They drove on another couple of blocks until Max said, “Okay, here we go,” and aimed the car into the drive-through of a Burger King. “Nothing a tasty flame-broiled Whopper can’t cure.”
“If I had to choose, I’d say I’m more partial to the Big Mac,” Afton said.
Max fairly chortled. “For years those guys have been trying to conjure up a Mac with mayo. What you’d call your Whopper stopper. So far it’s been a miserable failure.”
“I hear these guys are testing out a Whopper taco.”
“Bad idea,” Max said. “If I were their new product guru, I’d put the kibosh on that idea. You want a burger, you buy a burger. You want a taco, you head over to El Lancer in West Saint Paul and get the real deal.”
They got their burgers and Cokes, then sat in the parking lot eating. Nobody worried about messing up Max’s car. It was already a mosh pit of empty Pepsi and Red Bull cans, candy wrappers, dirty socks, hockey breezers, and various pieces of sports equipment. The aroma from all that mess was exactly what you’d think it would be, your basic eau de teenage boys.
“What’d you think about our meeting with Sunny?” Max asked as he popped a French fry into his mouth.
“I think it’s strange that she didn’t have any idea concerning her husband’s possible enemies,” Afton said. “Usually, the spouse of a victim or intended victim goes a little bit berserk. They make wild assertions, point fingers, see potential suspects lurking behind every rock.”
“Is it possible Sunny wants her husband dead?”
“You think?” Afton said.
“If she could profit from it, why not? Or if something else was going on. You never know what dark forces are at work in a marriage.” Max glanced at her. “You oughta know all about that—you’ve been divorced. Twice.”
“Thanks so much for reminding me.”
• • •
DIAMOND Drive was a narrow lane sandwiched between rows of silver maple trees. They were perfectly manicured, perfectly spaced, and must have been gorgeous when they flared red and orange in fall. Up ahead, the road widened to reveal a sprawling white building in a parklike setting. World headquarters for Diamond Shopping Network.
“This is a big-ass operation,” Max said.
“I looked them up online,” Afton said. “This building is something like eighty-five thousand square feet and houses the whole enchilada: three TV studios, all the executive offices and the buyers’ offices, a warehouse, and a call center.”
“Call center for . . . ?”
“It’s where customers call in and place their orders for stuff they don’t really need.”
“How much you think a company like this is worth?” Max asked.
“A shit load.”
Max pulled into a visitor’s parking spot right near the front door. “I mean, what’s it worth to the heirs?”
“Hundreds of millions?” Afton speculated. “Half a billion?”
“Exactly.”
“You think we’re going to find something here?”
“You never know,” Max said. “But we gotta look for some kind of thread. And then give it a tug and see where it leads.”
• • •
ANGUS Wagner, the general manager of DSN, met them at the front door.
“Welcome,” Wagner said. “Sunny called a little while ago and said you’d be dropping by.”
“Nice of her to call,” Max said. He made hasty introductions, and then Wagner led them to the front desk, where they signed in and were issued clip-on ID badges.
“Hell of a thing, isn’t it?” Wagner said. He was balding, round-shouldered, and slightly pear-shaped on the bottom. The cut of his bespoke suit was the only thing that saved him from being a dead ringer for Tweedledum. But his hangdog face was friendly and his tone carried great concern.
“You’re close to Mr. Odin?” Max asked.
“Close enough,” Wagner said. “Here at DSN we like to think of ourselves as a close-knit family. A lot of us were here from the very beginning, when we were just a small import company. We built this company together, and Mr. Odin has never forgotten that. We have a generous pension and profit-sharing plan in place, and employees receive very good benefits.”
“I assume that everyone who works here is aware of the helicopter crash last night?” Afton asked. “They know that Mr. Odin’s heart was lost?”
“They pretty much know,” Wagner said. “The rumors have been rampant, and folks have . . .” He checked himself and switched tack. “But I have to say I’m proud as hell that everyone is carrying on with nary a hiccup. There are a lot of good people here.”
“I’m sure there are,” Afton said. They were standing in a large lobby with a shiny white tile floor and white walls like an art gallery. On those walls were enormous color photos of Diamond Shopping Network hosts posing with some of the various products that DSN sold on air. Watches, colored cookware, bath gel, tins of brownie bites, fluffy towels.
“You’re here to ask questions?” Wagner asked. “Where do you want to start?”
“Actually, we’re on a fairly general fact-finding mission right now, so we’d like a tour of your place if that’s possible,” Max said. “Hopefully that will give us a feel for how things are run. Which, in turn, might prompt a few questions.”
“Fine,” Wagner said. “That’s just fine. If you want to follow me . . .”
He led them down a wide, carpeted hallway that featured an even more densely packed mosaic of DSN product photos.
“We might look like a big, complacent established conglomerate,” Wagner began. “But DSN is a company that runs lean and mean. We’re selective about the products and brands we sell, and if a product doesn’t perform, then it’s axed. There’s a very fine art to running a TV shopping network.”
“There is?” Afton said.
“Yeah, tell us about that,” Max said.
Wagner turned and squinted at them. “At DSN, direct-to-consumer marketing is a carefully orchestrated chain of events. We buy large amounts of excess inventory, get it on the air as fast as possible, and try to sell it at an irresistible price.”
“That’s your magic formula?” Max said. “Isn’t that what any smart retailer tries to do?”
“Not exactly,” Wagner said. “For one thing, DSN spills directly into our customers’ homes, so we literally insinuate ourselves into their living rooms and bedrooms. Our skillful on-air hosts use demos, explanations, and testimonials to build a high degree of trust and rapport and make DSN a truly personal shopping experience. And because our customers can’t actually see or touch the merchandise, there’s a critical psychology that comes into play.”
“What’s that?” Afton asked.
Wagner grinned. “For one thing, we need to sell the sizzle. We need to tell our customers exactly how a product feels, smells, and tastes. We have to give them an emotional rationale on how it will improve their lives and make them feel better. In other words, we give them a good, strong reason to buy. We strive to communicate what psychologists call permission to buy. DSN does this right down to the letter, and we do it very, very well.”
“This is fascinating stuff,” Afton said. She’d never thought about the psychology behind direct-response marketing before, and she decided it wasn’t all that different from the hucksters at the state fair who sold lemon juicers and Ginsu knives.
“Have you folks ever been in a studio before?” Wagner asked.
“Never,” Afton said, although she’d actually visited two different TV studios when she’d been invited to give quick sound bites for their evening news programs. “We’d love to see what goes on.”
“Follow me,” Wagner said. He led them down another wide corridor, where dozens of people buzzed about. They passed the wing where offices for all the various buyers were located, and then, as they drew closer to the actual studios, they peered into glass-walled control rooms. Afton also noted the hair-and-makeup studio, wardrobe room, and lounge for on-air hosts.
“And we can go into one of these studios?” Afton asked.
“Yes,” Wagner said. “Just remember that we’re live on the air. In fact, we’re always on air, twenty-four/seven. So try to be as quiet as possible.” He pulled open a door, there was a suck of cool air, and then they stepped into darkness.
Afton blinked. The studio was dimly lit and enormous, with a smooth polished floor, dozens of technicians moving cameras and dollies about, and hundreds of klieg lights hanging overhead. There were, in fact, three different sets. The set in the middle, what appeared to be a large frosted pink-glass desk that practically mimicked a counter at an upscale jewelry store, was lit with impossibly bright lights. A dark-haired woman sat there holding up various pieces of jewelry and talking animatedly into a camera. The other two sets were dark, but people in rubber-soled shoes hovered around them, presumably setting up for the next product presentation.
Wagner waved them forward. “Come on,” he whispered. “We can get closer if you’d like. Stand right behind Reggie, our floor director.”
Afton and Max crept closer and closer, until they were standing right behind the floor director. Reggie wore a set of headphones, held another set in his hands, and was dividing his time between two large color monitors and a computer console. The first monitor, Afton ascertained, was a direct feed from the camera that captured the show host doing her live on-air presentation. They were using a two-camera setup, cutting back and forth from close-ups to medium-wide shots. The second monitor was filled with all sorts of stats and numbers.
“That’s Fan Ling doing her presentation on Dreamweaver gold jewelry,” Wagner whispered in Afton’s ear. “Fan is one of our premier show hosts.”
Afton peered across the studio at Fan Ling. She was a beautiful young Chinese woman with fine almond eyes and a sweep of dark, lush hair. As petite as she was, her excitement could barely be contained as she cooed over a gold necklace with a moonstone pendant.
“And . . . we’re going to break in ten,” Reggie said into his microphone.
Fan Ling held up the necklace again, said a few more words, and then smiled winningly into the camera.
“And we’re out,” the floor director said.
On the monitor, a promo for next hour’s Confetti Cookware show began to play.
Reggie moved forward toward Fan Ling, who watched him approach with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “Watch the nipples, Fan,” he said. “We’re starting to show a little pink.”
Fan Ling gave a halfhearted tug at her low-cut black silk blouse, but didn’t seem to make any noticeable adjustment.
“Makeup,” she said. “Where is makeup?”
A young woman with frizzy red hair rushed onto the set and twirled a brush against Fan Ling’s cheek.
“Reggie,” Fan Ling said, a note of authority coloring her voice, “what have you heard about Leland?”
“Only that he’s still holding his own,” Reggie said.
Fan Ling pushed the makeup artist’s hand away from her face and peered at Reggie. “Do my eyes look red?”
Reggie shook his head. “No. You’re looking good. Everything’s reading great on camera.”
“You look gorgeous,” the red-haired woman practically drooled. Fan Ling turned her head and continued to ignore her.
“What’s the story with your on-air host?” Max asked from their spot behind the cameras and lights.
“Oh, you don’t know?” Wagner said. “Fan Ling is one of Mr. Odin’s discoveries. He was over in China, about a year ago on one of his buying trips. I think he was buying solar-powered garden lights from a repurposed Chinese tractor factory or something like that. Anyway, he got to this shit-hole factory town and apparently Fan Ling was the one bright spot on the entire landscape, the designated English-speaking cupcake. Fan Ling did the dutiful bowing and scraping thing, introduced Odin all around, and translated for him. She ended up ordering his meals, picking him up at his hotel, and sitting in on all his business meetings. She even helped with some of the negotiations, or so the story goes. Anyway, Fan Ling ended up coming back to the Twin Cities with Odin on a private jet.”
“Lucky girl,” Afton said.
“Four months later, after the voice coaches, makeup artists, and media experts were finished with her, she stepped out of the wings and onto the air,” Wagner said.
“Is she good?” Max asked.
Wagner gave a faint smile. “Just watch for a minute.”
They watched. Fan Ling was back on the air now. She slid a thick gold bangle onto her wrist, smiled brightly, and shook her wrist enticingly.
“Now take a look at this,” Wagner said. He poked a button on the second monitor and suddenly the entire call center appeared. The bank of over two hundred phones had just lit up and operators were bending their heads forward as calls poured in. Murmuring encouragement to customers, they typed credit card numbers and shipping information into their computer terminals as fast as they could.
“Jeez,” Max said. “There’s a shitload of women calling in to order that bracelet? Just off her little sales pitch?”
Wagner looked pleased. “She’s one of our best.”
“We need to talk to her,” Afton said.
“Not now you can’t,” Wagner said. “She’s live on air for four more hours.”
9
NARONG sat cross-legged on the floor of his hotel room in a half-lotus position. He’d just finished his meditation, a mindfulness of breathing exercise that calmed his thoughts and lowered his heart rate while still helping him sharpen his inner energies. He’d lit a stick of sandalwood, and now he relaxed as he inhaled the fragrant scent that reminded him so much of home. Of his small apartment on the Rat Buranda Road just a block from the Chao Phraya River.
His employer, Mom Chao Cherry, had no use for meditation, yet she enjoyed burning a special Chinese sandalwood incense. She was constantly lighting sticks of it and placing them before tiny little statues that she carried around in her designer handbags. Narong didn’t know if she was religious, looking for an ancestor to worship, or just a coked-up pseudo Buddhist.
It didn’t matter. They were here in America now, with a job to do, and he was determined to do it well.
When he was just a teenager, before his military service, Narong had worked for Mom Chao Cherry’s husband. Then the old man had been murdered in some sort of drug war. Narong had heard that Mom Chao Cherry had gone hysterical, pulling out her hair, slashing at her face, swearing to avenge her husband’s death.
And he guessed that she probably had, many times over. Mom Chao Cherry was Hi-So, or high society, which meant she had numerous connections with important people and government officials. She was even a personal friend of General Prayuth Chan-ocha, who’d staged a coup d’état in 2014. He was a powerful man who, with one simple order, could send battalions of soldiers into the jungle to wipe out an entire village or gang, or assassinate a drug lord. Or lock down an entire province.
Now Mom Chao Cherry was focused on this man Leland Odin, a man she claimed had stolen great wealth from her. And she was determined to exact revenge in her own careful and creative way.
Narong didn’t know how Mom Chao Cherry had learned about Leland Odin’s heart, but somehow she had. Her spy network, he supposed. Or perhaps even her business network. If you didn’t reside near a large port city, didn’t come into contact with manufacturing and shipping industries, you would never know that 420 million shipping containers crossed the world’s oceans every year. That accounted for billions and billions worth of baht, yuan, dollars, yen, drachmas, and euros. It also spun a huge world of contacts (some honest, most not), and led to an enormous degree of theft.
The killing would come soon, Narong thought as he smiled to himself. Drifting into a reverie about guns and soldiers, he was reminded of gun battles in the provinces of Yala and Pattani. Driven into a frenzy by the smell of cordite and blood, their army had fought off insurgents in the hot jungle.
After a while, there was
a knock on the door. Narong sprang to his feet and opened the door. Accepted a package delivered by a man in a brown uniform.
He carried the package to his bed and pulled off the wrapping paper. Opened the box and saw what was inside. There was a set of blue scrubs, a white coat, a stethoscope, and a university hospital ID. And something else that made Narong smile. A set of stainless steel surgical scalpels.
Yes, there was more work to be done. And soon.
10
THACKER was on the prowl. Like a jungle cat looking to sink his teeth into the neck of a nice, tasty springbok, he paced back and forth in the squad room. None of the detectives—or the staff, for that matter—wanted to be his next meal.
“I need information, people,” Thacker said in a driving, staccato voice. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He’d herded Max, Afton, Dick Dillon, and Andy Farmer into a small conference room again. The temperature in the room must have been eighty degrees, the building’s old boiler not seeming to be aware of the rising afternoon temps outside. The tension was palpable.
Thacker’s head swiveled like a periscope. “Max?”
Max cleared his throat. “We met with Odin’s wife, stepdaughter, attorney, and business partner. They all claimed to be clueless. They have no idea who might have been behind the attack on the helicopter.”
“Unacceptable,” Thacker said. “We need to interview each one separately.”
“What they did mention,” Max said, “were two potential buyers for DSN.”
“The Saudi company and who else?”
Max explained to Thacker, Dillon, and Farmer about Consolidated Sports.
“Dillon,” Thacker said, “see what you can find out about this company. Call up the CEO and take a meeting.”
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