Madison's Avenue

by Mike Brogan

  The waiter smiled and walked off.

  Craig pointed at his cell phone. “That was my associate in the Caymans. He learned the $8.7 million was just transferred three hours ago to a Curacao bank, Millennia Trust, N.V.”

  Madison leaned forward. “Did he by any chance learn the name of the person behind the account?”

  “No. And learning it will be tough. Curacao is part of the Dutch Antilles, and Dutch bankers’ lips are sealed tight.”

  “Any way to pry them open?”

  “Crowbar! Curacao’s got very strict laws that prohibit bankers from revealing account information to anyone without the express written consent of the account holder. And this account holder, the man who claimed to be your father, expressly wrote that no one, not even immediate family members, be given any information.”

  “What if a banker does give out information?” Kevin said.

  “Possibly jail time, plus serious fines.”

  Madison’s hopes took a nosedive. “So, now what?”

  Borden checked his watch. “So, in a few hours I’m flying to Barbados for a meeting tomorrow morning. Millennia Trust has a branch office there and my pal, Philip, works in it. I helped him out with a similar situation a year ago. So maybe he’ll reciprocate.”

  “What if he refuses?” Madison asked.

  “Then I’ll remind him how Millennia Bank’s image could be hurt, maybe devastated, by having its name associated with murder investigations, and U.S. Congressional banking committee inquiries.”

  “And what if he still refuses?”

  Craig smiled. “Then, Phil and I will play our game.”

  “What game?”

  “‘I gotta pee.’”

  “Now...?”

  “No, the game’s called ‘I gotta pee’. See, Phil and I chat in his office for a while. Then he says, ‘Excuse me, I gotta pee’ and leaves his office. I look over at his desk and damned if I don’t see the papers with the exact information I came to get. So I memorize the info or photograph it. Phil comes back, we chat and I leave. Bottom line, Phil’s told me nothing, given me nothing. I took it. He can’t be responsible for a visitor snooping at stuff on his desk, right?”

  Madison simply shook her head and smiled.

  The waiter set their meals in front of them. Madison took a bite of the lemony-garlic linguini and it was delicious.

  All of a sudden, something occurred to her. “What about the bank statements for the account?”

  “What about them?” Kevin asked.

  “The bank must have mailed them to an address.”

  Borden nodded. “They did. But only to an e-mail address. In fact, all account transactions have been by e-mail. The account holder logs on with a password, does his business, then logs off. All electronic. No paper trail.”

  “And the e-mail address is also protected?” Madison asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Maybe Dean Dryden can help,” Kevin said.

  “Who’s Dryden?”

  “A very savvy computer hacker pal of mine. Maybe he can discover the e-mail address.”

  “Ask him to try. Give him the account number and the names of the banks. I’ll also try to get the e-mail address and the dates the money was wire transferred. The wire transfers should have been confirmed by e-mails.”

  Madison’s hopes rose, but still she was worried about the safety of Craig Borden and Dean Dryden. Even though they insisted on helping her, she feared that the Tall Man would find out. Once he did, he or his henchmen would try to stop them.

  Like they stopped Linda Langstrom.

  Eugene P. Smith watched Madison McKean, Kevin Jordan and the banker stand up from their table and leave Granny Colasanti’s. Smith had lip-read their conversation through the tinted mirror behind the restaurant’s crowded bar.

  “They’ve left,” he said into his cell phone.

  “Where are they going?” Harry Burkett asked.

  “McKean and Jordan are heading back to the agency. Borden’s going to Barbados.”

  “Why Barbados?”

  “To squeeze his pal at Millennia Trust for the name of the original account holder.”

  Burkett coughed. “Jesus....! You’ve got to handle Borden and his banker pal!”

  “I will, soon as you deposit another fifty grand in my Brussels account.”

  Burkett sputtered and cleared his throat.

  “Make up your mind, Harry. If I don’t catch the flight, and Borden talks to the banker ... and the banker traces the account back ... well, you know how bad things could get for you and our friend, the EVP.”

  Long pause. “You’ll get your goddammed money!”

  Smith smiled as he hung up and sipped the rest of his Glenfiddich. Then he phoned American Airlines and booked a first-class seat on Borden’s flight to Barbados.

  Barbados ... a banker’s paradise ...

  Except for nosy bankers.

  Forty Eight

  Madison sat at her desk, flipping through a thick stack of phone messages. She paused on one from Dana Williams and thought back to their recent conversation.

  Why had Dana been so nervous when she mentioned the argument with my father? Were they arguing, as she claimed, over an advertising campaign? Or the ComGlobe merger?

  Or had her father discovered, like Madison had, that Dana was involved romantically with Lamar Brownlee, the CEO of Griffen Girard? Was Dana simply sleeping with the enemy? Or planning to bring him some highly profitable Turner clients?

  “Madison...?”

  She turned and saw Christine, her secretary, walking toward her.

  “Here’s your travel packet. Everything you need’s inside.” Christine handed her a brown zipper folder.

  “Thanks, Christine. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That I’m actually going to the Cannes Advertising Festival in France!”

  Christine smiled. “Promise me you’ll have some fun.”

  “Just going is fun.” Madison had dreamed often of attending the prestigious Cannes Advertising Festival, the ad industry’s version of the Academy Awards. And now she was attending, thanks to the festival Président who’d asked her to deliver the presentation her father had been scheduled to give. Even though she was no expert on the subject – namely, the advantages of smaller affiliated agencies versus the giant global systems – her father was an expert, and had written a terrific first draft of his speech last month.

  And even more terrific, Kevin was going. Two of his truck television commercials were in the running for the festival’s highly coveted Lion D’or.

  “You have a moment, Christine?”

  “Sure.” Christine sat in the chair beside the desk.

  Madison wondered how best to raise the subject, then simply said, “My father and Dana Williams....”

  The muscles in Christine’s face tightened.

  “They worked well together for a long time, right?”

  Christine nodded.

  “But I heard Dana became quite angry with him a few days before his death.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Christine took a deep breath, paused, then looked at Madison. “I suppose you have a right to know....”

  Know what?

  Christine checked the door as though making sure no one could overhear, then turned back. “Dana had a ... strong romantic interest in your father.”

  Madison’s jaw dropped open. Her father was at least twenty-five years older than Dana.

  “She first pursued him one year after your mother’s death, but he was still in mourning. Dana tried again the next year. He still mourned your mother.”

  “He mourned her every day.”

  “Yes, but at our last Christmas party, after everyone got a little tipsy, Dana really latched onto him. They danced some, and went on to the afterglow party with a bunch of us. Dana stayed glued to him, then dragged him off to some other parties, maybe even spent the night with
him. She was very serious, your father was not! He tried to break it off politely, but Dana persisted. She can be quite, ah ... possessive.”

  Christine paused, took a deep breath. “Then about two weeks ago, I heard Dana in here with him. She was quite angry. It sounded personal. When she came out, she had fire in her eyes.”

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Madison thought.

  Christine started to say something else, then stopped.

  “Whatever you say will remain between us,” Madison said.

  Christine nodded, checked the door again, then whispered, “Five years ago, Dana had a very nasty divorce. She fought against it tooth and nail. After the divorce, she actually stalked her ex-husband, demanding they get back together. He refused. But she kept stalking him.”

  “Then one day, she showed up uninvited at his family reunion where he’d brought his new girlfriend. Dana became enraged and threatened him. They had to escort her from the party. The next morning, her ex-husband was found dead in his home. Thirty-four years old. Cause of death was inconclusive. The police suspected poisoning, but the toxicologist found no trace of poison. They interviewed Dana three times, but never charged her. She refused to take a lie detector test.”

  Madison was stunned by what she’d just heard. Dana’s husband divorces her and then dies under mysterious circumstances. My father refuses her advances and then dies under mysterious circumstances. And while she’s being turned down by my father, she’s involved with the CEO of a competitive agency.

  “You and Kevin should leave for the airport now,” Christine said, standing up.

  Madison nodded, still shocked by what she’d learned about Dana Williams.

  “Have a safe trip, Madison.”

  “We will.”

  She and Kevin would wear disguises and leave from the building garage in a windowless plumber’s van, driven by Neal Nelson, her guard. Nelson would make certain no one followed them to JFK Airport.

  Kevin and she would be in France having fun.

  The Tall Man would be in Manhattan having a fit trying to find them.

  Craig Borden looked out the window of his non-stop American Airlines flight at the lights of Barbados blinking up at him from the dark Caribbean. He liked Barbados, especially jogging on the white sand of Crane’s Beach and conducting business over shrimp focaccia and Cuban cigars at the Lone Star restaurant.

  But what he loved most about Barbados was Miss Sarah Featherstone, the brilliant, funny, drop-dead-beautiful young bank officer with large brown eyes and a smile as enchanting as a Caribbean sunset. On his last visit, they’d gone out for dinner for the second time and he’d laughed harder than he had in years. He would phone her after meeting his banker pal, Philip Carter.

  The 737’s tires slammed down hard at Grantley Adams Airport near Bridgetown. Craig breezed through customs, then flipped open his cell phone and called Carter, who picked up on the first ring.

  “So Philip Carter is working late again! I’m impressed.”

  “You’ll be more impressed with what I found.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll tell you in thirty minutes at Nelson’s Arms.”

  “OK. Dinner’s on me.”

  “Just a drink, Craig. My girlfriend’s promised me spiritual comfort tonight.”

  “You dating a nun?”

  “Ha ha ha,” Carter said, hanging up.

  Borden stepped outside, breathed in warm humid air that smelled of flowers and diesel fuel, then settled into a blue Mercedes taxi.

  “Nelson’s Arms, please.”

  Eugene P. Smith had lip-read Borden’s conversation. Four years ago, Smith had been to Nelson’s Arms. He remembered that Lord Nelson’s statue was just down the street.

  He signaled the next taxi, got in, pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and leaned over the front seat.

  “These are yours if you beat that taxi ahead of me to Lord Nelson’s statue by ten minutes.”

  The fat driver scrutinized the money, then floored the accelerator.

  Smith took out his BlackBerry, logged on to the Internet and brought up the Millennia Trust Website. He clicked on Management, then on Philip Carter, the name Craig Borden had spoken into his cell phone.

  Philip Carter’s pink, cherubic face and bald head popped onto the screen.

  Nineteen minutes later, the taxi driver skidded to a stop in front of Lord Nelson’s statue, grinning like he’d won the Daytona 500. “The other taxi is at least ten minutes back.”

  Smith handed him the three hundred dollars, got out and watched the taxi drive off. Smith never had a driver leave him at the scene of an imminent hit. He walked quickly down the street and stepped inside Nelson’s Arms. The restaurant-bar was crowded. He smelled grilled steak and heard soft jazz coming from a trio near the bar. He looked around and saw Philip Carter’s bald head glowing like a polished egg in the shadowy corner. Carter was sipping beer and writing in a folder.

  Smith walked toward Carter’s corner. “Excuse me folks, but there’s a fella named Craig over in the bar area looking for a Philip Carter. Is there a Mr. Car – ?”

  “That’s me,” Carter said, getting up and walking into the bar area.

  While he was gone, Smith leaned over and pretended to read Carter’s newspaper. Then, holding the paper up so no one could see him, he squirted a clear liquid into Carter’s beer. He noticed Carter’s open folder. On the top page, were two words: ‘Craig.’ And a long, strange word starting with “B.” The word probably was related to the money at Millennia. He pulled the page off and slid it into his coat. Then, calmly, he put the newspaper back down and walked toward the door. He saw Carter near the pool table area still searching for Borden.

  Back outside, Smith looked through the window and saw Carter looking very puzzled as he returned to his seat.

  Then the banker took a nice long sip of beer.

  Craig Borden saw red ambulance lights streaking across the faces of customers leaving Nelson’s Arms. Another café coronary, he assumed.

  He walked inside and saw paramedics jackknifed over a man on the floor in the far corner.

  “300!” a young paramedic shouted. “Clear!”

  The crowd backed up.

  “Hit it!”

  He heard a loud THUMP! – and saw a man’s arm rise and drop.

  Craig moved through the crowd and checked the heart monitor line. Flat.

  “Hit it!”

  THUMP!

  Craig inched closer and froze. He was looking at Philip Carter. Craig’s eyes went out of focus. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest and had to steady himself against the bar.

  He watched the paramedics try several more times to revive him, unsuccessfully. Then, slowly, they put away their defibrillator paddles, lifted Philip’s body onto a gurney and rolled him outside.

  Craig’s mind was numb. He tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. He walked over where Philip had been sitting and noticed an open Millennia Trust folder. The top page had been ripped off, but he saw the indentations of two words on the second page. He could only make out an “r” and a “g.” He took out his pencil and began rubbing the lead over the indentations. Slowly, CRAIG emerged, and then below it, a strange, long word.

  Blanchectar

  Blanchectar? A name? A place?

  Whatever it was, Phil had wanted him to see it.

  The ambulance doors slammed shut. Craig turned and watched the long red vehicle drive away with the body of his friend. How the hell could a healthy, thirty-three-year-old man who breathed effortlessly when we jogged four miles in 87-degree heat last month suddenly drop dead?

  It made no sense ... unless he was murdered ... because he was examining the mysterious bank account. But how would anyone even know he was examining it? I told no one his name. Did he mention it to the wrong person at his bank?

  Suddenly, Craig felt like the pub’s walls were closing in on him. He took a deep breath and hurried outside, devastated by t
he painful realization that his good friend was dead, perhaps because of him.

  Dazed, Craig wandered down Broad Street.

  Forty Nine

  CANNES, FRANCE

  Madison and Kevin gazed up at the Carlton Hotel as the afternoon sun glanced off the glass casing on the clock above the entrance. She’d seen the magnificent old hotel in movies, but none had captured the stately charm of its façade, still fresh and white despite a century of wet Mediterranean winters.

  To her left, the yacht-studded harbor of Cannes sprawled out toward the Palais des Festivals, the massive convention center where the Cannes Advertising Festival was now taking place. Weeks earlier, the same center had held the famous Cannes Film Festival, drawing swarms of movie stars, studio moguls, paparazzi and bug-eyed fans here for a glitzy week of high hopes and low cleavage.

  Madison was amazed at how the Advertising Festival had grown from a few hundred professionals in the early sixties to over nine thousand attendees this year – four thousand more than the Film Festival. Understandable, since the ad industry was a $600 billion dollar business and the film industry $100 billion.

  For one week, ad people sat in auditoriums watching a few thousand television commercials. Everything from beers that promised to keep you skinny, to cars that promised you fifty miles per gallon ... from deodorants that promised to keep you dry to hemorrhoid creams that promised to end your “infernal rectal itch.”

  Most commercials were funny, some provocative, some flat-out dumb, and a few, brilliant.

  Madison and Kevin strolled into the Carlton’s distinguished lobby and looked around at the glittering crystal chandeliers, gleaming marble floor, intricate gold leaf trim and stately white columns.

  “There’s a name for all this,” she said.

  “Motel 6?”

  Laughing, she elbowed him.

  Two famous New York advertising gurus walked past her. She recognized the successful professionals who clearly earned the right to be here. What did I do to get here? Have a successful father? Suddenly, she felt like the little donkey surrounded by the big Clydesdales in a Budweiser commercial.

  Minutes later, she entered her suite and found herself looking at the kind of understated luxury that European hotels do so naturally. A massive bed, royal-blue drapes, tasteful chairs and sofa, fresh flowers and a breathtaking view of the sun-drenched Mediterranean.