"I think you've done one hell of a job. Now let’s present it to AVC’s Board of Directors and bring home the whole damn account.”
Cunningham spent a few minutes on instructions. He asked for a write up covering our marketing background so he and Higgins could present it to the AVC Board.
"You'll be at the presentation, too," he told me. "But I know these guys; worked with them for fifteen years. I'll do most of the talking.
“Besides," he smiled, "It’s going to be fun presenting this campaign."
42
Despite the euphoria from management's reaction, our celebration proved short-lived. After a short respite that included devouring the remainder of the bagels, donuts and coffee, we went back to our offices and began fine-tuning for the Big One: Monday morning’s presentation to AVC's Board of Directors.
I left the building well after seven and settled for a movable feast: a tour of the drive-through lane at a McDonald's on Jefferson Avenue.
It was dark as I approached my neighborhood, and despite my personal pep talks, a queasy feeling gripped my stomach that had nothing to do with fast food. Whoever attacked Manny Rodriguez tried to kill him, and the questions kept coming. The biggest one of all: Was I next?
It seemed foolish to take chances. I parked next to a schoolyard two blocks away and began walking.
Light from houses blended with the yellow street lamps to brighten the scene and lessen my fears. Still, ominous patches of darkness between houses could easily conceal an attacker. I found myself walking faster.
It felt warm for October, pleasant really. I pictured families inside those homes eating dinner or watching television, and childhood memories came flooding back. I wished I could take my father aside as I’d done in high school and unload my fears. But this time it was up to me.
Entering my house, I left the lights out and double-checked the locks on front, back and side doors.
I phoned the hospital for word on Manny Rodriguez. His condition remained "critical."
I sat on the floor in my living room, reclining against the couch, my back to the window. Light from outside spilled in from behind me, illuminating the opposite wall. I decided it would be a great place for my prized oil by Quang Ho.
The worries of the past few days had my head spinning. I grabbed my trusty Martin guitar from its stand by the couch and began strumming quietly through the opening bars of the Eagles’ Desperado.
That’s when I heard the car door close.
43
I put the Martin back on its stand and turned to the window.
A car stood in front of the house next door. I scrunched down, keeping my eyes just above the window ledge, and inched closer, my nose nearly touching the glass. A figure rounded the front of the car and walked toward my house, a large man wearing a jacket and carrying something, a flashlight maybe.
He walked up the driveway. Ducking below the window, I pressed myself against the wall, not daring to raise high enough to look outside. I heard footsteps getting louder, then halting. The intruder had stopped directly on the other side of a thin, fragile pane of glass.
A beam of light swept through the room. I held my breath, afraid he might hear. Heart pounding, I watched the light dance around the room. Then it went away, and footsteps sounded again along the drive, moving away, toward the rear of the house.
I lifted my head and peeked over the window ledge. The man stood in front of the garage, flashlight on. The light went out and his dark silhouette disappeared from my line of sight as he walked to the back of the house. I heard him try the knob at the rear door. Locked. My eyes barely above the windowsill, I watched him reappear again and come toward me, along the drive.
Roland.
He stopped fifteen feet from me and bent down, out of my sight line. I heard a scraping sound, then a thud from the basement. A chill ran through my body. Roland had pried open a window and was inside my home.
Objects crashed in the basement as I ran to the front door. Footsteps pounded on the stairs off the kitchen. My fingers were wet with perspiration as I turned the dead bolt, then the handle, swung the door open and rushed through, slamming it behind me.
Out on the street, I ran for the car I left at the school.
In minutes that seemed like hours, I reached it. Out of breath, heart pounding, but alone.
I stopped at the first pay phone and dialed nine-one-one. Within minutes a squad car appeared, and two police officers followed me home to find...nothing. Roland’s car had vanished, and so had he. One of the officers found marks where Roland had pried open the basement window, and the incident went down as a burglary, as common in big cities as paved streets.
***
Later, in bed at a Holiday Inn on Harper Avenue, I decided to call on Sid Goldman the next day. Sid would have some helpful advice. That is, if I could convince him I hadn’t gone crazy, and he had regained enough strength to help. It had been six weeks since the heart attack; would I find him back on his feet or flat on his back?
44
Sunday, Oct. 17 -- 1:14 p.m.
I pulled into the driveway of Sid's sprawling red brick ranch home in the suburb of Bloomfield Hills, just north of Detroit.
Three suitcases rode with me, in the back seat. I had gone back to my house just long enough to pack and telephone Sid. I’d check into another motel this evening.
A note taped to the screen door told me to walk around the house, where I found Sid enjoying the warm Indian summer sun on his patio. I’d feared he’d be weak and pale. Instead, Sid looked fit and tanned, decked out in a navy blue golf shirt, khaki slacks and brown loafers.
He rose to greet me, setting a copy of Advertising Age on the table in front of him. He took my hand in both of his with a firm grip.
"Darcy. Wonderful to see you. Welcome back to the Motor City."
"Thanks, Sid. But there's obviously a mistake here. Someone else must have had that heart attack. You look great."
"No." Goldman laughed. "It was me alright. Kicked the hell out of me. Four weeks ago, you'd have found me in my skivvies.
"Sit down, sit down." I pulled a chair away from the table and sat across from Sid.
"Mavis is at her sister's; I'm playing host. Let me get you some iced tea. Or perhaps a scotch?”
"Nothing right now, thanks."
Sid settled back in his chair. "You said you wanted to talk. Anything to do with the Ampere?"
Sid’s mention of the Ampere caught me off guard. My expression must have telegraphed the surprise.
"Oh, I know all about the Ampere business," he said. "After I read about AVC's decision to review agencies, I called Cunningham. He drove out to fill me in." Sid smiled. "Probably afraid I'd have another heart attack if he didn't."
"The campaign's going fine. But there's something else...something really strange, Sid."
"What do you mean?"
I told him, starting with Vince Caponi's death, Darren Cato’s suicide/murder, and the arrival of the suspect DVD at the agency. I described how the disc had been stolen, then turned up in Bacalla's office. At the mention of the name, Sid's face wrinkled as if he’d bitten into a lemon.
"Bacalla," he said.
"You know him?"
"Yes, of course. He came to the agency just...just before my heart attack."
I waited for Sid to say more. When he didn’t, I prompted him. "What about Bacalla, Sid?"
"Darcy, you have stumbled onto something far worse than you could imagine."
"Bacalla?"
"The son-of-a-bitch is the devil reincarnate."
As I listened, Sid described his first meeting with Robert Bacalla, a cocktail party at the Adams mansion on Lake Shore Drive.
"I sensed something cock-eyed from the start. Said he was from Young & Rubicam in New York. Talking with him five minutes, I could tell he knew nothing about advertising."
"Did you mention that to anyone?"
"Ken Cunningham. Immediately afterwards."
"And?"
Sid looked me in the eye for the first time since Bacalla's name had come up. "Cunningham told me to mind my own business. He said the VanBuhler campaign pointed a national spotlight on Adams & Benson, and I should be glad Bacalla was there."
"Did you? Mind your own business, I mean."
"Hell, no. Bacalla was supposed to be some hot-shot political wizard who helped pull off Richard Columbo's upset. You remember... the guy who came out of nowhere to be elected Governor of New York? First thing I did was call some friends who'd worked on the campaign. They'd never heard of the bastard."
"Then who is he?"
"That's what I wanted to know. Before I went back to Cunningham, I needed facts. I started checking into people Bacalla talked to. Outside the agency, I mean. Our telephone system keeps automatic records of calls going in and out by extension. Marlene Checkle, in administrative services, keeps the records on file."
"She let you see them?"
"You'd be surprised the influence the title 'executive creative director' carries. Anyway, there were calls to Washington, New York...places you'd expect. But there were also calls to Tijuana, Mexico. Frequent calls."
"Tijuana?"
"The drug capital of the Western Hemisphere since the early nineties. Eighty percent of the cocaine that hits our streets passes through Tijuana."
"But phone calls to Tijuana don't prove Bacalla is involved with drugs. Do you know who the calls were to?"
"I was working on that when...it happened."
"What happened, Sid?"
Goldman’s hand shook visibly. “Darcy, what I've told you so far, and what I'm about to say can go no further."
"If that's the way you want it, Sid."
"I made notes of my little investigation. Kept ‘em in a folder in my desk."
"Yes?"
"A week or so later, the notes had vanished. Instead, the folder held two photographs of my granddaughter, Stephanie. In one, her head was cut out of the picture."
"Sid, that's terrible."
"Worse. The pictures were taken by them...whoever they are. The message was clear: they could get to her anytime they wanted."
"You took the threat seriously.”
"You could say that. My heart attack happened the next day.
“This was no idle threat, Darcy. Let me tell you a story. There was a town near Tijuana. The mayor of that village, a woman, had crusaded against Tijuana's drug cartel. One day, as she addressed an elementary school class, two men broke in and grabbed an eight-year-old boy from the classroom. They chopped off his head and threw it back into the room."
"My god."
"An eight year old boy. That's the kind of people we're dealing with. The next child that happens to could be my granddaughter."
I thought back to Bacalla pointing his index finger at my head. A threat that seemed empty suddenly became frighteningly real.
45
I described my brush with the hit-and-run driver in the parking lot and the intruder breaking into my house.
Then I told Sid about Manny Rodriguez; how he seemed to have found something on the DVD, had been badly beaten, and was now in Ford Hospital.
"I heard about Manny,” Sid said. “Hell of a shame. The guy’d never hurt a fly.”
"Manny said you’re the one who brought him to Adams & Benson.”
"Manny was in the Army; weapons expert. Pistol or rifle, he’d shoot the eye out of a chipmunk at fifty yards. Unfortunately, his was one of the first classifications to go when they downsized the military.
"Sorry for getting off track. You were talking about your suspicions."
I finished my story quickly: the disc stolen from Rodriguez, his mention of subliminal persuasion and the possibility of a second disc in the possession of Caponi's widow.
“Subliminal persuasion? Don’t tell me you believe in that crock?” Sid obviously didn’t, and while I was beginning to believe anything could be possible, my imagination had taken enough punishment lately.
When I remained quiet, Sid spoke again. "You said this woman...the widow...is supposed to have a copy of the DVD in question?"
"Yes. But what I can't figure out is: what connection could that Avion DVD have with the Ampere presentation?"
"Beats hell out of me. But that disc seems to be the lightning rod for everything. The shooting of Vince Caponi, the beating of Manny...who knows, maybe even Cato’s phony suicide. He worked on that Avion commercial, after all.”
"So you agree I should visit Caponi's widow and see if she'll give me the DVD?"
Sid didn’t answer right away. It was obvious he wanted to bring Bacalla down, but becoming too involved would certainly risk his granddaughter’s life.
"Yes," he said finally, "I think you should go. But not alone."
"What's Caponi’s widow going to do, shoot me?"
"It's not her I'm worried about. Once you have that disc, you're fair game for the people who want it. And they've already killed twice."
"Who'd go with me?"
"Me, if I were up to it."
"Yes, but you're not."
"Then Matt Carter...you said he knew Caponi."
"He'd be perfect, but he's at the agency preparing the television portion of the campaign for tomorrow's presentation to the AVC Board."
"In that case, the logical candidate is Sean Higgins."
"He thinks I'm nuts."
"Let's see if a phone call changes his mind."
46
4:45 p.m.
The shiny black bullet of a car slid next to mine in Sid’s driveway, and the gullwing door on the driver’s side rose. Sean Higgins placed a hand on the top of the windshield and swung himself up and out. When he stood, the roof of the car came barely to his waist. He had taken care that his black turtleneck and slacks matched the color of the car perfectly.
The car appeared to be a production AVC Avatar, but the rumble of the engine told a different story. It was an Avatar AVX, the souped up version of the Avatar. It had to be the same one I’d driven around the Grattan track three months ago.
"Hi, Sid, you're looking great."
Goldman pointed to the car. "What the hell’s this? You sign up for the Grand Prix?"
"No chance. I wish it were mine. It’s a prototype. The body's stock Avatar, but what's under the hood is twice as mean. AVC calls it the Avatar AVX; they’re going to introduce this beast on the racing circuit next year."
Sid ran an admiring hand over the front fender. "This is no stock paint job either." The vehicle’s gleaming skin appeared to have depth beneath the mirror-like finish.
I meandered over to the car and leaned down into an interior that resembled the cockpit of an F-16 jet fighter. I recognized the curved black instrument panel that wrapped around driver and passenger, the dual black bucket seats, and the shift lever immediately at the driver's right hand that shot the Avatar AVX through six forward gears. Behind this very steering wheel, I had clocked an official two hundred twenty on the straightaway at Gratten.
"No doubt about it," Higgins was saying, "this is a real man's car."
"How did you get hold of this real man's car?" I asked.
If Higgins caught the sarcasm he didn’t show it. "AVC sent it over for a photo shoot. I got the keys from John Read in the photographic department. He's nervous as hell that I have it."
Higgins reached into the cockpit and hit a button. The gullwing door on the passenger side lifted. "C'mon, get in. Let's not keep the lovely Mrs. Caponi waiting."
I’d much rather have gotten behind the wheel, but I put my left leg inside the passenger side, and lowered myself into the leather seat, thankful I wore slacks.
***
"Got a call from your ex-husband,” Higgins said as we drove north on I-94. “He wants to talk about Cato.”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“Just the same...” He let the sentence die off.
/>
Higgins tried his best to act nonchalant, sliding the Avatar in and out of expressway traffic. He obviously had more car than he had dealt with before. The Avatar AVX sprang like a pouncing animal at the slightest touch of the accelerator. Higgins held the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles of both hands turned white. I couldn't help smiling.
He continued looking straight ahead as he spoke. "Sid thinks there's something to your story."
"That's the only reason you're here?"
"That's the main reason I'm here." Then he grinned, looking over at me. "That and the fact I don't have any other place to drive this beast."
47
5:49 p.m.
Light was disappearing as we found Gracie Caponi’s brick ranch in St. Clair Shores, a suburb north of Detroit.
I knocked on the aluminum storm door and the wooden door on the other side of the glass opened. Vince Caponi's widow wore a Detroit Red Wings sweatshirt and jeans, an infant balanced on one hip. Gracie Caponi was a short woman with brown, shoulder-length hair. She pushed the storm door toward us.
"I'm Darcy James, Mrs. Caponi. This is Sean Higgins."
"Do I know you?"
"Darcy and I are with Adams & Benson advertising,” Higgins said. “Your husband was working on a project for our account group.”
“We’re friends of Matt Carter,” I said. “He...we, believe your husband sent you a DVD the night he was killed.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know any Matt Carter. Or anything about a DVD.”
So Mrs. Caponi was going to play games. According to Matt, he had known Gracie and her husband well. Matt had attended Vince’s funeral.
“Like I told the police, and those two men this afternoon, I never got involved in my husband’s business. Rachel, cut that out." She struggled to hold the squirming infant.
I knew she was stonewalling, but perhaps if I could get her talking... "You mentioned two men, Mrs. Caponi."
"Said they were from Adams & Benson, just like you. Asked about a disc Vince was supposed to have had. One guy did the talking, the other stayed in the car."
"Can you describe the man, Mrs. Caponi?" I asked.
"Dark, black hair. Looked Spanish, or Mexican maybe. No accent, though. Nice dresser. Had one of those thin mustaches."
Freeze Frame Page 9
