by Mike Brogan
“I owe you caffeine.” She handed him a cup.
“Thanks. I need it.”
His smile hit her like a sonic boom. She nearly forget what she’d come for.
“What’s up?”
“Karla Rasmussen.”
“What about her?”
“How’d she get along with my dad?”
He paused a moment. “Better with him than with most people. But recently, she was quite upset with him.”
“Because he planned to vote against the ComGlobe merger?”
“Yeah. Karla wants the merger, probably because it would greatly increase the value of her company stock.”
“For her, money comes first?”
“Second and third, too. If the merger passes, the IPO would net her a five or six times stock split. Maybe more! I’m guessing she’d pocket tens of million of dollars.”
That’s strong motivation, Madison thought.
“So when you told the board you plan to vote against the merger, you made her very unhappy.”
“She practically hissed. What about you? Do you favor the merger?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because ComGlobe treats the mergee employees like the bankruptcies treated auto workers.”
“Like crap!”
“Yeah, it’s merge, purge and outsource. Nine million good-paying American jobs have been outsourced forever. Congress sees nothing wrong with that!”
“Maybe we should outsource Congress!”
Kevin smiled. “Like Mark Twain said, ‘Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. Ah .. but I repeat myself”
They laughed. She liked the sound of his laughter.
Madison decided to ask him the big question. “So, do you think Rasmussen is capable of arranging my dad’s fake suicide so the merger would pass?”
As Kevin considered the question, Madison looked out the window as a fiery red Manhattan morning sun burned off the night sky. Two white gulls rode the wind currents between the buildings then turned and glided off toward the East River ... the river where her father....
“Karla is tough, Madison, even ruthless sometimes. But that ruthless? I just don’t know.”
She nodded and stood up. “Thanks, Kevin. I really appreciate your thoughts.”
“Any time.”
As she walked away from his office, she again wondered whether Rasmussen was behind the plot to oust her father. The woman had motive. He was blocking the merger that would give her the two things she wanted most: money and power.
And speaking of power, Kevin’s eyes were like powerful beacons that seemed to draw her in. And if, as those poets say, the eyes mirror the soul, his soul was in great shape, not unlike the rest of him.
But, she cautioned herself, you were seduced by blue eyes in handsome faces once before and paid dearly for it.
Ease up, woman! Now!
Fifteen
Karla Rasmussen sat at her desk, thinking about Madison’s surprise when she discovered the ComGlobe folder was missing from the file cabinet.
Obviously, Madison wanted to search the folder for any clue her father had left about his accuser.
It’s also obvious, Rasmussen thought, that she suspects I’m the accuser. Maybe that I staged his suicide.
Sorry, Madison, but you won’t find any incriminating notes against me in the ComGlobe file.
Because you won’t find it.
And, you won’t find enough votes to stop the ComGlobe merger.
Like her father, Madison didn’t realize how many directors wanted the money from the merger now!
Directors like me. Unlike you, Madison, I’ve paid my dues! And the ComGlobe merger money is my payback.
Rasmussen thought ahead to the IPO sale of her Turner stock after the merger. Her stock could bring her as much as nineteen million dollars. A most pleasing sum.
She leaned back in her leather chair, smoothed out her red scarf and thought back to when she first discussed the ComGlobe merger with Mark McKean. He flat out refused to merge.
“We’ll have to resign some clients and dismiss a lot of employees...”
“It’s just business,” she’d said. “All other industries are experiencing consolidation. AOL grabbed Time Warner, Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp grabbed The New York Times. Macy’s gobbled up Marshall Field’s and Filine’s. Consolidation is inevitable.”
But no, his mind was made up. He refused to reconsider his decision. That enraged her. Business was war. Mark McKean simply didn’t get that.
So she’d decided that he was no longer competent to run the company in the years ahead. The job required someone with vision, someone who saw the big picture and was tough enough to steward the company in the future. Someone who understood the necessity of the ComGlobe merger.
Mark McKean had been her roadblock.
Now his daughter was.
Her phone rang. Caller ID said, Harry Burkett.
Sixteen
Madison watched Karla Rasmussen cross her arms over her chest and frown with obvious contempt at the document in front of her. “It’s very weak!”
“It’s strong and balanced,” said Alison Whitaker, the Director of Account Services. “Exactly the media plan this new DietRxx product needs.”
Madison tended to agree with Whitaker, whose olive blouse complemented her pale-blue eyes and brown hair. Madison had come to the meeting to learn more about DietRxx, a new weight-loss pill, but also to get a closer look at Karla Rasmussen.
They sat at a lacquered rosewood conference table along with the agency team working on the DietRxx business.
“We need more television,” Rasmussen said, “to build awareness of DietRxx!”
“We already have a heavy television schedule,” Whitaker shot back.
“Says who?”
“Says outside research! The same research that says we need direct marketing to crank up early sales fast!”
Madison knew that both women presented valid arguments. The question always was: which medium would give the client the most sales bang for their advertising buck? Was it big network television? Cable? Direct Marketing? Newspapers? Radio? Magazines? Internet? Social media? The answer, Madison knew, was usually a smart mix of media.
But smart often was decided by the most dominant person in the group. A person like Karla Rasmussen.
“Chop 40 percent off direct marketing and dump that money into TV!” Rasmussen said.
“Too late,” Whitaker said.
“It’s never too late!”
“Meg’s already committed her media budgets.”
“She can un-commit them!”
Whitaker took a deep breath and let it out. “She can’t, Karla! She’s signed the media buys last week.”
Red-faced, Rasmussen slammed her thick day planner down on the table. “Meg can goddammed well un-sign them!”
Whitaker rolled her eyes as though she was talking to a four-year-old.
Madison sensed this was not the first time these two determined women had locked horns. Nor did it appear to be the first time Karla had entertained this group with a hissy-fit tantrum.
Alison turned and smiled at Madison. “Madam Chairwoman, it must comfort you to know that all your executives think alike.”
Everyone smiled except Rasmussen.
“It comforts me that you don’t think alike,” Madison said.
“I agree. But do you feel familiar enough with this plan to share your perspective with us?” Whitaker asked.
“No. But that’s never stopped me before.”
More smiles.
“Based on my ad experience with Pfizer,” Madison said, “this media mix seems pretty well-balanced. My only suggestion is to see if the client can scrape up some extra money from non-marketing budgets to buy a bit more TV and direct marketing.”
“Makes sense,” Whitaker said, checking her watch. “But right now we have to give up this conference room. There’s a client meeting in he
re in five minutes.”
Everyone stood and filed out of the room.
In the hallway, Madison saw Whitaker walking toward the elevator. Whitaker had known her father a long time and Madison wondered if she had any thoughts about who’d accused him.
“Alison, do you have a moment?”
Whitaker turned and smiled. “Sure. Actually, I was wondering if you had some free time today?”
“I have some now.”
Moments later, they entered Madison’s office and settled themselves into two beige leather chairs facing a table covered with issues of Advertising Age, ADWEEK and The Wall Street Journal. Madison was delighted to see her father’s family photo back on his desk. She was also pleased to see his 1902 Oliver typewriter, a treasured gift from his grandfather, back in its rightful place in the corner. Having her father’s things nearby comforted her ... made her feel like he was close by ... watching over her.
“Your dad would have been proud of you in yesterday’s board meeting,” Whitaker said, brushing back her thick brown hair.
“Thank you, Alison.” Madison appreciated the compliment from someone with Whitaker’s credentials.
“You looked calm, but I sensed you were a little nervous.”
“Arrid doesn’t make enough deodorant.”
Whitaker smiled, but then her eyes grew serious. “Actually, I wanted to discuss something you mentioned in our follow-up board meeting.”
Madison hoped she meant the e-mail accusing her father.
“The ComGlobe merger,” Whitaker said. “Last night, I changed my mind. I’ve decided to vote like you, against the ComGlobe merger.”
Madison was delighted. “Thank you. But what changed your mind?”
“Your father’s arguments. The more I thought about them, the more sense they made. Like him, I think we can find a better merger candidate than ComGlobe.”
“I agree. And your vote now gives us a more comfortable margin of two.”
Whitaker looked down at the carpet. “Not any more.”
Madison felt her chest tighten.
“Inga Kruger changed her mind.”
“She’s going to vote for the merger?”
Whitaker nodded.
“So our margin’s down to one again.”
Again, Whitaker looked away, then slowly shook her head.
Madison didn’t want to hear this.
“Someone else,” Whitaker said, “who’s been against the merger is apparently going to vote for it.”
“My God, the merger could pass! Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But how’d you learn this?”
“I received an anonymous e-mail two hours ago. I tried to trace it, but the sender used one of those proxy addresses they get from the Internet.”
Just like the proxy e-mail sent to my father, Madison thought.
“Sorry to bring you such bad news.”
“Better now, while we still might be able do something.”
Madison felt nauseated. “But even if the directors tell me they’re voting against the merger, there’s no guarantee they will. As you know, our corporate bylaw says major decisions affecting the future ownership of the company will be decided by a majority of the directors’ votes, whose votes shall be unsigned.”
Whitaker nodded. “Your father wanted directors to vote their honest preference, without undue influence by him or others.”
“Yes, he told me that.”
“So, if a director tells us they’re voting against the merger, they can easily vote for it and we won’t know if he or she did.”
Madison nodded and looked out the window a few moments.
“Well, Madison,” Whitaker glanced at her watch. “I’m late for a World Motors meeting. Let’s continue this discussion later.”
“Just give me a call.”
As Madison watched her leave, the phone rang and she picked up.
Christine said, “I have Kevin Jordan on the line for you.”
She picked up. “Hi Kevin. What’s up?”
“Dean Dryden just called. He was able to get into our company financial files and search for the missing $8.7 million.”
“What’d he say?”
“That we had to see him right away.”
“Why?”
“He started to tell me, but then his phone went dead.”
* * *
From the lobby, Harry Burkett watched Madison and Kevin eat chili dogs they’d bought from a street vendor, then grab a taxi and drive off.
Burkett flipped open his untraceable cell phone and dialed a number. It rang several times and he was tossed into voice mail.
He left a message saying that McKean and Jordan were heading back to the yacht at the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin.
Then he hung up and remembered that Eugene P. Smith had said he might visit the yacht.
Perhaps he already had.
Seventeen
Madison and Kevin sat on frayed seat covers in the old Yellow Cab heading toward Dean Dryden’s yacht. She found herself overwhelmed by the scent of garlic reeking from three fat salami rolls hanging from the rearview mirror. She cracked her window to breathe fresh air, but got bus fumes.
Several minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop near the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin and they got out. As they walked down the pier toward the yacht, she wondered why Dean had wanted to see them so urgently. Had he found the missing $8.7 million? And why hadn’t he called back after his phone disconnected? Kevin had phoned him twice but got nothing, not even voicemail.
As they stepped onto the deck of The Mad Hatteras, Kevin leaned into the main cabin and shouted, “Dean!”
No response.
“Yo, DEAN!”
Still no response. They entered the cabin and she saw Dean’s four large computer screens glowing in the dark, but no sign of Dean. The haunting melody of Bolero flowed from small Bose speakers.
“I’ll check the staterooms,” Kevin said, heading down the stairs.
Madison walked behind the computers and stepped further into the shadows. Her heart rate kicked up a notch when she noticed magazines scattered on the floor, a wastebasket tipped over, and steam swirling from a coffee cup.
“Hey, Dean...?”
Nothing.
Bolera was reaching its crescendo ... and so were her nerves. Then, in the shadowy corner she saw a man in a camouflage jacket lying on the floor.
She hurried over....
Only a duffle bag, for crissakes!
She breathed out.
Suddenly, behind her ... footsteps.
She spun around and saw blue tennis shoes hit the rear deck. Dean.
He walked inside with a grocery bag, took out a large pastry box and opened it.
“Anyone for Cinnabons?”
Madison smiled. “Cinnabons. My secret weapon! I had an impossible client who never bought anything. One day, I brought Cinnabons to the meeting. He scarfed down three, turned pink and bought every ad we put in front of him. Tried to buy our wall painting!”
Dean laughed as Kevin stepped back into the main cabin.
“Hey, why didn’t you call me right back?”
“Couldn’t. My phone bounced off the deck into the river when I was talking to you.”
“Klutz!”
“Yeah, but this is what I was so hot to show you guys.” Dean hurried them over to a computer.
Madison stared at a screen filled with numbers.
“You’re looking at Turner Advertising’s financial records for this fiscal year,” Dean said. “I studied them five ways from Sunday.”
“And?” Kevin said.
“Absolutely nothing’s out of the ordinary.”
“No misappropriated money?” Madison asked.
“Not a dime.”
“Did you check the company 401K funds?”
“Yep. No money missing.”
“What about previous years?”
Dean nodded. “I went back over the last tw
elve years with the help of two numbers geeks who work for me. We used some new sophisticated accounting software that we helped develop for the U.S. military’s General Accounting Office. Again, we found no hint of missing money. No funny numbers. Nothing!”
Relieved, Madison scanned the maze of numbers. “But how can you be so certain?”
“We’re not talking intricate Enron-type-cooking-the-books games here. As Kevin explained to me, most ad agencies today work with their clients on an hourly fee basis, or on performance-based compensation. But some big agencies, like Turner Advertising, still work with your large clients on the traditional commission-based compensation. For example, Turner tells NBC to run a commercial for your World Motors client. So NBC runs the commercial, then sends a bill for the commercial time to World Motors. When World Motors pays the bill, NBC sends a commission check to you at Turner Advertising. That all figures out to the penny.”
“What about our hourly fee-based clients?” Madison asked.
“They also checked out.”
Madison felt another wave of relief wash through her.
“So that’s your revenue,” Dryden said, pointing to another screen. “And here’s how your agency spends it. Fifty-five percent goes to employee and management salaries; twenty percent to rent, facilities and maintenance; twenty-two percent to profit and three percent to new business development. That’s what happened. The numbers vary slightly from year to year, but they balance out.”
“So how could they accuse my father of misappropriating $8.7 million?”
“Good question,” Dryden said.
“And where did the $8.7 million deposited in his name into Caribe National come from?”
“Even better question.”
“Was the $8.7 transferred back to the Turner’s RSQ Citibank account like the e-mailer demanded?”
“No.”
“So the money may still be in the Caribe National Bank?”
“It may.”
Madison stared at the screen in silence for several moments. “I’m going to visit the bank and find out who the real depositor was.”
“Won’t be easy,” Dryden said. “Most of these offshore bankers would eat their firstborn before divulging information about a protected account. But the account is in your father’s name and you are his surviving daughter. So who knows, you might persuade a Caribe National banker to share some information with you.”
