Killer Deal

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  Emile shook my hand and I was out in the hallway, ringing for the elevator in one fluid sweep. As I descended, I considered my next move and decided I needed to talk to Ronnie Willis.

  I’d promised Kyle I wouldn’t try to outrun the detectives on this case. I’d promised Eileen I’d concentrate on Gwen Lincoln. But if the goal was to write about Gwen Lincoln’s innocence, wouldn’t it help to prove who was guilty? And what, dared I think, could it hurt?

  Four

  I DON’T LIKE TO LIE. Particularly because I’m not as good at it as I might be. So I attempt to do it as infrequently as possible and to confine it to exchanges with people who deserve it. That’s why it was so nice, at last, to be in a position where I was digging into a story and could tell the truth about who I was and why I was digging. Or most of the truth, anyway.

  The pleasure of making my first official call as an investigative journalist was only marred by having to listen to a hideous instrumental version of “Brass in Pocket.” Aside from forcing me to confront the gritty cultural question of who’d thought it was proper to reduce such a great song to a series of airy clarinet riffs, the call was successful. I started off with the communications director of Willis Worldwide, explaining to her that I needed to speak directly to Mr. Willis because I was a magazine reporter doing a profile of Gwen Lincoln and was interested in Mr. Willis’ feelings about going into business with her. The hope that other, more illuminating information might also come to light, I kept to myself.

  The communications director parked me on hold, leaving me with the song. Fortunately, the interlude was brief and she was soon back to tell me that Mr. Willis happened to have a brief opening in his calendar if I could come to his office in an hour. Sign me up.

  The offices of Willis Worldwide were only a few blocks away on Madison, so I had time to go over some of the questions raised by my brief stay with Gwen. Did Ronnie see this business arrangement as a merger of equals or was he aware of the perception, in Gwen’s mind at least, that Garth had been saving him? Could he go forward without Garth and with Gwen? And where did he stand on the issue of Gwen and her guilt?

  Still refining my questions as I got off the elevator, I was completely unprepared for what was behind the receptionist’s desk. Not the petite brunette with the headset, pierced eyebrow, and tongue stud, which had to make answering the phone and saying “Willis Worldwide” eight hundred times a day even more enjoyable. The poster on the wall behind her. A huge blow-up of the ad that had made Ronnie Willis an advertising sensation fifteen years before. A Somalian boy of no more than six looked straight at the camera with searingly sad eyes. His emaciated frame was draped in a woman’s spangly gold evening wrap, but his malnutrition-distended belly poked through. The caption read: DOES THIS MAKE ME LOOK FAT?

  The posters had been part of a fashion-industry-backed campaign to raise funds for African famine relief, but the explosion that issued forth from the TV pundits, talk radio ranters, and op-ed exorcists had not paid much attention to that part of the story. Instead, Ronnie Willis had made a name for himself in advertising by angering, insulting, and outraging people. He had proudly embraced it as his modus operandi ever since. He and Garth were kindred spirits, but if what Gwen Lincoln had told me was true, Ronnie’s magic touch had faded while Garth’s had continued to shine.

  The impatient clicking of a tongue stud against teeth brought me back to attention. The receptionist frowned at me expectantly.

  “Hi. Molly Forrester, here to see Ronnie Willis.”

  “Really.”

  Not that an icy attitude is uncommon in the ranks of Manhattan receptionists, but this was a stronger dose than I was expecting. I’d smiled at her as I’d approached, looked her in the eye when I spoke to her, and been warm and polite in tone. Now I tried to keep my return “Really” cheerful. What had I done to earn the coolness?

  “You don’t seem his type,” she continued.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You called just a little while ago, right? And he moved stuff around to see you right away. I figured that meant you’d met him at a club last night or something but, like I said,” she sniffed, “you don’t seem his type.”

  “I’m interviewing him for a magazine article,” I said, not sure why I felt I had to explain myself to her. At least it got a smile in response, though I couldn’t be sure if it was because she’d been right that I wasn’t his type or because a magazine writer was more interesting than a day-old club date.

  “Which magazine?” Interest piqued, she leaned forward. As the V-neck of her tee gapped, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo that looked suspiciously like a tentacle rising out of her cleavage.

  “Zeitgeist,” I answered, taking care not to look directly at the tattoo or any other part of her chest while I waited for her to say something cutting about the magazine. She was not exactly our target demographic.

  “Oh, right. ‘You Can Tell Me.’ I knew I recognized your name.” She punched a button on her console and said my name into her headset as I tried to imagine her reading my column in line at the tattoo parlor. “Ronnie’s assistant’ll be right out. Have a seat.”

  She indicated the low-slung sofas to her right, but I had to hover a moment longer. “You’ve read my column?” I asked, trying to sound offhanded and not surprised. Meeting people who know my column—especially unlikely candidates—is a wonderful way to get perspective on the letters and my advice. Of course, they aren’t always pleasant encounters, like the sales clerk at Good Guys who read my name off my credit card and proceeded to chew me out in front of the entire store because I’d allegedly encouraged his girlfriend to move out and stick him with half the rent, a three hundred dollar phone bill, and an STD. I was quite sure I hadn’t given that specific advice, but he’d been equally sure I was lying.

  Fortunately, the receptionist seemed more bemused than angry. “Yeah. People can be so screwed up.”

  “True.”

  “That one last month, about the cow who was stealing all her sister’s boyfriends? I so know who wrote that one.”

  “I keep all that confidential,” I said preemptively.

  “I respect that, I wasn’t trying to get you to tell or anything, it was just so clear to me that it was pretty wild to see it there in print and think, ‘Hey!’”

  She smiled with great satisfaction and I nodded back, happy she had no issue to settle with me. “As long as you don’t want me to name names, I’m always happy to discuss the column,” I said.

  “So are you really here for an article or did Ronnie write you a letter?”

  “I’m doing an article on Gwen Lincoln, but Mr. Willis is part of the story.” I almost didn’t finish the sentence because of the odd look that crossed over her face when I said Gwen’s name. It was more than concern she might lose her job because of the merger, but I couldn’t quite identify it.

  She sat back in her chair and fiddled with the neckline of her shirt, as though trying to tuck the tentacle back down out of sight. “Yeah. Have fun with that.”

  Before I could ask her what exactly she meant, a silky voice called my name. A catwalk castoff slouched her way down the hall toward me, her brown hair as long and straight as her body, her face blankly beautiful. “This way please,” she said, pivoting to go back from whence she came without pausing, leaving me to scramble to catch up. I threw a look back over my shoulder at the receptionist, but she turned away. I was going to have to get back to her.

  The hallway walls were painted an unsettling shade of deep orange and adorned with other framed ads created by Ronnie and his agency. They were all familiar, but as I looked around, I didn’t see one less than three years old. Had someone forgotten to cycle in the new hits—or hadn’t there been any?

  Ronnie’s assistant deposited me in a conference room featuring floor-to-ceiling windows with nothing in front of them and withdrew. The space was nearly filled by a mammoth conference table of highly polished cherry and severe matching chairs. An immense plasma screen on
one end of the room was balanced by whiteboards on the other. Everything else was glass—glass walls on one side, windows on the other. It made the whole room feel like it was suspended, rather than being connected to the rest of the building. It wasn’t a completely pleasant sensation. I eased past the table, wanting to check out the view, but the closer I got, the more I felt I was tipping forward, on the verge of falling through the glass and plummeting twelve stories to the hum of Madison Avenue below.

  “Wanna jump?”

  Startled, I turned quickly as Ronnie Willis slid into the room. He was taller than I’d expected from his publicity photos. His thin face was very boyish, despite the deep creases at the corners of his eyes. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache obscured the lines around his mouth. A few bold strands of silver poked up in his thick black hair and his eyes were a warm, mossy green. He was one of those men who, feature by feature, are quite attractive but somehow the whole package doesn’t hold together the way it should, draping a sense of awkwardness over him.

  “Should I?”

  “Seems to cross most people’s minds,” he shrugged. He slid his hand across mine in greeting. “Ronnie Willis.”

  “Molly Forrester.”

  “Hope you don’t mind, my babysitter wants to horn in.” He gestured vaguely to the doorway, now filled by a severe young woman in a black MaxMara suit and a terrific pair of Jimmy Choo kidskin slingbacks.

  Meeting her halfway, I shook hands with her. “Paula Wharton, communications director. We spoke on the phone,” she said in a tight, unhappy voice.

  “Nice to meet you in person.”

  Ronnie sighed. “I don’t have anything to hide about what Garth and Gwen mean to me, or about anything else in my frigging life for that matter, but Paula’s got to monitor me anyway. Thinks I don’t know how to behave, especially around women.” He winked at me with overblown zeal, then bugged his eyes at Paula, awaiting her reaction.

  She glanced at him without smiling and sat down at the far end of the conference table. Ronnie leaned his forehead against the window, looking straight down to the street. His jacket shifted oddly on him and, for a moment, he looked like a scarecrow peering down from his perch at the worms in the field. “Does make you kinda dizzy, doesn’t it.”

  “I was actually worried about falling, not thinking about jumping,” I said, not eager to return to the window.

  “Wind up on the sidewalk one way or the other,” he said, forehead still on the glass. “What’s the difference?”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to provoke a reaction or was genuinely philosophizing. A glance at Paula didn’t help; she was keying something into her BlackBerry. I wanted Ronnie to be relaxed and speak freely, but wasn’t sure that could happen with Paula acting as watchdog. But maybe if I played his game a little, that would help. “Isn’t the difference control?”

  “Yeah, right,” he snorted. “Like that’s not the greatest illusion in life.”

  “Yet your profession is all about control. Controlling what we want, what we think we need. Which controls our spending, eating, socializing …”

  He swung back from the window. “Ohmigod. You’re on to us and now I have to kill you.” Paula’s head snapped up. As old a joke as it was, it was truly startling in this context. I couldn’t manage a laugh in response and Ronnie winced. “Sorry. That was stupid, wasn’t it. You’re here about Garth and I’m making … See, that’s why she’s here. I am an asshole sometimes. Please, have a seat.” Suddenly all knees and elbows, he pulled a chair out from the conference table for me.

  I didn’t sit down right away. I’d heard tales of Ronnie’s goofy charm, but this seemed more like antic desperation, tap dancing before the music even started playing. Paula put away her BlackBerry. “I’m actually more interested in Gwen Lincoln,” I reminded him.

  Ronnie drummed his hands on the back of the chair as though he needed to bring it to my attention that the chair was available. “Yeah, but that still means you’re here about Garth. He was the link between Gwen and me. I’m gonna do everything I can to preserve the relationship now that he’s gone, but it’ll never be the same. Just gotta hope fortune’ll smile on the brave. Or at least not crap all over me.”

  “You’re not confident of the success of the new agency?”

  “Sit down and we’ll talk about it,” he said with a surprising edge to his voice. More than impatient, he was now troubled I hadn’t taken a seat. Or that I was asking the wrong questions. Not wanting to anger or annoy him, I sat down, putting my notebook and tape recorder on the conference table. Somewhat relieved, Ronnie swooped around the table to sit facing me, giving me a smile, then glancing at Paula.

  “Future of the agency,” she prompted.

  “Yeah. I know I’m damn good and so are my people. Garth’s people are tremendous. Gwen’s wonderful. But how many things in life really turn out the way we expect?” Ronnie shifted in his chair, having some difficulty getting comfortable.

  “Ronnie’s just being alert and cautious, as any good leader would be, about the process of mixing two companies. Especially in light of the tragedy,” Paula elaborated. Ronnie looked as though he were going to disagree with her assessment, but then his mouth shut and he nodded in agreement.

  “My bond with Gwen is what really matters, what I want most to save,” Ronnie said, working to focus.

  Not exactly the impression I’d gotten from Gwen. “Is it in danger?”

  “It’s hard to do business with friends, that’s all. Not that I could ever replace Garth for her or Emile or any of them, but I gotta do what I can to protect them all.”

  “Protect?”

  “Whoever did this to Garth—who knows who else they’re angry at? Gwen could be in danger, too.”

  Glancing at Paula, I found she was already watching me for my reaction. “Danger from whom?”

  “The maniac who did this. Until he’s caught, Gwen needs to stay vigilant. We all do.”

  Everything I’d read or heard whispered or whispered myself had examined Garth’s murder as a single act, driven by either passion, which made Gwen the front-runner, or money, which shone a light on Ronnie. No one had yet suggested that Garth was the first on some sort of list. I checked Paula for her reaction, but she was looking at her boss steadily. This was not a new theory to her, but I couldn’t tell how much credence she gave it. Was it serious or just Ronnie trying to make himself a larger part of my story? Or Ronnie thinking he could stay out of the suspect column if he listed himself under “potential victims”?

  “You think you’re at risk as well?”

  “Shit, yeah. I’ve already spoken to the police about it.”

  “Do they share your concern?”

  Paula glanced down at the tabletop and Ronnie’s nostrils flared briefly. “They’re prepared to look into it.”

  I assumed that meant no. “Mr. Willis—”

  “Ronnie.”

  I acknowledged the gesture with a nod, but couldn’t quite bring myself to say it out loud. Something about his deliberate boyishness combined with the diminutive name smacked of trying too hard and made me uneasy. Was he covering up guilt or something else? “Do you have any suspicions about who might mean all of you harm?”

  “None. That’s what’s so frigging terrifying. It could be anyone. You have any idea of the number of hearts we touch, minds we change each and every day with our work? And if just one of them is sick, twisted, desperate, and takes issue with us, what can we do? Apparently, we can die all alone in a hotel room, well before our time. Or we can be alert and ready.”

  I half-expected him to draw a pistol out of his waistband and wave it at me, but thankfully, he just smacked the table for emphasis. Not to be unsympathetic—losing someone close to you to murder is cataclysmic, especially if you believe it puts you in harm’s way as well—but Ronnie’s manic behavior seemed out of proportion. Unless there was someone impacted by the merger who could loathe Garth and Ronnie equally and see Ronnie as a viable next ta
rget. “Given your concerns, is it safe to proceed with the merger?”

  Ronnie looked queasy for a moment, then nodded. “I sure hope so. It’s what’s best for both firms. And I know it’s what Garth would’ve wanted.”

  “We’re straying from the point of the interview, aren’t we?” Paula asked pointedly.

  The point of the official interview, sure, and I couldn’t think of a way to stay on the topic of Garth’s death that wouldn’t arouse Paula’s suspicion and further inflame Ronnie’s paranoia.

  “Right,” Ronnie said. “Let’s dish about Gwen.” Paula cut him a warning look, but he reached over and patted her hand sloppily. She slid her hands into her lap, out of his reach.

  “I’d like to get your impressions of Gwen as a businesswoman, moving forward with both the agency and her venture with Emile Trebask in the shadow of her husband’s death,” I said.

  “Ex-husband,” Paula corrected.

  “The papers were never signed.”

  “Unsigned papers’ll change your life,” Ronnie said lightly, making a visible effort to relax now that the conversation was moving away from the shooting. Though he professed affection for Gwen, he apparently didn’t fully embrace the thought of being her business partner.

  Running Garth’s company—without Garth—potentially put Ronnie in an enviable position in a hugely competitive field. But could he maintain that position? The aging posters on the hallway walls made me wonder. “Even with Ms. Lincoln’s involvement, are you comfortable taking Mr. Henderson’s place?”

  Ronnie shook his head emphatically. “I’m not gonna try. He was one of a kind. But I can keep the firm moving ahead on the path he laid. As long as I still have those girls.”

  “Those girls?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Ronnie flashed me a grin. “You haven’t met the Harem?”

  “Ronnie, don’t—” Paula attempted, but Ronnie shrugged her off.

  There was a joke here I wasn’t in on, a fact Ronnie seemed to enjoy a great deal. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”