Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  One minute later, she unlocked her father’s apartment door and froze. Furniture tipped over. Drawers yanked open, files scattered, cushions tossed, a blue Chinese vase shattered on the hardwood floor beneath the bay window.

  Suddenly, a loud snap somewhere down the hall.

  The intruder’s still here! she realized.

  Before she could stop Kevin, he’d grabbed a poker from the fireplace and moved silently down the carpeted hall.

  Her tension mounted as she heard him opening doors and rattling windows. One long, suspenseful minute later, he came back.

  “No one here!”

  “But the noise?”

  “Window blinds.”

  She looked down at her father’s scattered papers. “They’re searching for some clue they think Dad left me. But I’ve looked twice and found nothing!”

  He nodded.

  They walked to her bedroom. Dresses, blouses and underwear were thrown everywhere. Her mattress was flipped over, even her pillowcases had been yanked off. Feeling violated, she closed her eyes and forced herself to take another deep breath.

  She walked into her closet, lifted a dress from the floor and noticed her hand was shaking.

  Kevin placed his hand on hers. “It’s OK, Madison, you’re safe now.”

  She nodded, but didn’t feel safe. She felt afraid and overwhelmed by everything. Someone had killed her father, nearly killed her and Kevin, probably killed Bradford Tipleton, shot Linda Langstrom, mugged Alison Whitaker and ransacked her father’s apartment. Her life was spinning out of control ... and suddenly, so was her bedroom. She felt dizzy and leaned against the wall.

  Gently, Kevin turned her around, eased her into his arms and held her. Her sobs began slowly, then came so fast she had trouble catching her breath. She remained in his arms, feeling safe and comforted.

  Moments later, she managed to whisper, “I’m OK now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” But she was still trembling.

  “Detective Loomis should check the apartment for prints,” he said.

  She nodded and eased away from his arms. She grabbed a blue suit and a white linen blouse for tomorrow, then they hurried down to the lobby. They told the security guard about the break-in, then got back in the taxi and headed toward Kevin’s apartment.

  On the way, she briefed Detective Loomis by phone. Minutes later, the taxi stopped on a narrow street of older row houses and they got out.

  Kevin gestured toward a charming old four-story building. “Home Sweet Brownstone.”

  “It is sweet.” She liked the English-style blue door and brass knocker, and the tiny side garden with red flowers, birdbath and a park bench. The windows were tinted light lavender, like windows she remembered seeing near the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam.

  Kevin unlocked the front door and they stepped into an elegant turn-of-the-century foyer. She was surrounded by warm, reddish-brown woods, paneled walls and a polished mahogany staircase. The wood smelled wonderful.

  “It’s stunning, Kevin.”

  “So’s the view from my loft,” he said ushering her into a tiny elevator.

  Four floors later, they got off and he unlocked his apartment door. They stepped into a small living room dominated by a floor-to-ceiling window that ran the length of the room and gave her a breathtaking view of the city.

  “You’re looking at the Triborough Bridge, Riker’s Island, the Bronx and the LaGuardia runway.”

  “Wow!”

  “Wait until you see dawn.”

  “Your girlfriend lives here?”

  He laughed. “No girlfriends these days.”

  Hmmmm!

  He led her over to some glass shelves that displayed a collection of New York Yankees baseball memorabilia – a Mickey Mantle bat, a Yogi Berra glove, and sports figurines. One wall held a colorful, signed Leroy Neiman art print of former New York Mets star Dave Kingman.

  “You forgot to tell me something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You be rich.”

  “No, I be damn lucky. My college buddy inherited this building. He lets me stay here for peanuts in return for managing the three other tenants. Easy work, since one tenant is in London for two years and the other two live in Florida seven months a year.”

  He led her over to the bookshelves filled with volumes on advertising and marketing. She noticed one entire shelf was crammed with books on Poland.

  “What’s with all the Polish books?”

  He seemed to hesitate.

  “I like European history.”

  “Polish history especially?”

  Another pause, then a nod. “My parents came from a small village in Poland.”

  “Jordan doesn’t sound too Polish.”

  “How about Jowarski? Dad anglicized it to Jordan so he’d get hired.”

  “You mentioned your dad died. Where is your mom?”

  “Last year, I finally persuaded her to move from their small house in Camden to Manhattan so we’d be closer.”

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  “How’s your Polish?”

  “Daj mnie piwo,” she said.

  He laughed. “Give me a beer....”

  “An essential phrase in south Boston.”

  “True. But my Mom, the English, so good, she don’t speak.”

  “I’d still love to meet her.”

  He seemed a little reluctant, perhaps embarrassed by his mother’s English. “OK....”

  “Get nailed with a few Polish jokes growing up, Kevin?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She nodded. “In England, I got nailed with Irish jokes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know, like an Irishman calls up British Air reservations and asks. ‘Could you be tellin’ me how long it takes to fly from London to Boston, ma’am?’

  ‘Just a moment, sir.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ says the Irishman, hanging up.

  Kevin laughed.

  “My great-great-grandparents only spoke Gaelic when they immigrated here from County Cork. They’d been potato farmers.”

  “Funny you should mention potatoes.”

  “Why?”

  “We Polish do neat things with them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Vodka.”

  “I’ll drink to that!”

  Smiling, he led her over toward the tiny wet bar and took a bottle of Wyborowa Vodka from the mini fridge. He poured two glasses over ice and handed her one.

  They strolled over to his drive-in-theater-size window, sipped their drinks and looked out at the city lights.

  “Best seats in the house,” he said, gesturing toward the three-section beige leather sofa.

  She sat down and was pleased when he sat near her.

  “Watching the headlights crawl across the bridge is therapy,” he said. “Doze-off therapy.”

  “I’m too uptight to doze off.”

  He looked at her. “Linda Langstrom...?”

  She nodded.

  He placed a comforting hand on hers. She felt heat rush through her. Then he clicked a remote control device and a familiar guitar rhythm filled her ears.

  She smiled and said, “I Walk the Line.”

  He nodded. “Wow! An urbane sophisticate like you knows the songs of a country boy like Johnny Cash?”

  “I love Johnny’s songs. Dad did, too.”

  They sipped their vodkas, listening to the familiar, boom-chick-a-boom-chick-a-boom of the rhythm guitar, watching the car lights wink through the girders of the Triborough Bridge. Kevin was right. The lights were therapeutic. She nestled down in the supple leather and moments later was delighted when he placed his arm behind her.

  She was completely attracted to the man beside her and completely terrified because she was. What was she getting into?

  Johnny Cash sang, “I walk the line....”

  I am too, Johnny ....

  “If you get sleepy, just drift away,” Kevin said
.

  How about I drift closer?

  She sensed he wanted to drift closer, too, but held back, probably because he felt conflicted about a relationship with his boss – like she felt conflicted about a relationship with her employee.

  She thought about the conflicts for a few moments. Then she decided, Screw ‘em!

  “Kevin....”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you again, for everything. For tonight.” She looked into his eyes, praying he saw the depth of her feelings for him. He blinked as though he did, started to speak, then paused.

  “Madison ... I....”

  “What is it?”

  He paused again, then slowly leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to hers.

  Yes! she thought, as she pulled him into her arms. She felt the phenomenal heat of his body, felt her heart racing. His, too.

  Within seconds, they drifted toward his bedroom.

  Forty Six

  The following morning, Madison sat at her desk thinking of Kevin, remembering the warmth of his lips, the softness of his touch, the moment their souls merged and changed her life....

  Yet, some part of her still feared the change, the closeness, the risk of commitment....

  “The BioFirme meeting has started.”

  Madison looked up and saw Christine at the door.

  “Oh, thanks, Christine.”

  Madison was attending meetings to learn more about her clients – and who might have accused her father.

  BioFirme was an amazing new skin-firming treatment formulated specifically to tighten the skin of women over the age of fifty.

  She walked down the hall and stepped into the meeting room. Karla Rasmussen, Alison Whitaker, Dana Williams, Leland Merryweather and others were engaged in a heated discussion about the BioFirme media plan, the agency’s recommendation of magazines, television and other media geared to reach BioFirme’s target audience.

  Madison was amazed to hear them debating whether to run a BioFirme commercial on the Super Bowl, at a cost of two-and-a- half million dollars for 30 seconds. Football didn’t seem like the best venue to talk to saggy-skin females over fifty.

  “Look, it’s simple,” Karla Rasmussen said, straightening her Hermes scarf. “The client wants his commercial on the Super Bowl. It’s the largest television audience of the year. Over 130 million Americans watch it! And statistics prove women watch it.”

  “Younger women,” Alison Whitaker countered. “Not women fifty and older.”

  Madison agreed with Whitaker.

  “Women that age do watch it,” Rasmussen shot back. “In fact, forty million women watched the Super Bowl last year! That’s ten million more women than watched the Academy Awards!”

  That fact surprised Madison, but she saw something in the media plan that concerned her. “There’s a risk here, Karla.”

  “What risk?” Rasmussen challenged.

  “When this commercial will run. Late in the third quarter.”

  “So?”

  “So by then, if one team is way ahead, many viewers will have already switched to another channel, wasting most of our client’s money.”

  Rasmussen simply shrugged and folded her arms.

  Madison leaned forward. “Karla, you said our client requested this Super Bowl commercial?”

  “Yes. He and his CEO, Martin Wellbourne,” Rasmussen said.

  Alison Whitaker asked, “Did they say why they want their commercial on the Super Bowl?”

  Rasmussen looked like she’d rather not say why. “Yes. They want their pals at the Harvard Club to see the commercial.”

  “Brilliant marketing!” Whitaker said, sarcasm dripping from each word.

  Time to referee, Madison thought. “Well, the client can spend their money any way they want. But from my perspective, spending $2.5 million for thirty seconds on the Super Bowl to reach saggy-skin women over fifty is like spending $2.5 million on The Julia Child Show to recruit Navy SEALs. You may reach some, but not many. I would suggest we recommend an alternative: a smarter, $2.5 million dollar plan, a mix of TV, newspapers, magazines and other media specifically designed to reach the over-fifty female market.”

  Heads nodded. Rasmussen seemed unconvinced.

  Madison excused herself from the meeting and headed back to her office to review a presentation. As she settled in at her desk, she saw Kevin had phoned. She dialed his extension and he picked up.

  “Hi there....” she said. Her body grew warm at the sound of his voice. “I’m the girl that you bewitched, bothered and bewildered last night until I finally granted you my considerable favors.”

  “Roxanne?”

  “You’re fired, Jordan,” she said, laughing. “By the way, did you hear from Craig about the money in Tradewinds?”

  “He just left me a voice message suggesting we have lunch around one.”

  “Works for me.”

  “I’ll swing by your office about 12:30.”

  “See you then.”

  For the next thirty minutes, she worked on the presentation. As she moved a file aside, she noticed a memo from Alison Whitaker and realized she’d forgotten to ask how her injuries were healing from the mugging the other night.

  Madison hurried down to Whitaker’s office. Alison was on the phone and waved her to a beige leather chair beside her desk.

  Madison sat down, and looked around. The decor was as elegant and refined as Alison. Her teak desk was spotless and held a thin laptop, a BlackBerry, a chrome in-and-out tray, and a crystal paperweight. Fresh daisies graced a nearby cherry credenza. Above the credenza hung autographed pictures of Alison with Rudy Giuliani, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama.

  Whitaker hung up and smiled at Madison.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just came by to see how you’re recovering.”

  “I’m healed! Look!” She leaned forward to show a small bandage behind her ear. Then she pushed up the sleeve of her blouse. “And these bruises will fade soon.”

  “You were lucky, Alison.”

  “Very. But not when it came to finding anything about your father’s accuser. I asked our computer guy, Harley, or Harry what’s-his-name, if he could locate the e-mail or the backup. He couldn’t. And yesterday, I flat-out asked Karla what she knew.”

  “And...?”

  “She denied knowing anything about anything.”

  What a surprise, Madison thought. “What’s your take on Karla?”

  Whitaker took a deep breath and paused a moment. “Well, as you know, she’s very opinionated. She’s also very smart and tough. Even ruthless at times. And, of course, she’s filthy rich.”

  “Really? Where’s her money come from?”

  “No one knows for sure. But she has a huge apartment near the Dakota overlooking Central Park and a condo in Aspen. She also has a villa in the Caribbean, on one of those little islands, maybe St. Barts.”

  “St. Kitts?” Madison’s heart pumped faster.

  Alison nodded. “Maybe.”

  “One more question....”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think Karla sent the e-mail accusing my father of misappropriating funds and demanding he retire?”

  “You mean, so he couldn’t stop the ComGlobe merger?”

  Madison nodded.

  Whitaker fingered her crystal paperweight for several moments. “I don’t know, Madison. I do know that she’s hell-bent for that merger. And, she’s a very determined woman. If we put the two together ... well, I suppose it’s possible she sent the e-mail.”

  “What if my father discovered she was behind the e-mail and threatened to tell the police? What if she had him killed and made it look like a suicide?”

  Whitaker blinked, looked out the window, then turned back. “Well, murder is a long way from an accusation. I just don’t know. But....”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I guess when it comes to money, nothing Karla did would surprise me. The woman’s obsessed by it.”

  �
�She’d get millions from the merger.”

  Whitaker nodded. “Many millions.”

  Madison stood up. “Thanks, Alison, for speaking frankly. And I’m relieved that you’re healing so quickly.”

  She smiled and touched the Band-Aid behind her ear.

  Back in her office, Madison called St. Anthony’s Hospital again to check on Linda Langstrom. The nurse said she was still in a coma, but that Linda had responded to a command to squeeze the doctor’s hand, and had even mumbled her own name. Very encouraging signs. Madison’s eyes watered up with the news. She hung up and continued working on the presentation.

  Moments later, she looked up and saw Kevin chatting with Christine in her outer office. He looked terrific wearing a blue button-down shirt, dark blazer and tan slacks. Last night he’d looked more terrific wearing nothing.

  “Ready for lunch with Craig?” he asked her from the outer office.

  “Starving,” she said.

  As they walked outside, she couldn’t help but worry about Craig Borden.

  Bad things were happening to people who helped her.

  Forty Seven

  Madison and Kevin walked into Granny Colasanti’s popular new Italian restaurant off Canal Street in Manhattan’s financial district. The cheerful young raven-haired greeter led them through the spicy scent of oregano, garlic and Italian sausage, then past red tablecloths with Chianti bottles and hunched-over bankers whispering about convertible debentures. “O Sole Mio” wafted from the red speakers on the walls.

  She saw Craig Borden in a corner booth, talking on his cell phone and waving them over.

  As they sat down, an elderly waiter with eyebrows thick as hedges hurried over and handed them menus.

  Craig snapped his cell phone shut. “Their linguini is incredible, especially with garlic and clam sauce. That’s what I’m having.”

  The waiter nodded his approval.

  “And those cannolis,” Craig said, pointing at the desert trolley, “are to die for.”

  Or from, Madison thought, as she stared at the six-inch cannolis oozing thick cream.

  Live dangerously, she told herself. “I’ll have linguini and a cannoli.”

  “Works for me,” Kevin said.