Dead Canaries Don't Sing (17 page)

The sound of Jimmy Nolan’s voice on my answering machine jolted me back to reality.

“Hey, Jessie. It’s Jimmy. How you doing? I just
wanted to tell you I had a nice time the other night
and, uh, I hope those flowers are still hanging in
there. And, uh, I was wondering if maybe you wanted
to do something Saturday night. Go to a movie or
grab some dinner, whatever you feel like. Give me a
call, will you?”

“So much for swearing off men,” I muttered. “I suppose I shouldn’t let a slimeball like Marcus Scruggs determine the course of my life.” I decided I’d return Jimmy’s call as soon as I was up to it.

At the moment, however, I was still having too much fun playing Girl Detective to let anything distract me. After feeding Prometheus and the dogs, I jotted down some notes from my meeting with Marcus and geared up mentally to enter a world that was so unfamiliar to me that I felt as if I were venturing into the jungle. But instead of waders and mosquito spray, this foreign territory required combed hair, a wool blazer, and lipstick.

It was time to visit Tommee Frack’s office.

The second name on the list I’d drawn up with Vanda Jackson’s help was Brad O’Reilly. From what I’d learned from the “People On The Move” articles on the Long Island Business Beat website, O’Reilly had been Frack’s most senior employee. In fact, while many others had apparently come and gone, Brad worked for Frack almost since the beginning.

Loyalty? I wondered as I drove to Pine Meadow the following afternoon, a typical gray, cloudy November day. Or simply inertia?

When I pulled into the parking lot of the office complex that dominated the village’s main intersection, I saw that my VW Beetle wasn’t the only German car there. Most of the others, however, were either Mercedes or BMWs.

The pricey cars matched the office building’s atmosphere of prosperity. Once I passed through its revolving doors, I found myself surrounded by such dense foliage and so many gurgling fountains I felt as if I really were in the jungle. I didn’t spot any actual predators, but there were plenty of grim-looking men and women in suits who could have been lawyers.

The names on the roster bore out my theory. In addition to three insurance companies, there were half a dozen law firms, long compilations of names that seemed impossible for anyone to remember.

Tommee Frack & Associates was still listed. As I rode the elevator to the third floor, the butterflies were back in my stomach. This time, I planned to try out a different ploy to get my foot in the door. I just hoped that foot didn’t get crushed in the process.

Tommee Frack’s office had the same look as the rest of the building, one that declared: Important things go on here. The front was all glass, enabling everyone coming off the elevator to view the company’s name emblazoned on the wall behind the reception area. Indeed, it was impossible to miss, given the fact that it was spelled out in foot-high gold letters.

The walls were also decorated, only they were covered with framed newspaper articles like the ones I had seen in Merrilee’s house. Here, too, were photographs showing Tommee posing with politicians, sports figures, and movie stars. I noticed a few awards, including “Citizen of the Year” from the Norfolk County Chambers of Commerce and an honorary degree from Norfolk University.

Feigning confidence, I strode up to the receptionist’s desk, one of those high counters you have to peek over in order to get anyone’s attention. But the person sitting behind the counter didn’t look like a receptionist. He was a well-dressed man in his early thirties, complete with designer tie, monogrammed shirt, and gold cufflinks—all the trappings of success that implied he studied
GQ
religiously. His light brown hair was well cut and neatly styled. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was impressively large, well over six feet tall. He was good-looking, too, his facial features so well-proportioned that he could have been an anchorman on the six o’clock news.

The expression on his face didn’t match his buttoned-up image, however. He looked harried, as if he wasn’t really relishing the task of going through the tower of files on the desk before him, a stack of folders he’d clearly pulled out of the empty drawer next to him. On the other side, on the floor, the trash can was filled to overflowing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Brad O’Reilly.”

“You just found him.” He flashed me a grin I suspected was meant to charm me.

“Mr. O’Reilly, my name is Jessica Popper. I’m a veterinarian, and I’m helping the New York State Department of Agriculture and Markets with a survey. We’re doing random checks to find out whether dog owners are following up with regular inoculations for their pets.”

I suddenly realized that this little white lie had sounded much better in my head than it did when I said it out loud. In a belated attempt at looking official, I opened the manila folder I’d brought along and rifled through the papers inside.

“Let’s see. You own a Rhodesian Ridgeback, right? Female, name of Molly? Born July 15, 1998, registered November 22, same year?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you kept up with her inoculations?”

By this point, his grin was long gone. Instead, he looked decidedly nervous. I wondered if he had something to hide—maybe even something that had nothing to do with his dog.

“That’s the kind of thing my wife always takes care of. But I’m pretty sure she’s kept Molly up to date.”

“Would you mind giving me the name of the veterinarian you use?”

“Sure. It’s Dr. Wyatt. No, Wyman. I think it’s Dr. Wyman. He’s in Cantiague. Or Quakertown.”

I nodded, jotting down notes.

“Maybe you should call my wife,” O’Reilly suggested. “I could give you our home number.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I sincerely hoped Mr. O’Reilly got more involved in his children, if he and his wife had any.

I glanced at the gold letters behind him, as if noticing them for the first time. “Tommee Frack,” I mused. “That name sounds so familiar. . . .” I frowned, pretending to think. “Isn’t he the public relations mogul who was—?”

“That’s right. I’m just cleaning out the office before we close it down.”

“How tragic. I seem to recall reading that he was phenomenally successful.”

“The man was brilliant.” Brad said it forcefully. “Absolutely brilliant.”

I blinked. It was the rare employee who had nothing bad to say about his boss, even if it meant breaking the rule about not speaking ill of the dead.

“I’ve heard he was a real star.” I measured my words carefully. “I don’t know anything about public relations, and of course I never actually had the pleasure of meeting him, but I guess I don’t have a sense of what he did that was so . . . out of the ordinary.”

“Tommee Frack was a phenomenal idea man. He was a master at finding a way to make something— anything—newsworthy.”

“I guess that’s what public relations is all about. . . .”

“Exactly. And Tommee could pitch a story, any story, to the media in a way they just couldn’t turn down. Did you know that something like sixty percent of the news you read in the newspaper or hear on TV or the radio is the result of a pitch from some public relations representative? Getting coverage for clients was Tommee’s forte. But there was something else he could do that was pure genius,” O’Reilly continued, catching fire. “Something nobody else in the business could top. Tommee had an uncanny ability to match people up. His clients, I mean.”

“You mean like . . . setting up golf dates?” I wasn’t purposely trying to sound stupid. I really had no idea what he was talking about.

“I mean like inventing an award that would give two or even three of his clients terrific exposure. Take Norfolk University’s Man or Woman of the Year Awards. Every year, Tommee would put together a huge event, something so big that none of the media could ignore it. He’d even get all the local politicians to show up, since he could always guarantee a photo op. The university was one of his clients, and they’d get great publicity because they’d be giving the award. The winner—let’s see, last year it was Kel-Tech Computers, another one of his clients—would look good because the company president would win the award for donating a hundred computers to the elementary school in some underprivileged community. And as if that wasn’t enough, Tommee made sure the awards ceremony was always held in the ballroom of Hallsworth Hall, another client, to get
them
coverage.”

“You mean that’s why awards ceremonies like that are created?” I could feel a little piece of my innocence slipping away. “I always assumed those awards were sincere.”

“They are sincere!” O’Reilly looked insulted. “The president of Kel-Tech would be getting that award because he truly deserved it for the contribution he’d made to his community. It was a win-win-win situation. You can even add a fourth ‘win’ for Tommee, because he came out looking like a real hero to three different clients. Wait—add a fifth win for the kids who got the free computers.”

All these “wins” were getting a little confusing. I’d had no idea that public relations played such a big role in the grand scheme of things. No wonder Tommee Frack was considered such a player. My corpse had been the King of the Spin Doctors, at least on the Long Island scene.

It also sounded as if he didn’t have an enemy in the world. His clients loved him because he was so good at getting their name in the news. His employees loved him because he was such an inspiring role model. Even the media had loved him, because he made their job easier by giving them wonderful, newsworthy events to cover.

I had to remind myself that somebody out there hadn’t loved him. That, in fact, somebody had hated Tommee Frack—or feared him or mistrusted him— enough to hit him savagely over the head with a deadly weapon.

“Sounds like a fascinating guy,” I said enthusiastically. “It really makes you wonder who could have possibly wanted him dead.”

“You want to know what I think?” O’Reilly asked.

More than he knew. “Sure,” I replied casually. “What’s your theory?”

“That it was random. A robbery gone wrong. A carjacking that got screwed up somehow. The thief panicked, killed him, and then did a really bad job of disposing of the body.”

“Makes sense.”

“It’s gotta be. I can’t imagine anybody wanting Tommee dead. He was just too important. As a member of his community, I mean. Tommee was more than a business leader. He also helped all kinds of local charities by working for them practically for free.”

Brad was beginning to sound like
Newsday,
not to mention the minister who’d delivered the eulogy.

Which brought me back to the personal side of things—in particular, the two women in Tommee’s life. I pictured Merrilee, still waiting for her ex to come home to her, then learning that her fantasy of reconciliation was about to crash and burn. Then Barbara, who seemed more irritated with Tommee than in love with him.

“I just hope the police figure out who’s responsible,” I said. “It sounds as if Tommee’s death was a tremendous loss to a lot of people.”

Now that Brad O’Reailly was convinced he and I were on the same side, it was time for me to ask a favor.

“By the way, do you have a bathroom I could use?” I smiled apologetically. “I’m on the road all day.”

“Right in back.” He gestured with his chin. “Just down that hall, on the left.”

I walked as slowly as I dared, taking in my surroundings as I did so. Peering through open doors, I saw that no one else was in the office suite. Just Brad, who had, indeed, turned out to be motivated by loyalty, from what I could tell. He was the only one who stayed behind to clean up the office, to sort out what Tommee had left behind.

As I continued along the hallway, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. A water cooler, a Xerox machine, a shredder . . .

A shredder.

After checking behind me to see if Brad was watching, I slipped into the small room in which it sat, along with an impressive cache of office supplies. It was on a counter, set up so that the shredded paper emptied into a large cardboard box.

The box was filled to overflowing.

Standard procedure? I wondered. Does a public relations firm really have
that
many secrets?

Or was the ability to keep secrets one of the reasons for Tommee Frack’s extraordinary success?

It’s time to go back to the beginning, I decided after I thanked Brad O’Reilly for his time and rode down in the elevator. If I was ever going to understand what made Tommee Frack tick—and if I was ever going to figure out what stopped the ticking—I needed to know the man who had given him his start.

Chapter 9

“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.”

—Mark Twain

Given the splendor of Tommee Frack & Associ-Gates, I expected the offices of The Babcock Group to be just as grand. I was becoming quite well versed in the world of public relations, and the main lesson I’d learned was that appearance was what mattered most.

So I was surprised to find that the Apaucuck address I’d been given by Babcock’s chirpy receptionist belonged to a two-story red brick office building with all the charm of a warehouse. I dashed inside, cringing as the first drops of an icy winter rain started to fall. Checking the roster, I discovered that most of the other tenants were doctors. That accounted for the large number of people using walkers and sniping at their spouses—one of the many reasons I prefer working with patients whose vocabulary doesn’t extend beyond “arf” and “meow.”

The Babcock Group was in the basement.

I flashed back to the company’s elegant stationery hanging on Merrilee’s wall. The letter George Babcock had written, welcoming Tommee to his firm, had been on thick cream-colored paper that positively reeked of success. Then there was the company’s name. “The Babcock Group” conjured up knowledgeable men and women in designer suits, making important decisions—a Long Island version of L.A. Law.