Killer Deal

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  Garth Henderson had specialized in blurring the line between provocative and incendiary. His clients often got extra bang for their advertising buck because Garth’s campaigns, with their hefty dose of sexuality, received vociferous attention from the media. So you not only saw his ads in the places he’d paid to run them, but on news programs and in magazines that critiqued them, often finding them salacious and inappropriate. Clients generally found them hugely effective.

  The only publicly unhappy client in recent memory had been Jack Douglass, the CEO of Douglass Frozen Foods. To launch Douglass’ new soy ice cream line, Garth and his agency had designed a campaign that featured a buxom young movie actress, best known for appearing on late-night talk shows in a drunken tizzy, apparently about to perform oral sex on a soy fudgsicle. The television commercial had shown her stripping the wrapper off the fudgsicle with mounting excitement, then slowly raising it to her mouth while she licked her lips. The tagline of the campaign was: C’mon, you’ll like it. You know you will.

  Sales had soared, particularly among college-aged men, but the critics and pundits had howled mightily. And Mr. Douglass, a neo-con who was reportedly being wooed by heavy hitters to segue into a political career, found himself being excoriated by those very same wooers as the media tempest crescendoed. Even when it died down, Mr. Douglass’ political future was now said to be dim at best. But Garth Henderson signed several new clients.

  “The Garth Henderson article,” Eileen repeated with that vinegary touch of impatience that makes us all love her so. “I have a new take on it.”

  Apparently, the new take included actually doing it. When the news of Henderson’s death broke, all the murmurs of Gwen Lincoln’s name intrigued me. That only sharpened when the police investigation seemed to stall. I’d pitched the idea of an article on the couple—and the murder—to Eileen but she’d shot it down, dismissing Garth’s death as “when good divorces go bad.” So why this change of heart?

  As I pondered that question and whether I dared ask it, a tall, angular man with marvelous cheekbones and a wild and thick head of sandy blond hair stepped out of her office. I placed the hair before I placed the face; it was Emile Trebask, the ascendant design demigod. You can find his reflection on some surface in all his print ads, smiling approvingly as dazed teenagers who have partially pulled on the clothes he designs grope each other for the camera. It’s become a game to find Emile when each new ad comes out—sort of like finding the “Nina”s in Hirschfeld’s drawings. Or perhaps more accurately, the fashionista’s version of Where’s Waldo?

  I was surprised to see him walking out of Eileen’s office. We go to people like him, they don’t come to us. Eileen smirked at my reaction, thinking I was impressed. “Molly, you know Emile, don’t you?”

  Of course I didn’t. I’d slapped down plenty of cash over the past few years to buy his clothes, but I’d never met him. I’d have to do some serious social climbing to even approach his strata. Eileen knew that and, I suspect, was enjoying the fact. “Haven’t had the pleasure, Mr. Trebask,” I said, offering my hand.

  He shook it gently, as though one of us might break. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me he was worried about. “Ms. Forrester, I’m so glad you’re going to be talking to Gwen,” he said with his famous clipped accent; it was much debated in the fashion press whether it was Swiss or Affected.

  Proudly, I did not gasp. Not only was there suddenly an article on the Garth Henderson murder, but I was doing an interview with the prime suspect? What did Emile Trebask have to do with it? More to the point, what did Eileen get out of it? I smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Trebask,” while I tried to find the connection between all these interesting questions.

  “I thought the world of Garth, a terrific talent, but to try to lay it at Gwen’s feet. It’s absurd. Gwen could not step on an ant, much less blow off someone’s balls.”

  At first, the last word sounded somewhere between “bowels” and “bells,” so I thought he was trying to be discreet. When I realized he was being anything but, I bit the inside of my lip to maintain a professional demeanor and nodded. Mr. Trebask took that as encouragement to grow even more animated. “It’s very important people understand exactly what’s going on here.” Since I myself was a little confused on that point, I nodded again. “Gwen’s being made the scapegoat and that is not right. If we let people know the truth, then the police will have to look a little harder, won’t they, and allow people to get on with their business. And their lives.”

  I refrained from nodding yet again while my memory frantically Googled itself for some connection between Gwen Lincoln and Emile Trebask. Then Trebask pressed a small glass vial into my hand and I remembered.

  “Success,” he murmured.

  Lifting the vial to my nose, I sniffed gently and smelled cedar and honeysuckle, undercut with something smoky and musky. The sweet smell of success indeed.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. Success was going to be the first perfume in the new Trebask fragrance line and Gwen Lincoln was Trebask’s partner in the venture. She’d been an executive at several cosmetics firms, but equally important, her first husband had died young and left her incredibly wealthy. There’d been a fair amount of talk after Garth was killed that he’d found some weak spots in their prenup and was going to wring her out in divorce court. She’d dodged a bullet and he hadn’t. Twice, actually. Or so that rumor had gone.

  So had Emile come to Eileen looking for an article to prop up his business partner during a crucial time? It was a noble gesture on his part, but I couldn’t figure out what Eileen was getting out of it, which was always the pivotal part of any equation involving her.

  Trebask lightly touched my hand again and, for a moment, I thought he was going to take his perfume sample back. “Your piece on the murder of Lisbet McCandless was very powerful. I’m sure you’ll do just as well here.”

  “Thank you,” I said, still improvising.

  “And you.” Trebask turned back to Eileen. Her reptilian smile grew, consuming even more of her tiny face than I’d thought possible. “You will be an amazing addition to my celebrity model lineup at the gala.”

  “Emile, I’m so honored.”

  The pieces slid into place with slimy ease. Horse-trading was alive and well at Zeitgeist. Trebask was looking for help in swaying public, if not police, opinion and Eileen had bartered an article in the magazine for an ego turn in one of Trebask’s fashion shows. Since he’d said “gala,” it was probably the show he was putting on to launch the perfume while raising funds for the Fashion Industry Mentor Project, which encouraged at-risk youth to consider careers in fashion through internships and mentorships. I’d donated money to them before and suddenly felt very protective of the organization, imagining teeny meanie Eileen prancing down the catwalk and pretending to be a model at their expense.

  But I couldn’t dwell on that now, because I was grappling with the most thrilling part of this strange symbiotic seduction: I came out of it with a feature article assignment.

  “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do, any door I can open,” Emile said, squeezing my shoulder as gently as he’d squeezed my hand.

  “Thank you, I will,” I said, already brainstorming on how to give Eileen and Emile what they wanted while doing what I wanted. I would find a way.

  “You understand what I need here,” Eileen said flatly when she returned from escorting Emile to the elevator. I was waiting in her office, despite her new assistant’s efforts to bodily remove me from the sofa—if you can call it that. Sculpted slab would be more accurate. Eileen’s office is decorated like Andy Warhol and Yoko Ono attempted to set up housekeeping together. Everything’s bright and shiny and bold and there isn’t a single comfortable spot to sit in the whole place.

  “An interview with Gwen Lincoln that mentions both the new perfume and the Garth Henderson murder, in that order,” I answered. She gestured for me to elaborate. “And that points to the distinct possibility of her innocence
in the latter,” I continued gingerly.

  “Good girl.”

  Not to bite the hand that was suddenly feeding me, but I had to ask. “What if she’s not innocent?”

  “Then you can have the cover.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “Didn’t you tell your new buddy we’d do an article to help his friend and partner?”

  Eileen leaned against her desk and swatted at her bangs again. “Molly,” she said, her impatience moving from vinegar to venom, “haven’t you ever said something to a man just to make him go away?”

  “Millions of times. I turn them away in droves.”

  “Oops. Didn’t schedule time for you to try and be funny this afternoon. You’d better go.” She slithered behind her desk and perched in front of her computer. Not to do any work, just to remove me from her line of sight.

  But I wasn’t going anywhere without more information. I had to know my boundaries, especially if I was going to push them. “But you did tell him we’d write an article to help Gwen Lincoln.”

  “I did not. I told him we’d write an article about Gwen Lincoln. Now, if he made poor assumptions about the contents and point of view, just because he thinks she’s innocent, he’s really the one in the wrong, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So I have latitude here to consider her potentially guilty and investigate accordingly.”

  Her icy green eyes slid in my direction for a moment, then zipped back to the screen. “Theoretically, but I doubt it will even be an issue. Why don’t we just wait and see if you get that far?”

  The wave of adrenaline I’d been surfing dumped me on my head. Distracted by the potential of this article, I’d stopped considering Eileen’s point of view. “You’re assuming I won’t come up with anything.”

  “I’m demanding that you come up with an interview. Beyond that, Molly, I won’t be holding my breath.”

  I knew that was less a statement about Gwen Lincoln than one about me, but I tried not to rise to the bait. “If I’m going to touch on the murder at all, I’m going to have to look into it. I want to go into this interview armed with facts and no preconceived notion of anyone’s guilt or innocence.”

  “If that’s your process, so be it. Honestly, Molly, this little hobby of yours is cute, though rather twisted, but let’s pause a moment and be realistic, shall we? Garth Henderson isn’t some corpse you’re related to. This is a high-profile murder that has stymied the police. It’s out of your league.”

  So Eileen’s real issue raised its catty little head. She thought I was incapable of solving this mystery because I didn’t have any personal connection to the crime, as I had in my previous articles. She was, in her own twisted way, telling me I couldn’t do it. Which is a sentiment I take as a challenge.

  “I’ll do it anyway.”

  Eileen studied me for a long moment, then let her face slide into a sickly, curling smile like the Grinch looking down on Whoville. “I had no doubt.”

  She was claiming to know me so well that she could count on my hunger for a great story to override any other concerns. Maybe she was right, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting that this early in the process. “I need to know you’ll support my efforts to do this the right way,” I pressed.

  “Fine.”

  “And keep your predictions about my failure to yourself.”

  “Your implication wounds me.”

  “Yours doesn’t exactly warm my heart.”

  “I’m trying to be frank. You want to turn that into something malevolent, that’s your business.”

  No, that’s your strength, I thought, but for a change, I had the sense not to say it out loud. “Wonderful. I’ll get to work.” I pushed myself off the slab and headed for the door.

  Eileen sat back from the monitor and folded her thin arms across her chest. “Just keep in mind you still have to do your column and that piece on dating divorced men, too.”

  “I will.”

  “All in two weeks.”

  “Right.”

  “And be careful.”

  Interesting. I never would have suspected Eileen of giving a second thought about my personal safety. “Thank you, Eileen,” I said, trying to sound more grateful than surprised.

  “God knows I don’t want you infuriating some homicidal idiot who’s going to come after you here in the office and hurt someone else, namely me. Investigations aren’t good for your coworkers or the carpet.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t thinking about me at all, except in relation to her own comfort. The upside was, my suspicion that Hell remained a frost-free environment was confirmed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “You’re smiling too much and I can’t bear it. Go now,” Eileen said with a dismissive wave.

  Back at my desk, I couldn’t even sit still. This was the opportunity I’d been looking for and I was going to make the most of it. Third time’s a charm and I was going to make sure this article got me where I wanted to go.

  I began by making lists and notes. I’d been following the news about the Henderson investigation out of personal interest, but I wanted to assemble everything I could and make sure I was fully up to date. I needed background research on Gwen Lincoln, too, to make sure I got the most out of my interview. Gwen would be expecting puff-piece softballs, but I didn’t want to miss a chance to dig deep.

  I was also going to have to find out how much information the police would be willing to give me. Since it was an ongoing investigation, it probably wouldn’t be much. I tried to remember who Kyle had said had caught the case.

  Kyle. I needed to tell Kyle. Telling Tricia and Cassady, especially in view of our lunch-hour conversation, would be great fun, but I couldn’t be sure Kyle would be as enthusiastic. He worried about me, which I appreciated hugely, so he’d probably be pretty low-key about it. But he’d be happy, too.

  I called Cassady and Tricia, who were both thrilled to hear the good news. Tricia made me swear we would reconvene for celebratory cocktails at some point later in the evening; I mentioned that to Cassady, who said she was sure she’d be ready to ditch her fund-raiser quite early, so count her in.

  Then I took a stroll and called Kyle from the steps of his precinct. I’m very respectful of professional space and the last way in the world I want to be perceived is as the flighty girlfriend who’s forever dropping by to intrude at the worst possible time. Especially now that I might be interacting with some of his colleagues on a completely new level.

  “Hey, where are you?” he asked, sounding calm and pleased to hear from me.

  “Out front. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have great news.”

  “I’ll come down and you can tell me in person.”

  There’s something so delicious about watching the man you’re crazy about come walking toward you. You get that great anticipation of how he’s going to feel, smell, and taste as he moves closer. But it’s also having those moments when you’re too far away to say anything, when you can just appreciate the marvelous way he moves with that effortless, muscular gait, the way the sunlight catches little hints of auburn in his hair that fluorescent light ignores, how the blue in his eyes shines from a hundred yards away, and the way his head tilts to one side because he’s thinking about other things right up until the moment he opens his mouth and says:

  “Hey.”

  He kissed me gently and quickly. He keeps things muted in public, especially in front of his workplace. Even as he straightened back up, I could see his eyes moving over the passersby to check who might have been watching us.

  “Nice appetizer,” I said.

  “You want the main course, make a late reservation. I’m not finishing up any time soon.”

  “That’s too bad. We have some celebrating to do.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to one of your fellow detectives.”

  “One thing at a time. Go back t
o the celebrating.”

  “That’s it. Eileen finally gave me a real assignment. I’m doing an article on Gwen Lincoln.”

  “What kind of article?”

  “An investigative piece.”

  “Define ‘investigative.’”

  “It’s supposed to be a profile on her new business, but I’m going to have to address Garth Henderson’s murder.”

  “Why?”

  “People still suspect her. Don’t they?”

  He pinched his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Haven’t been keeping track.”

  “Well, I’ll find out.”

  “What else are you going to find out?”

  “Whatever I can.”

  Kyle smiled gently and a little sadly. I figured he was thinking of how consuming his current case was, then adding on how much I was going to have to be working to get this article done right, and figuring out what little time together that would leave us. “What makes you think Gwen Lincoln will talk to you?”

  “Her business partner brokered the deal.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Eileen assigned it to me. This is a huge step forward in her perception of what I can do for the magazine.”

  “That’s great.”

  He let go of his lip and I waited for his mouth to curl up into a congratulatory smile. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the man of my dreams chose that moment to say those three little words that can make your heart skip a beat, make you feel dizzy, and change a relationship forever. Three little words:

  “Don’t do it.”

  Two

  DEAR MOLLY, I’M CRAZY ABOUT this guy and he’s crazy about me, but he’s not crazy about what I do. And I’m talking my job here, not some weird little habit or sexual idiosyncrasy. He has a really dangerous job and I support him in his work. Shouldn’t he do the same for me? My job isn’t nearly as dangerous as his—people shoot at him all the time and they only shoot at me occasionally—so am I out of line to want him to return the favor? Signed, Baby Got No Backup