by Mike Brogan
MADISON’S AVENUE
Also by Mike Brogan
Business to Kill For
Dead Air
MADISON’S AVENUE
Mike Brogan
Lighthouse Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
Copyright © 2010 by Mike Brogan
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-0-692-00634-4 (Hardcover)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009939595
Printed in the United States of America
Published in the United States by Lighthouse Publishing
Cover design: Lynn Richmond and Paul Streitz
Adaptation: David Ryan
First Edition
For Kate and Emmett,
my parents.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many have made this book possible. Especially all you advertising professionals in the United States and in Europe who over the years have provided me an abundance of unforgettable experiences and characters to draw upon in writing Madison’s Avenue. Some of the events in this story actually happened. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Special thanks also to my writing colleagues: Shamus Award winner Loren D. Estleman, and distinguished writers like Frank Wydra, Pete Barlow, Phil Rosette, Len Charla, Jim O’Keefe, Annick Hivert-Carthew, and friends like John and Mary Ann Verdi-Huss. Your helpful comments, suggestions and guidance have helped make this story better.
And finally, thanks to my wife, children, friends who expand greatly the meaning of patience.
One
BOSTON
Madison McKean checked her list. Two more client matters and she was done for the day. First, she had to reassure a nervous client that the jogging bra advertisement would run in the marathon section of Sunday’s Boston Globe. Then, she’d review some rough-cut television commercials for Norwegian Skin Care Products before tomorrow’s presentation.
As the account director on Norwegian Products, a major client at Boston’s CPR Advertising agency, Madison was responsible for all aspects of the Norwegian Products advertising. And her recent promotion to Group Account Director had made her responsible for some other agency clients as well. It was a lot of work, at times overwhelming, but she loved it.
Suddenly, she remembered Hanna and Emily, her new copywriter and art director team. It was their first day on the job and she’d been too busy to see how they were doing. She hurried down the hall and leaned into their joined cubicle.
“So, by now you two have probably whipped up some fantastic ads for Lunch Munchies, right?” Madison said, smiling. They smiled back, but their smiles faded fast.
Madison sensed something was wrong. “Problems?”
“Sorta,” Hanna said.
“Like?”
“Like our first assignment. It’s not Lunch Munchies. It’s weird!”
“Why weird?”
“Because Mr. Kasdan, the creative director, and his associate asked us to work on that … new Norwegian product.”
Madison hadn’t heard anything about any new Norwegian product, and as account director she would know. Her antenna went on prank alert.
“What strange new product?”
Hanna and Emily seemed surprised that she didn’t know.
“Well, you know about Norwegian’s feminine hygiene spray.…” Hanna said.
Madison nodded.
“Well, they told us that Norwegian is introducing a hygiene spray for men. A genital spray. They want us to name it and come up with a theme line for it.”
Madison’s laugh exploded from her mouth.
“Excuse me, but there is no new Norwegian male genital spray.”
“What?”
“The boys were putting you on, initiating you new girls.”
Hanna and Emily blushed, then began to laugh.
“That’s too bad,” Hanna said.
“Why?”
“We came up with a cool name and theme.”
“For a male genital spray?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Umpire … for Foul Balls!”
Madison buckled over with laughter and had to steady herself on a nearby chair. “I love it! Stick that line over the photo of a male crotch, then show those bozos!”
They smiled.
Suddenly, Madison sensed someone behind her. Turning, she saw Elaine, her assistant, looking concerned.
“Your father’s on your private line,” Elaine whispered. “He says it’s very urgent.”
Her father, Mark McKean, didn’t make urgent calls. He hadn’t made one to her since the day her mother died six years ago. Madison excused herself, hurried down to her office and grabbed the phone.
“Dad…?”
“Sorry to interrupt, Madison. But I.…” He sounded short of breath. “I still can’t believe it!”
“Believe what?”
“Someone at my agency sent me an anonymous e-mail accusing me of misappropriating 8.7 million dollars of company money. It’s absolutely preposterous!”
She was stunned. “Of course it is.” Her father, chairman and CEO of Turner Advertising in Manhattan, was the most ethical man she’d ever known.
“I haven’t taken a dime! Ever!”
“I believe you.”
“Our CFO just checked all agency financial records. There’s not one red cent missing anywhere.”
“You’re fighting this?”
“With everything I’ve got! But the memo demands that I resign now. I wanted you to hear all this from me, and not through the agency grapevine, or worse, the newspapers.”
“Any idea who’s behind this?”
He paused. “No, but the $8.7 million figure seems familiar. I saw it somewhere in the company recently. In someone’s office, I think. On a file, or computer maybe. But there’s so much happening so fast, I can’t remember where. I’m even concerned my office phone may be tapped. That’s why I’m calling you on my cell phone.” Her dad, always coolheaded and unflappable, sounded very anxious.
“Dad, listen, I’m taking the next flight home tonight.”
“That’s not necessary, Madison.”
“I’m coming. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
He took a deep breath.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
No response.
“Dad, what the hell’s going on there?”
“I’m not sure. Just be damn careful, Madison, please!”
“Dad…?”
The phone connection went dead.
Two
The Yellow Cab inched through evening traffic on Manhattan’s Park Avenue. Her father still wasn’t answering his cell phone, or his office and apartment phones. Madison was growing concerned.
In Central Park, she passed a horse-drawn carriage with an attractive bride and groom. Madison smiled at them and they smiled back, which reminded her that tonight her father would once again ask if she was dating anyone special. And once again she’d tell him no, say she was just too busy. She would not mention that she hadn’t even been looking for Mr. Special for more than two years.
Ahead, she saw her father’s corner apartment building and thought back to the day he moved into it five years ago, just months after her mother’s death. He’d complained that their family home in Larchmont had become too quiet without Kate fussing around the kitchen. He’d really meant too painful.
So he purchased the Manhattan apartment at Seventy-Sixth and Central Park West, and as usual buried himself in work at his agency – an agency
he’d transformed over the last thirty-two years from a tiny creative boutique into a powerhouse advertising network with blue-chip multinational clients and offices in twenty-six countries.
She was proud of his achievements, but she still felt their caustic effect at times. His sixteen-hour workdays, working weekends, and constant business travel had left little time for her and her younger brother, Thaddeus, as they were growing up. Even when her father was home, he was often working at his desk. Even when he was chatting with her, she could tell he was thinking of agency matters. And it had hurt.
The disturbing thing was that she was becoming him. She was working crazy hours, traveling on business, working late at home and on weekends in the office.
But the difference was, her long hours weren’t hurting anyone.
Yet someone was trying to hurt her father. And destroy everything he’ d achieved.
The taxi rolled to a stop in front of his charming old building. She liked its red marble walkway under the canopy, the white bricks arching like halos over the windows and the pink azaleas hanging from the penthouse roof garden. She paid the driver and hurried through the entrance as an elderly couple she recognized held the door open for her. She thanked them, took the elevator up to her father’s floor and headed down toward his apartment.
At his door, she saw a man presumably chatting with her dad inside. The slender man in his mid-forties wore a dark suit, shirt and tie, and thick-soled black shoes buffed to a military shine. His narrow face was dominated by large dark eyes, thick brows and black hair combed straight back off a high forehead.
He turned toward her. “Do you live here?”
His tone made her heart beat faster.
“No. My father does. I’ve just arrived from Boston. Why?”
He blinked, looked away a moment, then slowly turned back. “I’m Detective Pete Loomis, ma’am,” he said softly, showing her his gold and blue NYPD badge. “And this is Detective Archie Doolin.” A fiftyish, sandy-haired man stepped from her father’s apartment, nodded at her, then quickly looked at Loomis.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
Detective Loomis hesitated. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your father appears to have had an ... accident.”
Madison stopped breathing.
“Thirty minutes ago,” Loomis continued, “we found an empty rowboat on the East River just off Clinton Street. In the boat was a suit coat with your father’s wallet in the inside pocket.”
Madison felt her knees buckle.
“We haven’t found him yet. But we found this on the kitchen table.” Loomis handed her a folded sheet of gray paper.
Dad’s stationery!
She caught her breath, unfolded the note and began to read.
Madison, Thad,
Please forgive me for what I’m about to do. But recent baseless accusations that I mentioned this afternoon, and other outrageous insinuations have simply overwhelmed me. Being forced to resign over these vicious and false assertions is more than I choose to bear, or more importantly, have you bear. I refuse to have our family name, and your names, destroyed by cruel lies in the media.
I wish there was another way, believe me, but there isn’t. I love you both, far more than I’ve ever told you, so please, I beg you, find it in your hearts somehow, someday, to forgive me.
Your loving father
“Is this your father’s handwriting?” Detective Loomis whispered.
Clinging to consciousness, she slumped against the wall, tears filling her eyes, and nodded.
* * *
Outside on Seventy-Sixth Street, Harry Burkett, a muscular man in a dark Lincoln, leaned close to the rearview mirror and checked for cops. He saw none.
Burkett reached into a bag of salted red pistachios, crammed some into his mouth and licked the salt from his fingers.
Suddenly, a shadow moved across Mark McKean’s apartment window. Burkett cranked up the volume on the laser eavesdropping device. He’d heard every word of the conversation between McKean’s daughter and the two cops.
Obviously, she’d flown in from Boston because her old man had told her what was happening at Turner Advertising. Did he also tell her who he suspected was behind everything? Probably.
The daughter was a problem.
But every problem has a solution, Burkett thought, looking down at his SIG-Sauer 9mm.
Three
Madison felt the two detectives easing her down into her father’s favorite chair. Her mind was reeling, her eyes blurring. She struggled to remain conscious.
“Some water, Ms. McKean?” Detective Loomis asked.
She managed to nod, trying to focus through hot tears on her father’s suicide note.
How could you do this?
How could you do this to Thaddeus and me?
“We’re very sorry, Ms. McKean,” Loomis said. Detective Doolin handed her a glass of water and she tried to sip some, but her throat closed shut. Cold perspiration dampened her skin and she forced herself to take several deep breaths. Finally, she dabbed her eyes and looked up at the two somber-faced detectives.
“What happened...?”
Loomis flipped open a small notebook. “An NYU coed was jogging in East River Park around six thirty. As she ran along the dock, she heard something bump it. She looked and saw it was an empty rowboat, just kinda drifting in the water. The boat had a man’s suit jacket folded on the seat. She saw no one in the boat, or in the water, or on the dock. So she became worried, afraid someone had fallen in. She called 911 on her cell phone. We got there six minutes later. As we pulled the boat to shore, a big wave hit and the jacket fell in the water, but we pulled it right out. In the inside pocket, we found ... your father’s wallet.”
No....
“We assumed he might have slipped and fallen overboard. But when we got back here, we found this note.”
She looked back at the note, her eyes blurring. Impossible! Dad would not write this. He would never take his own life. He was always positive and upbeat, even when times were bad.
She turned to Detective Loomis. “This afternoon my father was extremely upset over something at work.”
“Over what?”
“Someone there falsely accused him of stealing 8.7 million dollars from his own company and was forcing him to resign.”
“Is that what he meant in this note by these ‘recent accusations’?”
“Yes.”
“The allegations obviously pushed him over the edge.”
She shook her head. “No, Detective. My father would never take his life. Certainly not over a bogus allegation or a forced resignation. Never!”
“But his note says he did.”
“But that note ... it’s simply not him!”
“Even though it’s his handwriting?
She studied the writing’s slant, the deep-loop g’s. “Yes, it’s his writing.”
Loomis stared at her as though she couldn’t face reality.
“Maybe,” she said, “he confronted his accuser....”
Loomis blinked. “And then the accuser forced him to write this suicide note, and killed him?”
She nodded.
Loomis flipped a page in his notepad. “But a resident here, a Mr. Lawrence Gardner, saw him go up to his apartment alone tonight. Later, the building surveillance video shows your father leaving alone.”
Her throat felt like it might close off permanently. She looked out the large window at Central Park. Darkness had descended on their tree, the huge, sprawling oak that she and her father often gazed at from this same room. The tree soared heavenward, spreading its long, leafy branches wide as though drinking in large gulps of air. They’d called it their ‘Wishing Tree.’
Tonight, she only wished she’d wake up from this horrific nightmare.
“We have his wallet and coat down at the station. A personal identification of his effects would help. Do you feel up to it?”
“No. But let’s go....”
* * *
&nb
sp; Some fifteen minutes later, Loomis and Doolin led Madison into a small interrogation room in the NYPD Seventh Precinct station on Pitt Street. She glanced at herself in the room’s two-way window and was shocked by her appearance. Her light-brown, medium-length hair was tangled and hung down over her forehead. Brushing it back, she saw that her green eyes were rimmed with red. Mascara tears had streaked down her cheeks and stained the collar of her white blouse. Her charcoal suit was badly rumpled. She looked like she felt: numb, frightened, and very much alone.
She sat down at a wood table marred with scratches, cigarette burns and a coffee stain shaped like Florida. The air smelled like cigarettes and sweat. And although the room was warm, shivers crawled down her back.
“Would you like some coffee or water, Ms. McKean?” Loomis asked.
“No, thank you.”
A uniformed patrolman walked in and placed a large transparent bag on the table. He reached in and pulled out a soggy men’s blazer with a piece of seaweed on the lapel. River water trickled out of the sleeves.
Slowly, she opened the wet lapel and saw M J M, her father’s initials, stitched in dark blue on the inside pocket. He’d worn the blazer to their dinner two weeks ago in Boston. Our final minutes together....
“It’s his.”
“And this?” Detective Loomis placed a soaked wallet on the table.
“His.” She opened the wallet to his driver’s license. Next to it was a photo of their family – her mom, dad, brother and herself on a North Carolina beach six years ago. A terrific family vacation. Seven months later her mother died from pancreatic cancer.
Detective Doolin walked in and handed Loomis a sheet of paper.
Loomis read it, then turned toward her. “Your father’s fingerprints were on the rowboat oars.”
“How’d you find out so fast?”
“AFIS matched them to his prints as a Naval officer in Viet Nam.”
