I had forgotten how hilly northern Michigan could be. One moment I stared up fifty-foot embankments on either side; the next, I gazed down as the shoulder dropped into a valley thirty feet below. I was admiring the landscape when Higgins turned to me.
"Guess I owe you an apology."
"Oh?" An apology? From Sean Higgins? I smiled, recalling Matt Carter’s comment: "an apology from Higgins comes about as often as a neutered Cocker Spaniel."
"You knew Bacalla and Roland were up to something," he said. "Personally, I think it’s industrial espionage."
"They’re evil, alright. But their game’s not industrial espionage."
"It isn’t? But you..."
"Thought at first they were spying on our ad campaign for the new Ampere. I know."
"And now..."
"You're not going to say my imagination’s running wild?"
"After what's happened anything is possible. My mind is as open as one of those giant beach umbrellas."
"Alright. You’ve heard of subliminal persuasion?"
"You mean that BS about the sub-conscious picking up messages invisible to the eye?"
"BS, huh? Where’s that giant beach umbrella?"
“My mind is always open. But that doesn't mean it accepts every hare-brained thought that comes along."
“I admit it’s a stretch, but something Manny Rodriguez said the night he called sticks in my mind. He mentioned the words subliminal persuasion.”
“He said he found a subliminal message on that disc?”
“Not exactly. He told me to come over right away, which I did, finding him nearly beaten to death.”
“So you don’t know for a fact he found a subliminal message on the disc.”
“No.” We rode in silence for a while.
"Assuming you're right,” Sean said finally, “and I don’t believe for a moment you are, what kind of subliminal message would be on that disc?"
"Whatever’s on it, Bacalla and Roland are desperate to get it back.” I said. "I think somehow it involves drugs or drug cartels.”
I wanted to describe my conversation with Sid Goldman yesterday afternoon; a meeting that now seemed an eternity ago. I recalled my former creative director’s suspicions concerning Bacalla and his telephone calls to Tijuana.
Remembering Sid’s shaking hands and the threats to his granddaughter's life, I kept the conversation to myself.
Higgins stared at the road ahead. "If you're right, we're in ahell of a lot more trouble than we thought."
10
Monday, Oct. 11 – 1:13 p.m.
The FedEx package listed Darren Cato as the addressee, but Carter didn’t hesitate to tear it open.
Inside he found a square, flat plastic carton; the type designed to hold DVDs or CD-ROMs. The label on the disc inside was clearly visible: Avion On the Beach :30 Submaster copy. Chapman, Rodriguez and I watched as Carter popped the container open and removed the disc. A piece of paper packed with it fell to the floor. Carter picked it up.
"It's from Caponi," he said, glancing at the paper and then back to the three of us. “It says, Hey Cato, what the hell's with this DVD?"
"Maybe it’s blank,” Chapman said.
"Doesn’t figure he’d make a big deal over a blank disc,” Rodriguez said.
Carter nodded. “Let’s run it on the big screen up on seven and see.”
A half-dozen run-throughs in the screening room turned up nothing unusual. The disc contained a commercial exactly as I remembered seeing it on TV: an Avion automobile screaming over Daytona Beach sand, its movements choreographed to a strong jazz beat. As the car halts, it’s surrounded by a group of bikini-clad women. The ad stood as proof that beer commercials don’t have a corner on mindless male chauvinism.
As the lights came up I found the men looking my way, waiting for a reaction.
"We won't be doing commercials like that while I'm in charge of creative," I said.
"The whole thing was Murphy's idea." Rodriguez sounded defensive. “He’s AVC's vice president of advertising. The guy loves to go off on location with a bunch of good-looking babes."
"It was embarrassing," Carter said. “They scrapped the thing after two or three weeks.”
The phone rang. I was closest. "Screening room, James."
"Ms. James, is Matt Carter with you?" asked the voice.
"He is."
"There's a policeman in the lobby to see him."
"There's a cop downstairs for you," I said to Carter.
Carter took the receiver. "Put him on, Mary." Matt listened for a moment. “That’s right. I worked with Vince. On a number of projects. And I worked with Cato."
Silence again. “You’re welcome to come up to my office and ask questions. But you might be interested in a DVD Caponi sent to the agency the night he died. We’re screening it now.”
Carter set the phone in the cradle. “He’s coming up.”
A few minutes later, the shock that went through me couldn’t have been worse if I’d touched a live wire.
"Garry!” It felt like someone pushed a “reverse” button on my life and sent it reeling back five years. In the doorway to the screening room stood my ex-husband. He still carried his two hundred pounds well on a six-foot-one frame, but his hair was short. And that suit. When we married, Garry had been a narc; his uniform jeans and sweatshirts. He wore earrings and a ring through an eyebrow.
Known as the best actor on the force, Garry could talk his way into a crack house and make a buy; the inside man during a bust. But now the surprise on his face was real.
"Da...Darcy," he stammered. "I thought you were in Grand Rapids."
"I moved back this week. What are you doing here?"
"Investigating a murder...at least one. Guy named Vince Caponi. I understand he edited TV commercials for this company." Regaining his composure, he turned to the three men. "I’m Sergeant Kaminski. I got questions for Mr. Carter.”
“I’m Matt Carter. What do you mean, at least one murder?”
“Sorry. I guess you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?” I asked.
“Darren Cato. He worked here?”
“Yeah. What about him?” Carter asked.
“Sorry to break the news. His girl friend found him an hour ago. Hanged, in his living room.”
“My god,” I said. “Hanged? Suicide?”
“His girl friend says no, and she’s plenty emphatic. They had plans for dinner tonight.”
“So, what are you doing about it?” Chapman asked.
“We’re investigating. That’s all I can say.” Garry turned to Matt Carter. “You said something about a DVD on the phone.”
"An AVC commercial Caponi sent to Darren Cato. They worked on the commercial together months ago." He handed the note to my ex-husband. “Sounds like he found something on the DVD.”
Garry scanned the piece of paper. “This Caponi's handwriting?"
"I've worked with him enough to recognize it."
"Well, what the hell is with that DVD?"
"Nothing," I said. "We've looked at it half a dozen times."
"Want to see it?" Carter asked.
"You bet I do." Standing hands on hips, Garry watched the large screen as Matt pressed the remote to rerun the commercial. When it finished, Garry spoke: "What's unusual about a bunch of women on a beach? Why would he bother sending it to you?"
The ringing of the telephone cut off any attempt at an answer. I reached for it: "James."
"Ms. James, I was hoping I'd find you,” said the voice. “This is Tricia, Ken Cunningham’s administrative assistant. Joe Adams and Mr. Cunningham are calling a meeting of all agency employees. Ken insisted I track you down."
"What's it about?"
"All I know, it's an emergency."
“Where and when?"
"Three o'clock, first floor lobby. Please pass the word to the others with you."
I looked at my watch. Two fifteen. The reason for the meeting wouldn't be a mystery long.
/>
11
2:54 p.m.
Adams & Benson's cylindrical-shaped "Glass Palace" and adjacent parking lots cover five acres on the bank of the Detroit River, just east of the Renaissance Center.
The building’s spectacular three-story lobby brings first-time visitors to their knees. Entering glass doors at the front of the building, their attention is immediately drawn to the thirty-foot waterfall at the far south end. The sound of water crashing into the pool at its base reverberates throughout the lobby.
On the second and third floor levels, glass-walled offices ring the lobby on three sides. A stairway just inside the front doors runs up ten feet to a round, carpeted mezzanine area, then twists and continues to the second floor. Twenty feet in diameter, the mezzanine creates an ideal speaking platform for an executive addressing a crowd below.
Minutes before three o'clock I stood just feet from that mezzanine, among a crowd of some five hundred A & B workers. Speculation buzzed about the reason for the meeting, but the consensus held it had something to do with the VanBuhler campaign. The crowd noise subsided as Ken Cunningham, Joe Adams and A & B board chairman C. J. Rathmore appeared at the head of the stairway on the second floor. They descended to the round mezzanine, Cunningham in the lead. Once they reached the platform, it surprised me to see that neither the chairman nor president stepped forward to speak. It was Ken Cunningham.
I hadn’t seen Ken in years, but he hadn’t changed. In a voice as rough as sandpaper, familiar as an old friend, he began to speak. He started with the announcement of Darren Cato’s death. A collective gasp came from the crowd, but I couldn’t help noticing the reactions were more shock than sorrow. Carter had been right: even a dead Darren Cato didn’t rate much sympathy from his fellow workers.
After a pause to let the news settle, Cunningham went on. He spent a few moments directing accolades at agency employees, telling them what a great job they were all doing. Then he dropped the bomb.
"This morning the American Vehicle Corporation informed Joe Adams that after more than ninety years with Adams & Benson, they’re going to conduct a review of advertising agencies."
Another gasp filled the lobby. A review meant AVC was considering other agencies, and losing the AVC account would mean a horrendous loss of jobs.
Suddenly landing a position at A & B didn’t seem so fortunate after all. When an advertising agency loses a major account, the ax falls. The rule is usually “last in, first out.” I rubbed the back of my neck.
Looking around, I saw a sea of tight, worried faces. People stood with arms crossed, brows furrowed. A few women dabbed at their eyes with tissues.
"The rules of the review are simple," Cunningham said. "AVC has a new model they're rushing onto the market. They've shared their marketing objectives with us, and with Simpson & Dancer and Chase Hilton, the agencies handling the other AVC divisions. The company creating what AVC considers the best campaign will be awarded all AVC advertising in the future. There will be two losers, and only one winner.
"Sean Higgins and his group will tackle this project immediately. I hope you'll all have a chance to meet our new creative supervisor, Darcy James, in the next few days.” Cunningham smiled and nodded as he looked my way. “Her team of writers and art directors will spearhead the creative, working under tight security.”
Cunningham paused and looked around before continuing. "That's it for now. You'll be kept up to date on developments as they occur. Sean Higgins and I will meet with Darcy James’ creative group in the eighth floor conference room at four o'clock."
Cunningham did an abrupt about face and walked back up the stairs, followed by the other two men.
As stunned employees returned to their offices, the lobby emptied like a balloon losing its air.
12
News of the agency review seemed even more surprising given the history of the two companies. Adams & Benson and the American Vehicle Corporation were, as executives of both companies liked to say, "joined at the hip."
Bicker Adams, a one-time salesman for the Rembly Motor Car Company, founded the agency. His famous slogan, "No Car Rides Like a Rembly," carved awareness for the automobile, and accelerated it past dozens of choices the American public faced in the mid-twenties.
The agency blossomed in that decade, but like many companies nearly went out of business in the Thirties.
Expansion came in the Fifties. Adams Advertising purchased a smaller agency owned by James Benson. Benson Advertising brought a variety of accounts like Bassline Fishing Boats and Haraday Inns into the fold.
Changes took place at the Rembly Motor Car Company, too. Rembly merged with two other manufacturers in the post-war Forties to become the American Vehicle Corporation.
The following decades saw both companies prosper, and by the merger-happy Seventies, A & B's profitability attracted buyout offers from a number of larger firms. Bicker Adams insisted he would never sell, and he didn't. His son Joe did, years after his father’s death. The buyer: Solomon & Solomon, a British holding company. The purchase agreement stipulated that Joe Adams remain at A & B as president. C. J. Rathmore, a Solomon & Solomon corporate vp from London, came to Detroit recently as A & B's chairman of the board.
The trade press blamed the sale on Adams & Benson’s need for capital to replace the outlandish sum spent on their magnificent new building. But rumors persisted that Joe Adams himself had been responsible. His well-known penchant for gambling rivaled his love for liquor. According to the stories, he and his friend Niles VanBuhler had combined the two vices during a whirlwind trip to the Bahamas almost exactly a year ago. The result for Joe Adams had been an eight million dollar loss at the crap tables. When Solomon & Solomon appeared with an offer to buy the agency, their timing appeared perfect. They caught Adams in desperate need of cash and eager to consummate the deal.
The sale hadn't stopped Adams’ gambling, especially now that Detroit had casinos of its own. But at least A & B staffers could stop worrying about their agency changing hands after every Adams binge.
13
3:21 p.m.
I returned to my office reeling from Cunningham’s speech.
Dropping into the chair behind my desk, I noticed the light on my phone blinking. It turned out to be a voice mail message from Jeff Luden, a friend and Vice President at Luden Freeman Advertising in Chicago. I’d called him weeks ago when I became restless in Grand Rapids. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment, but curiosity got the best of me.
He picked up the phone on the second ring. “Luden.”
“Jeff, Darcy James.”
“Hey, Darcy. Wish I could talk, but I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. We’re in desperate need of a senior creative person here. Sorry to be abrupt, but I’ve got to cut to the chase. What would it take to hire you?”
Right now, not much. But could I really resign after just one day on the job?
“Look, Darcy, whatever you’re making at A & B, I know we can go at least twenty K better. Let me know.”
With that he was gone, leaving me staring at the receiver in my hand. It took a moment to recover and play a second voice mail message, simple and to the point: Ken Cunningham wanted to see me in his office immediately.
***
I found Ken behind an oak desk the size of Vermont. He stood and walked around the desk as I entered the room.
I stuck out my hand, which Ken ignored, grabbing me in a bear hug.
"Darcy. Good to have you back."
The embrace conjured up fond memories. Ken had been a close friend of the family and a frequent visitor to my parents' home.
“How’s your father?”
"Dad's fine. You know he remarried."
"Yes, sorry I missed the wedding. Bad timing. Is he still in Grand Rapids?"
"No. With me gone, he and Melanie -- his new wife -- didn't need that big house. They bought a condo just outside the city limits."
Ken stood back and looked me up and down in a fatherly sort
of way. “You’ve certainly grown into a fine young lady, Darcy. It’s hard to believe you’re the same little girl your dad used to call ‘Kitten.’”
“He still does.” I laughed. “But at least he’s shortened it to ‘Kit.’”
"I know your dad’s active as ever in politics. His name's on the guest list of every fund raiser the Dems throw. Wish he'd support our guy, VanBuhler, though."
"Afraid that's impossible, Ken. You know Dad...die-hard Democrat. It would be sacrilege to vote for a third party candidate."
Cunningham had been active in mainstream politics as a Republican. As early as high school, he and Dad had fallen on opposite sides of major issues, and both enjoyed the debates that ensued. As they grew older, Ken’s resemblance to the old Democratic House Speaker Tip O'Neil became a constant source of ribbing from my dad.
Ken’s face grew somber. "That announcement downstairs must have been a hell of a shock, Darcy. Especially coming on the heels of Darren Cato’s death.”
Ken waited for a reaction. I hadn’t known Cato, and when I didn’t show one, he went on.
“I want you to know that AVC’s announcement came as a huge surprise to me as well." He motioned to one of the four plush leather chairs in front of his desk.
I had never seen Ken so serious. "Bill Kesler, AVC's Chairman, called Joe Adams this morning. Didn't have the guts to call me. Anyway, even my contacts at AVC were in the dark."
"And you found out..."
"When Adams broke the news at lunch. Just ten of us there. He wanted to keep the whole damn thing secret. We talked him out of that. But he didn't want to make the speech. I got elected."
I nodded. It reminded me of the old Cadillac ad: The Penalty of Leadership.
"As I said downstairs, Darcy, I have great confidence in you and your team."
I swallowed hard. "Thanks, Ken. You can count on us."
"One thing." Cunningham took a breath. "Baron Nichols' group will take a shot at it along with yours."
"Nichols? Ken, if you don't think..."
Cunningham held up a hand. "Believe me Darcy, it's not any lack of confidence in your team."
"Why, then?"
"Politics. Nichols demanded to be included. Any other time, I'd have told him to shove it. But right now, dissension is the last thing we need. The matter's settled, and I'll have more to tell all of you at four o'clock.”
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