather the chunks the sharks hadn’t eaten, would wash ashore ... just another careless tourist who’d fallen into the sea and drowned.

  Drowned like her poor daddy.

  How fitting, Eugene P. Smith thought.

  Twenty Seven

  Leaning over the rear deck railing, Madison watched the blue-green waves churn and swirl higher and higher as the Islander rocked its way toward Nevis. The spray dampened her face as the boat slapped down into a deep swell. The turbulent sea was beautiful, so hypnotic she couldn’t seem to pull her eyes away. But she’d have to. She had to think about ways to persuade the banker to reveal information about the account in her father’s name.

  “Ma’am!”

  A man’s voice behind her.

  She turned and saw an Islander attendant signaling her and a tall gray-haired man with a Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses standing a few feet behind her.

  “Sea’s too rough. Captain wants everyone inside, please.”

  She nodded, then she and the tall man, who seemed upset that he had to go inside, followed the attendant into the passenger cabin where she sat down. For some reason, she sensed the tall man was still staring at her, but when she looked back, he had disappeared.

  She took out her phone, called Christine and learned that everything was going well at the agency. Relieved, she hung up and looked around the cabin.

  Most passengers were reading papers or dozing in the morning sun. The woman across from her was reading Star magazine. On the cover was Roger Corman’s newest masked slasher jamming an ice pick into a creature’s eye. The slasher’s mask suddenly reminded her of her attacker’s mask. Her skin began to crawl.

  Relax, she told herself. Only Christine and Kevin know you’re here.

  She’d purchased her airline ticket under the name Shae Stuart, reserved the Ottley’s Inn room using that name, traveled to JFK Airport in disguise, and hadn’t used any credit cards. He couldn’t possibly know she was in St. Kitts.

  Sit back, enjoy the view.

  Thirty minutes later, the ferry docked at Charlestown harbor on Nevis. The island town looked small, but big on charm. Her map indicated she could walk to the bank in minutes ... and in beautiful weather.

  She strolled into the picturesque town, passing a row of ginger-bread-trimmed houses with ornate, second-floor balconies where people sipped their morning coffee. A warm breeze carried the aroma of fresh-baked bread. On Main Street, she walked along with a group of tourists past some interesting shops, a row of quaint houses, and the Nevis Customs House where two goats were munching on grass.

  She turned onto Prince William Street and saw a rum shop doing a brisk duty-free business with tourists.

  All of a sudden, she sensed someone watching her. She looked back, but saw only an old man in a wheelchair and some kids.

  She shrugged it off and three minutes later arrived at the Caribe National Bank, a two-story gray stone building with large, street-level windows and a statue of a blue dolphin at the entrance. Stepping inside, she felt a blanket of cool, refreshing air wrap around her.

  “May I help you?” asked a receptionist with a Halle Berry smile.

  “Yes. Could I please speak with a bank officer about a protected account.”

  “Of course, just have a seat.”

  Madison settled into a beige leather chair and looked around the plush lobby. Colorful paintings of island scenes hung on the walls, including a gold-framed, signed Chagall print. Expensive art objects sat on pedestals, and a large Persian carpet graced the polished oak floor. Not all the bank’s money was in the vault.

  Moments later, a short, obese man in his mid-thirties lumbered toward her wearing a snug linen suit and a trust-me smile. Wisps of fine, blond hair were draped intriguingly over a head that seemed too small for his large, pear-shaped body.

  “Bradford Tipleton. Welcome to the Caribe National Bank.”

  She introduced herself, shook hands and followed him into an immaculate office dominated by a large desk and thin-screen computer. His big window overlooked an outdoor café a few feet away where tourists drank coffee. One tourist, she noticed, was the man from the rear deck of the ferry, the gray-bearded man with the Yankees baseball cap. He was reading a newspaper.

  “Coffee?” Tipleton asked, settling in behind his desk.

  “No thanks.”

  “Cookies, maybe?” He tapped a Pooh Bear cookie jar on his credenza and smiled.

  “No thank you, Mr. Tipleton.”

  His eyes dimmed a bit, like maybe he’d hoped to munch cookies with her.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to learn more about an offshore account.”

  Big smile. “A very smart way to protect your hard-earned dollars. You sound American.”

  She nodded.

  “Great country, but your IRS can be rather, ah ... consumptive, dare I say?” He gave her a knowing wink.

  “Well, yes, taxes are high, but I’m actually interested in an existing account here.”

  He crossed his arms. “I see....”

  “The account’s in my father’s name. Mark McKean.”

  “Did he list you on the bank account?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Hmmm....”

  “He died last week in New York.”

  Tipleton’s banker eyes softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please accept my condolences.” He glanced toward the large photo of an elderly woman on his credenza. “Mother left me three years ago next Thursday. Stroke. We were quite close.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Tipleton.”

  “Thank you,” he said, turning back to Madison. “Now, the account was in the name of your father, Mark McKean?”

  “Yes. It had $8.7 million in it
last week. He was going to transfer the money back to a CitiBank account in New York. I wondered if he did.”

  “Do you know the account number here?”

  “Yes.” She gave him the number Dean Dryden had taken from her father’s e-mail.

  “Are you his sole surviving family member?”

  “My brother, Thaddeus, and I are. But this notarized letter authorizes me to represent him here today.” She handed Tipleton the letter.

  He read it and nodded.

  “And here is my father’s death certificate, plus my birth certificate and passport.”

  He studied each document carefully.

  “You understand that everything will depend on your father’s specific instructions.”

  She nodded.

  He tapped the number into his computer, then turned the screen so that she couldn’t see it. A strand of blond hair drooped down over his eyes. He fingered it back up to his scalp where it clung miraculously to another strand.

  “Please excuse me a moment,” he said, hoisting himself up and hurrying down the hall.

  Madison looked over at the photo of Tipleton’s mother, who seemed nearly as obese as Tipleton. The woman was smiling proudly at an enormous cheesecake smothered in cherries and cream. Beside the desk in Tipleton’s wastebasket was a large pastry box smeared with chocolate.

  Bradford Tipleton waddled back into the room carrying a blue folder and sat down.

  “Well,” he said, “the account clearly stipulates here that no information may be released. I’m quite sorry.”

  “But he’s my father.”

  “Yes, but he made a specific written request that the account balance and disposition of the money therein be kept in strictest confidence. And he further stipulated, ‘even in the event of my demise, and even from my family members.’”

  Madison knew her father would never stipulate that.

  “Did he open the account here in person?”

  Tipleton bit his upper lip. “Well, since you know his account number, I can tell you, yes, he opened it here in person.”

  “Did you assist him?”

  “No.”

  “May I speak to the person who did?”