Empty.
"Looking for this?"
Startled by the deep masculine voice, I spun around. Facing me stood a tall, dark-complected man with a thin mustache. Holding a pistol. The shock was only momentary. Then, surprise turned to anger. This, obviously, was Robert Bacalla, and while I didn’t have an explanation for being in his office, he certainly had no business carrying a gun inside the building.
"No, I’m looking for answers,” I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "What right do you have bringing a gun into this building?"
The man had been pointing the pistol toward me. Now he lowered the barrel, and transferred the weapon to his left hand where it appeared less threatening.
"I have a permit. I occasionally carry campaign funds for the election committee. Sometimes a hundred thousand or more dollars. This pistol is the committee's idea."
He spoke in the precise fashion of someone to whom English is a second language.
"Now, it is my turn to ask a question. What is your business on this side of the sixth floor?"
"I...I guess I was curious." The words sounded weak, even to me. "I work here on six...on the AVC account."
"But you realize, do you not, this part of the floor is off-limits to anyone not working for me?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." I felt humiliated standing there, having to take this like a child caught smoking. Turning to leave, I saw a DVD in a clear plastic case on the coffee table in front of the sofa. As I read the words Avion submaster through the case, I suddenly felt stronger.
"Actually, I was looking for this." I snatched up the disc. "It's the submaster copy of an Avion commercial my group needs. It was stolen." I looked directly into Bacalla's eyes. “And I thought it might be here."
"Take it," Bacalla said with a wave of his hand. "One of my people found it in the elevator. I have no need for it.”
"Thank you." I headed for the door. I couldn’t get away fast enough.
"And please stay on your side of the building."
On the trip back to my office I vowed I'd find a way to wipe the damn smirk off Bacalla's face.
25
6:32 p.m.
The anger I felt leaving Bacalla magnified a hundredfold by the time I reached my office and found Sean Higgins standing by my desk.
"Darcy, about lunch..."
Brushing past him, I slammed the DVD on my desk. "Son-of-a-bitch," I hissed.
"Damn it, Darcy, I came here to apologize. I don't deserve that."
I blinked a couple of times, took a deep breath and came back down to earth. “Sorry. It's not you. It's Bacalla."
"Bacalla?"
"Robert M. Bacalla, head of the frigging VanBuhler group. The son-of-a-bitch had this stolen Avion submaster in his office; then made me feel like a trespasser when I went to get it.
"There's something strange going on here." Starting at the beginning, I told Higgins about the gun, the missing DVD, and the lecture from Bacalla that left me chewing nails.
"But why would they want that Avion DVD?"
I had thought about that. "Maybe Roland didn't know it was an Avion DVD."
"What do you mean?"
"Carter said it was in his credenza. With his Ampere materials."
"So?"
"What if Roland thought the DVD had something to do with the Ampere campaign? There could have been a sample Ampere TV commercial on it. The kind we put together in the Media Center."
“But you said it’s clearly labeled ‘Avion submaster.’”
“So maybe we mislabeled the disc to throw off anyone who might want to steal it.”
"You're overlooking one thing, Darcy. Bacalla and his people are focused on getting VanBuhler elected. What do they care about the Ampere?"
I wasn’t certain myself, but Higgins’ mind seemed closed to any idea outside the ordinary. “I'm sure they want to see VanBuhler elected. But what if one of them -- Roland, say -- is also working for one of the agencies we're competing against for the AVC business?"
Higgins exhaled. "Okay, okay. Anything’s possible. But it’s obvious to me Carter left the disc on the elevator and is afraid to admit it. One of Bacalla's people found it, just as he said."
It sounded like BS to me, but before I could say so, Higgins turned to leave.
"I'm glad your imagination is working," he said over his shoulder. "But try to keep it focused on the Ampere."
26
11:14 p.m.
Hello?
Dad, it’s me.
Kit! How are things in the Motor City?
They’re great, advertising wise.
What do you mean?
The campaign we’re working on is coming along well.
Then why the hesitation in your voice?
Dad, there’s something going on here I don’t like. Something besides the two murders I mentioned the last time we talked.
What do you mean, Kit?
I wish I knew. There are some people I’m convinced are up to something, but I’m not sure what it is.
Your hunches have always been good.
That’s just it. I wish I had a stronger hunch.
What’s your guess?
I think they might be working for another agency, one of the companies we’re pitching against. They may be trying to get information on that campaign we’re crashing.
Industrial spies?
Something like that.
Kit, you be careful.
I am, Dad. I go home after work every night.
I hope you find some time to enjoy yourself.
I haven’t gotten out at all. But I’ve been playing a little Gershwin on the piano. It helps me relax.
You have a piano?
Yes, and what a surprise. It came with the house the agency found me in Indian Village.
Indian Village? What did they find you, a teepee?
No. Indian Village is a small community on the east side of Detroit. Mainly professional people. The homes are older. Mine was built in the Twenties.
And it’s still standing?
The homes are older, but they’re kept up very well. Like a certain gentleman I know.
Hey, I’m not that old. At least Melanie doesn’t think so.
How’s Melanie doing?
She sends her love. And I hear her calling. It’s time for bed.
Tired already, Dad?
Who said anything about sleeping?
Don’t ever change, Dad. I love you.
I love you, too, Kit. Goodnight.
27
Now
It was nearly noon when Higgins finally found the dirt road that led to his uncle’s cabin. We drove down a narrow trail past a number of cottages boarded up for the winter. Higgins explained the majority of the lake's residents were seasonal.
It occurred to me that we were isolated from ninety-nine percent of the state’s population, and my ex-husband’s warning came back to me. I didn’t know Higgins well, but I felt certain he was incapable of murdering Darren Cato, no matter how much he disliked him. I tucked the thought away.
As the Avatar pulled into a sandy drive bordered by pines on both sides, I found myself facing the back of a small, red aluminum-sided cottage with a gray shingled roof and an attached garage. It lay among a grove of oak, birch and northern pine, and through the trees I saw the bright blue waters of a lake.
Higgins found a key under the porch. Carrying large grocery bags in each arm, I followed him through the back door, through a bedroom and into the living area of the cottage. Higgins opened the blinds covering the front window, and revealed a picturesque view of Lake Manuka. Vibrantly colored cottages ringed the far side a half-mile or so across. The quiet beauty reminded me of a Worthington Whittredge landscape.
The living room featured comfortable furniture, chosen for utility rather than decoration. A huge stone fireplace nearly covered the wall to my right, its blackened interior evidence of crackling wood fires on cool evenings past.
The cottage was rectangular
, three bedrooms and a bathroom taking up the back half. The front comprised a living room, dining area and kitchen.
I set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Through a window over the sink I saw a white cottage on the lot next door, just beyond a clump of pines. An elderly woman raked leaves in the yard. Higgins saw me staring and walked over.
"I'll be damned," he said, "Mrs. Gordon is still alive.”
"She looks ninety years old."
"She looked ninety years old when I was a teenager. She and her husband must have moved in just after the glaciers that dug these lakes receded. Mr. Gordon used to take me squirrel hunting.”
He smiled. “You had to be a great shot to hunt with him."
"Why was that?"
"His rifles were both single-shot twenty-twos. If you missed, the squirrel was in the next county before you could reload.” Higgins rubbed his stomach. "Enough history. Let's unload the car and eat."
I followed him outside. It was warm for a Michigan October, in the high sixties. Indian summer. I kicked off my shoes and enjoyed the feeling of cool, sandy soil oozing between my toes. A gentle breeze blew off the lake, rattling dry leaves clinging to branches overhead. An outboard motor purred somewhere.
I carried two bags filled with clothes into the corner bedroom. Returning to the back porch, I saw Higgins back a faded blue Chevrolet Lumina out of the garage into the sandy area behind. He replaced it with the Avatar and closed the door.
“If we go anywhere, this old Lumina is going to attract a lot less attention than the Avatar.”
We carried the last of the grocery bags into the cabin and I went into the bedroom to unpack. When I came out, I found Higgins standing over a frying pan.
"How do you like your burgers?"
"Right now, I'd eat them raw.”
We ate on the wooden deck in front of the cottage beneath a sky of brilliant blue, bothered only by an occasional cloud. A light October breeze stirred up small ripples on the lake, and brought the pleasant aroma of burning leaves from Mrs. Gordon's lot. But it wasn't long before the conversation drifted back to Detroit.
Higgins looked at his watch. "Two-thirty. The Ampere pitch should be over. Let’s call the agency and see if there’s any news.”
“Speaking of news, how do you think they’re taking the news about us and that policeman being shot?”
“You don’t think anyone there actually believes we’re guilty?”
“I just think we have to be careful who we talk to.” “How about Ken Cunningham?”
“I trust him.”
“So do I. Let’s call.”
But both phones, in the kitchen and my bedroom, were dead. "Turned off for the winter," Higgins said. "I should have thought of that."
"What now?"
"I'll go next door...use Mrs. Gordon's phone to call Cunningham, then call the phone company to get ours turned on.”
I watched Higgins through the window over the sink. He approached Mrs. Gordon, talked for a moment, then went into her cottage. He was back in ten minutes.
"Cunningham said AVC management loved our presentation. But he doesn’t expect a decision from AVC until at least tomorrow. Apparently the other two agencies are presenting in the morning.”
“What did he say about our situation?”
“He still thinks we ought to give ourselves up. But he’s not going to tip the authorities. He’s taking a chance, you know.”
I felt relieved...with both Ken’s reaction and AVC’s acceptance of our magazine ads and TV commercial. But the reality of our situation couldn’t be denied: Even if we won the business, we’d be doing our jobs from behind bars if we didn’t get out of this mess.
28
Thursday, Oct. 14 11:00 a.m.
The morning began with a message that Ken Cunningham wanted to see what our creative team had accomplished so far. The request seemed highly unfair after just two and a half days of work. But at eleven a.m. Team Ampere streamed into the eighth floor conference room with layouts, print copy and a television story board – all in their most embryonic stages. Cunningham, Higgins and Lyle Windemere sat around the large mahogany table. Cunningham didn’t waste time.
"Thanks for coming. I apologize for interrupting your work with this impromptu meeting. But the reason will become obvious.
"First, we -- Sean, Lyle and I -- would like to see what you've done so far."
"Ken, we've just..." I cut my protest short as Cunningham raised his hand.
"Believe me, I know you’ve had no time at all. I merely want to see where we stand.”
For the next few minutes I offered a capsulated version of the concepts the group had created. Cunningham seemed pleased.
"I like your thinking," he said. "And your plans for the Internet are right on target. But my main concern is television. How are you doing there?"
"I think we've come up with a pretty decent approach." Then, looking directly at Cunningham: "Given the limitations."
"I know I’ve limited your alternatives. But you'll understand in a moment. Let's see what you have."
I turned the floor over to Stankowski, Carter and Rodriguez, who ran through their television concept.
In the end, Cunningham was smiling. "I like it," he said. "How long will it take to get it ready to air?"
Carter started thinking out loud: "Computer animation... recording music...videotaping singers...I'd say three, four weeks."
"Can it be done faster? Say a week and a half?"
Carter whistled. "You’re talking a ton of overtime and money, Ken. But sure, it can be done."
Cunningham leaned forward, elbows on the table. He lowered his voice. "Okay. Here's why I called this meeting.
"AVC isn't expecting anything for three weeks. And, until I saw your ideas, I figured we'd have to stick to that schedule. Sean and I reviewed Baron Nichols' group earlier and, frankly, they're nowhere near as far along as you are."
I couldn't help smiling. Winning the AVC business couldn’t possibly feel any better than showing up Baron Nichols.
"Because of what I see here," Cunningham said. "I'm going to call Bill Kesler this morning and tell him we want to present our campaign early. Next Monday."
Next Monday? I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Ken you can’t be serious.”
"Serious enough to gamble the entire American Vehicle account. Look, as it stands we have one chance in three of winning the business. That's not good enough. I'm a firm believer that when the odds aren't in your favor, change the game.
“Here's my plan: on October 25, exactly a week and a half from now, the New York Jets play the San Francisco Forty-Niners on ESPN’s Monday Night Football."
"That's going to be a hell of a shoot out," Bob Roy said. "A rematch of last season's Super Bowl teams."
"Exactly," said Cunningham. "And the Super Bowl ended on a disputed call in overtime.”
"The build-up for this game has been huge," Higgins said. "You’re talking a Super Bowl size TV audience."
"Right," said Cunningham. "AVC's a regular sponsor; the people over there are beside themselves. They own two prime spots during the game, and that’s the reason for this meeting. I'm going to roll the dice."
I looked over at Higgins. The slight smile curling his lips said he knew what was coming.
"AVC plans to run its usual Avion spots on that Monday night, ten days from now," Cunningham said. "But we're going to surprise them.
"I'm going to guarantee we can put them on air with the Ampere."
***
The meeting had been a two-edged sword.
Beating out Baron Nichols gave me more satisfaction than I wanted to admit. But Cunningham's move left me with an antsy feeling. It was gutsy, all right, but also reckless.
It reminded me of "Tonk," a card game I played as a child. Everyone started with three cards and continued to draw and discard, until someone thought he or she had the best hand. That player would "tonk," knock on the table. The others then drew a
final card, and laid down their hands. The highest three cards won.
Once in a great while a player would refuse to draw any cards, tonking immediately after the deal, gambling his original three cards would be good enough to win.
Ken Cunningham seemed to be playing that game now -- calling in the cards, betting that his company's campaign, as it now stood, would beat anything the other two agencies were holding. He was forcing their hands by readying A & B's Ampere commercial in time for the year's biggest television audience.
If right, A & B would keep its current AVC business, and rake in another nine hundred million in billings.
If wrong, the agency's largest account, one it had held more than ninety years, would be lost.
And with it, a few hundred jobs.
29
2:47 p.m.
I was filling in start times and due dates on the chart in my PC that inventoried the group’s print and television ads when the phone on my desk rang.
"James."
"Miss James, this is Marsha Tower, Mr. Rathmore’s administrative assistant." Her voice had a curt, take no prisoners quality.
Her formal tone didn’t intimidate me. "Yes, Marsha?"
"Mr. Rathmore wants to see you. He asks that you be in his office at three o'clock. Sharp."
A click sounded at the other end of the line.
***
Marsha Tower turned out to be a trim blonde in her late fifties with a carefully manicured coiffure.
"Mr. Rathmore is meeting with Mr. Adams," she said, ushering me into the office of A & B’s Board Chairman. "He'll return shortly. You may wait here."
Left alone, I looked around Rathmore’s spacious office. Through the full-length window that made up the far wall, I could see east, past Belle Isle and almost to Lake St. Clair. To the right, across the River, lay southern Ontario.
Against the wall on my left, a long table held a variety of artifacts, carvings of stone and wood. I picked up what appeared to be a warrior chiseled out of stone.
"That's a Mayan chief," came a voice from behind me. "It's at least a thousand years old. Please don't drop it."
Surprised, I spun around, lucky I didn’t drop the damn thing. C. J. Rathmore was about my height, five-feet-nine or so, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and red and black striped tie. He wore glasses with rimless, round lenses and had a rather dark complexion for an Englishman; still, the accent was unmistakably British.
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