“What brings you back to Adams & Benson?” I asked.
“How well do you know a guy by the name of Sean Higgins?” Garry hadn’t changed. He considered small talk something midgets engaged in.
“I met him yesterday. Why?”
“A couple people say Higgins and Cato were oil and water.”
“So what? I thought the official report of Cato’s death said suicide.”
“We’re treating it like homicide. The guy had plans with his girl friend for that evening,” Garry said. “Not your typical suicide candidate. And he had sunglasses on when they found the body.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Whoever killed him had a weird sense of humor. Sunglasses wouldn’t have stayed on if he’d been thrashing at the end of a rope. The ME rushed through the autopsy and guess what? Cato died of a heart attack.”
“From hanging?”
“He was dead before the rope touched his neck.”
“But a heart attack...”
“There are poisons that can cause heart failure. The ME’s looking into it.”
“What makes Higgins a suspect?”
“They didn’t get along, for one thing. And wasn’t Higgins a football player?”
“He played for the University of Michigan.”
“Cato wasn’t exactly a lightweight. Whoever strung up his body after he died had to be strong.”
***
When I got to my desk, a voice mail message said Higgins wanted to see me. I found him in his office, typing away at his computer with all the skill and dexterity two fingers could manage.
He kept his eyes on the keyboard as he spoke. “Welcome back to the big time. I hear you built quite a reputation here five years ago. Then ran away.”
“It was more walk than run. I had to get away from Detroit for a while.”
“I saw you talking to that cop down in the parking lot. Any more news on Cato?” Apparently Higgins shared Kaminski’s distaste for chit-chat.
“That cop is my former husband; the reason I had to get away from Detroit. He says Cato’s death was murder, not suicide.”
“Murder, huh? I thought they found him hanged.”
“Yeah. Wearing sunglasses. The police figure they would’ve fallen off if he’d actually hanged himself. But the clincher is, the Medical Examiner’s report says he died of a heart attack. Someone strung him up to make it look like suicide.”
Higgins stopped typing and looked up. “Is that it?”
“Not quite. He asked if I knew you.”
“So I’m a suspect?”
“For what it’s worth, I told him I didn’t think you did it. But he heard you and Cato didn’t get along.”
“If I had killed him, they would have found those sunglasses in his rear end.”
“The man’s dead. Remind me to nominate you for the Mr. Sensitivity Award.”
***
Higgins apologized. Not for the crass remark, but for interfering with work on the Ampere. He said we had to divert at least one team to create an Avion print ad for the first issue of Self magazine we could make. He gave me the input, and I called Glo-Jo and Bob Roy.
They were waiting in my office when I got there. After passing on Higgins’ apology, I relayed the information he’d provided.
"So the object is to convey a younger, racier image for the Avion," Glo-Jo said as I finished.
"Yep. Not exactly a snap. Research says most people consider Avion a car for the geriatric set.”
"No problem. I know just what to do," said Pickard.
"Great," said Glo-Jo. "What is it?”
"Simple. We use subliminal persuasion."
Glo-Jo raised an eyebrow. "We use what?"
"Subliminal. Remember that movie theatre experiment where that guy flashed ‘you’re thirsty’ on the screen too fast for the conscious mind to see and soda pop sales shot through the roof? And where some art director retouched s-e-x in the ice cubes in a liquor ad to attract readers."
Glo-Jo tried to decide whether to take him seriously. "Yeah, so what?"
"Don't you get it? We retouch the words 'buy an Avion' lightly in the paint of the car in our ad. Readers see the words subliminally and buy an Avion without ever having a conscious thought about it."
"I don't think anyone who believes that BS would ever have a conscious thought about anything," Glo-Jo sniffed.
"Some people fall for it, Darlin'. Hey, the guy who wrote the book about that liquor ad made a fortune."
Glo-Jo turned to me. "What's your take on that subliminal stuff, Darcy?"
"I’m with you, Glo-Jo. I read where someone challenged the man to repeat the movie theatre experiment and he came up empty-handed. But whether you believe in it or not, it's still illegal. "So you'd better get to work on the real thing. Higgins is expecting an Avion ad by five o'clock."
21
4:58 p.m.
Higgins lined up a putt into the electronic ball return as I strolled into his office carrying Glo-Jo’s ad layout.
I handed Higgins the layout and he stood motionless, staring at it. Finally he looked up.
“The headline: This pedal will test your mettle. I just don't know."
"You wanted a headline that grabbed attention," I said.
"Yes, but..."
"This pedal will test your mettle. Don't you get it?"
“I get it," Higgins said. "But I think it goes a little
too far."
"Too far?" How could the man back down from the direction he had given me just that morning? "What kind of headline would you suggest?"
"The headline on our last ad was: The family car that didn't forget the family."
"The family car that didn't forget the family? What the hell kind of headline is that?"
"You think it's dull?"
"Dull? That ad should carry a warning label against operating heavy machinery while reading it."
Higgins looked at the layout again. "I just think this ad is too strong."
"How about letting the client judge?"
"Okay, but give me an alternate. When this one goes up in flames, I want something to fall back on besides my ass."
"I'll write one. If you stick around, I’ll have it for you by six. But promise me you'll show him this ad first."
Higgins gave the layout one more look. "Yeah, sure."
I walked out hoping Higgins was a man of his word.
***
Next morning, I found Higgins at his office closet, carefully placing a blue blazer on a hanger.
"Just got back from the breakfast meeting." He smoothed the blazer with his free hand. "Your pedal, mettle ad hit the rocks."
"Don't tell me," I said, "Murphy didn't get it."
"He got it. He just doesn't think the public will."
"Apparently Murphy doesn’t give the public credit for having intelligence. He wants to spoon feed information...and that makes for dull ads."
"Don’t get upset. He loved the other ad you wrote."
"That's not the point. I wrote that ad to give Murphy a choice. It's nowhere near as good as the one Bob Roy wrote."
"Well that's the one the client's going with."
"Let me see that ad...the second one."
Higgins reached into the briefcase on his desk and retrieved the layout. I took it and scanned the copy.
"What's the matter?" Higgins asked.
"I wrote this last night with one eye on the clock. Maybe I can't change the headline, but I can make damn sure the copy is the best I can write. Let me brighten it up. I promise not to make any drastic changes that'll give Murphy a coronary."
“Let me get this straight. Murphy bought your ad...and you’re unhappy?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t get it.”
I left Higgins scratching his head.
22
Wednesday, Oct. 13 -- Noon
No one needed a watch to pinpoint high noon at Big Norm’s. The crowded dining area and the li
ne at Willis’ maitre’d stand were as telling as any timepiece.
Ken Cunningham had suggested the lunch. When he heard of our mild disagreement over the Avion ad, he called Higgins and me into his office like a couple of quarreling school kids. He explained we had to work together now more than ever; he would be out of town frequently during the coming weeks. The agency’s major accounts needed assurance that the Adams & Benson Advertising Agency was solid enough to withstand the loss of the American Vehicle Corporation business, if it came. He recommended a peace-making lunch, on him.
Ken was right, of course. I decided to try my best to convince Higgins I didn’t consider him a tasteless bore. With a smile as wide as it was phony, I made small talk while we waited for a table.
"Until I was here the other day, I'd forgotten how much I missed Detroit's restaurants," I said as we finally got to our table.
"What convinced you to come back?" Higgins asked. "The challenge...money?" He seemed to be trying, too.
"Neither, really. It was just time to face the fact that my marriage has been over nearly five years.”
Finding the topic uncomfortable, I shifted gears. "What about you? What brought you to the Motor City?"
"I was born here. Grew up twenty miles from downtown Detroit, in Royal Oak. Went to Brother Rice High School."
"And played football?"
"It put me through college. But I studied too." He added the last almost defensively. "My parents made sure both my sister and I hit the books hard.”
“You have a sister?”
“Patricia.” Higgins paused, then: “She and Darren Cato were engaged.”
“Darren Cato?”
Higgins must have noticed the surprise in my voice. He hesitated, but knew he had gone too far to stop. “Turned out Cato wasn’t really serious. He broke the engagement and it took Pat months to get over him. She admitted later that she cried almost every night.”
“I can empathize. My marriage wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”
“Yeah, well, the hell of it is, I introduced them. Pat’s married now, with a couple of nice kids. But I never forgave Cato for the pain he caused.
“That’s where that remark about Cato’s sunglasses and a certain orifice of his body came from,” Higgins said. The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I just want you to know that I’m not entirely insensitive.”
With that, he picked up one of the two menus in front of him and handed it to me.
“I can recommend the seafood. The catch of the day is always fresh."
A waiter appeared, reeled in two orders of broiled pickerel, the catch du jour, and headed for the kitchen. As our conversation continued, I actually found myself enjoying Higgins' company. For a moment I thought, maybe just maybe, I had misjudged him. But then, like a jaguar lurking in the brush, he steered the conversation back to the AVC account.
"Okay, let's talk shop for a minute," he said. “It's important we reach an understanding on a couple of points."
"Shoot." Shoot? I felt like shooting him. I could feel this conversation taking on the tone of a one-sided lecture.
"As you noticed on your 'pedal mettle' ad, our client John Murphy is pretty conservative."
Conservative? How about afraid of his own shadow? "But what if a concept that seems out of the ordinary sells cars?" I asked.
"Murphy's not about to take chances because some off-beat approach might win your group an award for so-called creativity."
That did it. The suggestion that I’d choose personal glory over selling a client's product was pure BS. “I'm not talking about awards," I shot back. "You know damn well the most effective advertising is created when rules are broken."
"Not as long as I run the AVC account."
"You may run the account, but I've been hired to create the advertising. I can’t do it if you tie my hands."
I bit my tongue as the waiter arrived with our meals. He might as well have left the food in the kitchen; my appetite had vanished. The argument hadn't put a dent in Higgins’ appetite. Fork in one hand, knife in the other, the jerk made like a dust-hungry Hoover.
I decided to try one more time. "Why not let the client decide, instead of dictating what you’ll show him?"
Higgins took another bite. "I don't want you wasting time on ads that never see the light of day."
"I'm more than happy to take the risk."
"Easy for you. You don't have to account for expenses. Your little creative group gets paid whether they spend time on solid ideas or mental masturbation."
Little creative group? Mental masturbation?
"Look, Higgins, you run the business part of the account." Now on my feet, I threw the napkin on the table. "But Ken Cunningham hired me to run the creative. Let's leave it to him. If he thinks I'm not cutting it, he can damn well assign me somewhere else. Is that clear?"
I stormed from the restaurant knowing that if Higgins had his way, that reassignment would have me sorting mail the rest of my career.
23
12:31 p.m.
Back at the agency, I found the lobby deserted except for Marlene, the friendly brunette at the receptionist's desk. Even the second and third floor offices overlooking the huge arena were vacant.
My security key opened the elevator door on the sixth floor. Stepping into the hallway I nearly got bowled over by a large man in a business suit carrying a briefcase and doing a hell of an impression of a run-away water buffalo.
"Hey, watch it!” I peppered him with a few epithets questioning his ancestry, but stopped when I realized my words bounced off him like I had. He just kept speed walking toward the VanBuhler side of the floor. I realized then he had had a strong odor of alcohol about him, whiskey probably.
As I watched him disappear around the curve of the hallway, my anger changed to suspicion. What the hell was a stranger doing on the sixth floor?
***
My suspicions leaped a giant step forward when Matt Carter called.
"Darcy, the Avion submaster is missing."
"You're kidding."
"I had the DVD hidden in my credenza under a couple of Ampere layouts. I've asked everyone. No one's seen it."
I told Carter about my encounter with the heavyset man. Since the floor was off limits to anyone without a key, he had to be a prime suspect.
"Let's pay the VanBuhler team a visit," Carter said.
I considered the idea, but thought better of it. "We’ll sure look stupid if we're wrong.”
Then I got an idea myself. I called Paul Chapman, describing the buffalo who nearly ran me over in the hallway.
Chapman recognized him. "J. R. Roland. Started yesterday. He's another of those VanBuhler guys from D. C."
"Why would he be on our side of the sixth floor?"
"Maybe he got lost."
Maybe. But what about the disappearing DVD? I decided it might be wise to visit VanBuhler headquarters after all.
24
5:55 p.m.
My Ampere creative team would be working well into the night, but the VanBuhler people were a different story. By five-thirty you could fire a cannon through their side of the building without hitting anyone.
If I were going to explore enemy territory, now was the time. I walked out into the corridor, moving slowly toward the elevators that divided the two sides of the floor. I paused there, facing the doors as if waiting for the next car. I glanced to my right, down the carpeted corridor toward the offices of the VanBuhler staff.
The hallway proved deserted, so I made my move, walking quickly to the right. A couple of butterflies were playing chicken in my stomach; I was entering an area off-limits to everyone but VanBuhler staffers. What would happen if I were caught? Would I be fired? Probably not. At this point, I was too valuable to the agency. But there would be a severe reprimand, not to mention the sheer embarrassment.
I saw people in very few of the offices I passed, and fortunately they were too intent on their work to notice me. As I walked, I
read the names of office occupants printed on cards inside metal frames at the right of each door. I had no idea where Roland's office was, but prayed I’d find it soon -- and empty.
Passing the fifth door, I saw Roland's name just ahead. I strolled past the open door, sneaking a glance inside.
Empty.
I walked back and peered in. The far wall was a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Jefferson Avenue winding its way east. A simple metal desk sat to the right of the door, nothing on it. Bare walls added to the Spartan appearance.
I darted inside. The search took seconds: three drawers on the right of Roland's desk, a large flat one in the front. I found a half empty fifth of whiskey in the bottom drawer, aside from that, nothing. Not a pencil, a pen, not even a paper clip. Roland traveled light.
If the DVD wasn't here, where was it? Maybe Roland passed it on to Robert Bacalla, the man Chapman said was in charge of the VanBuhler group. Back in the hallway, I decided to delve further into VanBuhler country. As I approached the office two doors down, I noticed the card outside the door read, "R. M. Bacalla." Was he in? My heart beat faster, the butterflies in my stomach now doing somersaults. The door stood wide open; I decided to reprise my tactic of walking by and glancing in without stopping.
The office proved empty. I turned back and went in. The room seemed twice the size of Roland's, and from the leather chairs and sofa to the colorful prints on the walls, it had been luxuriously furnished. The view of Jefferson Avenue from the floor-to-ceiling window behind the large oak desk mirrored the scene from Roland's office.
I noticed a closet to my left, door ajar. Approaching it, I heard voices in the hallway. Two men. What if they came in? I opened the closet door and slipped inside, pulling it shut behind me. In the darkness I heard the voices growing louder, then trailing off.
I opened the door a crack and looked around.
No one.
My pulse racing, I pushed the door open. As the inside of the closet lightened, I noticed a leather holster on a belt hanging from a hook to my left. I removed the belt and holster from the hook, unsnapped the flap on top of the holster, and looked inside.
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