Freeze Frame (7 page)

Ken was right, of course. I decided to try my
best to convince Higgins I didn’t consider him a tasteless bore.
With a smile as wide as it was phony, I made small talk while we
waited for a table.

"Until I was here the other day, I'd
forgotten how much I missed Detroit's restaurants," I said as we
finally got to our table.

"What convinced you to come back?" Higgins
asked. "The challenge...money?" He seemed to be trying, too.

"Neither, really. It was just time to face
the fact that my marriage has been over nearly five years.”

Finding the topic uncomfortable, I shifted
gears. "What about you? What brought you to the Motor City?"

"I was born here. Grew up twenty miles from
downtown Detroit, in Royal Oak. Went to Brother Rice High
School."

"And played football?"

"It put me through college. But I studied
too." He added the last almost defensively. "My parents made sure
both my sister and I hit the books hard.”

“You have a sister?”

“Patricia.” Higgins paused, then: “She and
Darren Cato were engaged.”

“Darren Cato?”

Higgins must have noticed the surprise in my
voice. He hesitated, but knew he had gone too far to stop. “Turned
out Cato wasn’t really serious. He broke the engagement and it took
Pat months to get over him. She admitted later that she cried
almost every night.”

“I can empathize. My marriage wasn’t exactly
a walk in the park.”

“Yeah, well, the hell of it is, I introduced
them. Pat’s married now, with a couple of nice kids. But I never
forgave Cato for the pain he caused.

“That’s where that remark about Cato’s
sunglasses and a certain orifice of his body came from,” Higgins
said. The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I just
want you to know that I’m not entirely insensitive.”

With that, he picked up one of the two menus
in front of him and handed it to me.

“I can recommend the seafood. The catch of
the day is always fresh."

A waiter appeared, reeled in two orders of
broiled pickerel, the catch du jour, and headed for the kitchen. As
our conversation continued, I actually found myself enjoying
Higgins' company. For a moment I thought, maybe just maybe, I had
misjudged him. But then, like a jaguar lurking in the brush, he
steered the conversation back to the AVC account.

"Okay, let's talk shop for a minute," he
said. “It's important we reach an understanding on a couple of
points."

"Shoot." Shoot? I felt like shooting him. I
could feel this conversation taking on the tone of a one-sided
lecture.

"As you noticed on your 'pedal mettle' ad,
our client John Murphy is pretty conservative."

Conservative? How about afraid of his own
shadow? "But what if a concept that seems out of the ordinary sells
cars?" I asked.

"Murphy's not about to take chances because
some off-beat approach might win your group an award for so-called
creativity."

That did it. The suggestion that I’d choose
personal glory over selling a client's product was pure BS. “I'm
not talking about awards," I shot back. "You know damn well the
most effective advertising is created when rules are broken."

"Not as long as I run the AVC account."

"You may run the account, but I've been hired
to create the advertising. I can’t do it if you tie my hands."

I bit my tongue as the waiter arrived with
our meals. He might as well have left the food in the kitchen; my
appetite had vanished. The argument hadn't put a dent in Higgins’
appetite. Fork in one hand, knife in the other, the jerk made like
a dust-hungry Hoover.

I decided to try one more time. "Why not let
the client decide, instead of dictating what you’ll show him?"

Higgins took another bite. "I don't want you
wasting time on ads that never see the light of day."

"I'm more than happy to take the risk."

"Easy for you. You don't have to account for
expenses. Your little creative group gets paid whether they spend
time on solid ideas or mental masturbation."

Little creative group? Mental
masturbation?

"Look, Higgins, you run the business part of
the account." Now on my feet, I threw the napkin on the table. "But
Ken Cunningham hired me to run the creative. Let's leave it to him.
If he thinks I'm not cutting it, he can damn well assign me
somewhere else. Is that clear?"

I stormed from the restaurant knowing that if
Higgins had his way, that reassignment would have me sorting mail
the rest of my career.

23

12:31 p.m.

Back at the agency, I found the lobby
deserted except for Marlene, the friendly brunette at the
receptionist's desk. Even the second and third floor offices
overlooking the huge arena were vacant.

My security key opened the elevator door on
the sixth floor. Stepping into the hallway I nearly got bowled over
by a large man in a business suit carrying a briefcase and doing a
hell of an impression of a run-away water buffalo.

"Hey, watch it!” I peppered him with a few
epithets questioning his ancestry, but stopped when I realized my
words bounced off him like I had. He just kept speed walking toward
the VanBuhler side of the floor. I realized then he had had a
strong odor of alcohol about him, whiskey probably.

As I watched him disappear around the curve
of the hallway, my anger changed to suspicion. What the hell was a
stranger doing on the sixth floor?

***

My suspicions leaped a giant step forward
when Matt Carter called.

"Darcy, the Avion submaster is missing."

"You're kidding."

"I had the DVD hidden in my credenza under a
couple of Ampere layouts. I've asked everyone. No one's seen
it."

I told Carter about my encounter with the
heavyset man. Since the floor was off limits to anyone without a
key, he had to be a prime suspect.

"Let's pay the VanBuhler team a visit,"
Carter said.

I considered the idea, but thought better of
it. "We’ll sure look stupid if we're wrong.”

Then I got an idea myself. I called Paul
Chapman, describing the buffalo who nearly ran me over in the
hallway.

Chapman recognized him. "J. R. Roland.
Started yesterday. He's another of those VanBuhler guys from D.
C."

"Why would he be on our side of the sixth
floor?"

"Maybe he got lost."

Maybe. But what about the disappearing DVD? I
decided it might be wise to visit VanBuhler headquarters after
all.

24

5:55 p.m.

My Ampere creative team would be working well
into the night, but the VanBuhler people were a different story. By
five-thirty you could fire a cannon through their side of the
building without hitting anyone.

If I were going to explore enemy territory,
now was the time. I walked out into the corridor, moving slowly
toward the elevators that divided the two sides of the floor. I
paused there, facing the doors as if waiting for the next car. I
glanced to my right, down the carpeted corridor toward the offices
of the VanBuhler staff.

The hallway proved deserted, so I made my
move, walking quickly to the right. A couple of butterflies were
playing chicken in my stomach; I was entering an area off-limits to
everyone but VanBuhler staffers. What would happen if I were
caught? Would I be fired? Probably not. At this point, I was too
valuable to the agency. But there would be a severe reprimand, not
to mention the sheer embarrassment.

I saw people in very few of the offices I
passed, and fortunately they were too intent on their work to
notice me. As I walked, I read the names of office occupants
printed on cards inside metal frames at the right of each door. I
had no idea where Roland's office was, but prayed I’d find it soon
-- and empty.

Passing the fifth door, I saw Roland's name
just ahead. I strolled past the open door, sneaking a glance
inside.

Empty.

I walked back and peered in. The far wall was
a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Jefferson Avenue winding
its way east. A simple metal desk sat to the right of the door,
nothing on it. Bare walls added to the Spartan appearance.

I darted inside. The search took seconds:
three drawers on the right of Roland's desk, a large flat one in
the front. I found a half empty fifth of whiskey in the bottom
drawer, aside from that, nothing. Not a pencil, a pen, not even a
paper clip. Roland traveled light.

If the DVD wasn't here, where was it? Maybe
Roland passed it on to Robert Bacalla, the man Chapman said was in
charge of the VanBuhler group. Back in the hallway, I decided to
delve further into VanBuhler country. As I approached the office
two doors down, I noticed the card outside the door read, "R. M.
Bacalla." Was he in? My heart beat faster, the butterflies in my
stomach now doing somersaults. The door stood wide open; I decided
to reprise my tactic of walking by and glancing in without
stopping.

The office proved empty. I turned back and
went in. The room seemed twice the size of Roland's, and from the
leather chairs and sofa to the colorful prints on the walls, it had
been luxuriously furnished. The view of Jefferson Avenue from the
floor-to-ceiling window behind the large oak desk mirrored the
scene from Roland's office.

I noticed a closet to my left, door ajar.
Approaching it, I heard voices in the hallway. Two men. What if
they came in? I opened the closet door and slipped inside, pulling
it shut behind me. In the darkness I heard the voices growing
louder, then trailing off.

I opened the door a crack and looked
around.

No one.

My pulse racing, I pushed the door open. As
the inside of the closet lightened, I noticed a leather holster on
a belt hanging from a hook to my left. I removed the belt and
holster from the hook, unsnapped the flap on top of the holster,
and looked inside.

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?"