Fortune (21 page)

Chicago, Illinois,
1996

G
riffen gazed at the business card laid squarely on the desk before him. His assistant had handed it to him only moments ago, along with a stack of phone messages.

 

McCord Public Relations and Special Events
Chance McCord, President

 

Chance McCord.
Griffen knew that name. He had heard it before, somewhere…in connection with something important. He drew his eyebrows together in thought.

His memory never failed him. He had nearly perfect recall—of people and faces, of dates and events. It was one of the reasons school had been so easy for him, it was one of the qualities that made him a formidable businessman.

He tested the name on the tip of his tongue, then stopped, his mind flooding with the memory. The last time his father had gotten a lead on Madeline and Grace's whereabouts, the private investigator had talked to someone, some carny-kid named Chance McCord.

A lead. Maybe. A link to Grace. Maybe.

His Grace.
Griffen's heart began to thunder, his palms to sweat. It couldn't be, could it? They had never come close to finding Grace and her mother again. It had been as if they had fallen off the face of the planet. Even his grandfather had given up.

Griffen hadn't. As the years had slipped by, he had never doubted that he and Grace would be together again. He had known they would be. Some things were simply meant to be.

Griffen breathed deeply through his nose, working to contain his excitement. This could be nothing, it could be another dead end. But it could be what he had waited thirteen long years for—his way back to Grace.

“Mr. Monarch?” His assistant tapped on the door, then popped her head inside, visibly excited. “Paloma Picasso's on line one.”

“Tell her I'll call her back.”

The woman's mouth dropped. “Excuse me? Did you say—”

“I'm unavailable right now. I'll call her back.”

“But we've…she's calling from…Beijing.”

“I don't care how long we've been trying to reach her or where she's calling from.” Griffen narrowed his eyes. “Tell her I'll call her back. Then come back in here, I need to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shut it again, spun around and left the office. He watched her go, smiling to himself. It had taken several months, but his assistant had finally learned that he did not allow underlings to question his decisions. Not ever. And if she thought he was a prick—which she did—that was just too fucking bad. She could be replaced, the way he had replaced a half dozen other assistants.

A moment later she returned, two bright spots of angry color dotting her cheeks. “You needed to see me, Mr. Monarch?”

He held up the business card. “Tell me about the man who left this.”

“What do you mean?”

“What didn't you understand about the question, Ashley? I want you to tell me about this Chance McCord.”

She stiffened. “As I already said, he was making a cold call. He wanted to get in to see you, I told him that was impossible but I promised to see you got his card.”

Griffen made a sound of impatience. “What did he look like?”

“Look like?” she repeated, flushing. “He was…handsome. Kind of boyish, like a California surfer. Light hair and eyes. Nice smile, dimples. I thought…he seemed smart. Ambitious. And he was hungry.”

“His age?”

“I don't know, thirty. Thirty-two.”

Griffen nodded and stood. “Don't go far. I need you to do something for me. But first, I have to get something from my father's office.”

Without waiting for her reply, he left the room. Pierce Monarch's office was adjacent to his. He crossed the hall and entered the reception area, brushing by his father's secretary without a greeting, without bothering to ask permission to enter or to be announced. His father wasn't there; he hardly ever was anymore. His health had deteriorated to the point that, although still the official president of Monarch's, Griffen had been acting president for over two years.

He closed the door behind him, and went to his father's private files. Using the key his father would be furious to know he had, Griffen unlocked the cabinet and began leafing through the files, searching for the investigator's report from thirteen years ago.

He located it, then the information he sought. His memory hadn't failed him. There the name was, in black and white.

Chance McCord.

Griffen scanned the report. This Chance had been friends with Madeline and Grace, though he had known them as Claire and Skye Dearborn. That summer, the report said, the three had traveled together with the carnival, as a kind of family. The kid had denied knowing the mother and daughter's whereabouts, though the investigator had suspected the boy of lying.

There was little else of interest in the report, though the investigator had included a brief, general description of the kid and a fuzzy photograph taken from a distance with a telephoto lens.

Griffen stared at the report, at the photo, narrowing his eyes in anger. Grace hadn't needed to be family with some carny, low-life scum. She'd had a family. One that had longed for her.

A family her crazy bitch of a mother had stolen her from.

Sucking in a deep, calming breath, Griffen plucked the photo from the file. He studied it, doing some quick addition in his head. The age was right, the general description.

He pocketed the photo, slipped the file back into place, shut the drawer and locked the cabinet, then turned to find his father's secretary standing in the doorway, watching him, her expression openly hostile.

He smiled thinly and dangled the cabinet key from the end of his index finger, amused by the way she glared at him. “Can I help you with something, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

“No, Mr. Monarch. Can I get something for you?”

“Thank you, no. I've helped myself.” He smiled, slipped the key into his suit-coat pocket and moved past her, stopping when he had cleared the door. He looked back at her. “You know, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, it seems to me, considering how little my father is in the office, that you might have something better to do than spy on me.”

She flushed. “I only do what your father asks of me.”

“How loyal. You're a treasure, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. When you call him, be sure to tell him I said hello.”

She would, too. Griffen laughed to himself, imagining his father's face when she told him his son had a key to his precious files. The news just might give him another heart attack.

A son could only hope.

Griffen laughed again, feeling almost giddy. He had waited nearly thirteen years for this day. For something, any scrap of a lead, any clue, no matter how insignificant it might seem, anything that might help bring his Grace back to him.

Finally, that day had come. Finally, he had something to go on, something he could pin his plans on.

And nothing or no one was going to stand in his way.

San Francisco, California,
1996

T
he door was marked Interrogation #2. Outside that closed door, the noise level of the S.F.P.D. held at a level near mind-numbing. Inside that door it was quiet, deathly quiet save for the crackle of newspaper pages being turned.

The room was airless and smelled stale, like old cigarettes and dirty linen. It had no window that could be thrown wide to let in the fresh breeze, no window through which sunlight could spill, cleansing and invigorating with its healing light.

Someone had carved the words
Jesus Saves
on the top of the room's one table, a top scarred with cigarette burns caused by years of use by careless smokers.

Claire spent a lot of time in rooms like these, at tables like these, surrounded by old newspapers and other people's tragedies. She did so willingly, enthusiastically. For in these airless rooms she found her life, her reason to live.

Much had happened to Claire since that terrible day she stood atop the Fort Pitt Bridge and gazed down at the Ohio River, ready to take her own life. The visions that had bombarded her that day had involved a child she recognized, the victim of a much-publicized kidnapping. Claire had gone to the police; she, her visions, had led them to the boy, saving his life.

She had been helping police and families ever sense. Although she shunned all publicity, within police circles she had become quite renown. Missing children were her specialty, a fact she found painfully ironic—she helped others find their children, but she had been unable to find her own.

Though she had never stopped looking. Everywhere she went, she searched faces, hoping, praying, she would see the one she longed for. Whenever she was in a new city, she checked area phone books, scanned local newspapers and business directories, all in the irrational hope of finding her daughter.

But irrational or not, she had promised herself that she would never allow herself to sink to the depths she had visited that day in Pittsburgh, she had promised herself she would never again give up hope.

Claire took off her reading glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. She had come here straight from the airport—she checked her watch—four hours ago. Yesterday she had been in Boston. Three days before that she had been in Braille, Florida, a small town near the Everglades.

She slipped her glasses back on and returned her attention to the papers before her. They were searching for a six-year-old girl, missing a week now. She had left her friend's house, just down the block from her own, and never been seen again. No leads, no witnesses. Nothing.

Claire brought a hand to her chest, to the gems she wore as a talisman around her neck and against her heart. After her visions on the bridge, she'd had a wearable container fashioned to hold them. She never took it off.

The gems were the key to her visions; she believed that. Just as she believed they had saved her life.

Just as she believed they would someday save Skye's.

“Ms. Dearborn?”

Claire turned toward the door and the fresh-faced officer who stood there, looking uncomfortable. “Yes?”

“Can I get you anything?”

She smiled. “Thank you. An orange juice if you can round one up. And please, call me Claire.”

He returned her smile. “Can do. Anything else?”

“All the area phone books.”

“You got it.” He started backing out the door, then stopped, his smile disappearing. “Any…luck yet?”

“I'm sorry. Nothing yet.”

“I hope you find her. If there's anything I can do, I…I know the family. They're good people.”

Claire nodded, understanding, feeling for this young man, for the child, her family. She didn't have the heart to tell him she feared it might already be too late.

“I'll try my best,” she said instead, softly. “I promise, I'll do everything I can.”

G
riffen Monarch's call had come out of the blue. At least Chance thought of it that way, because although he had called on Monarch's Inc., he had never expected to get farther than a secretary.

Not yet, anyway. Not until he had proved himself with other, smaller accounts. Not until he had fought for it.

But the man himself had called. Griffen Monarch, unacknowledged acting president and heir apparent of Monarch's, Inc. Griffen wanted them to meet. To talk.

So, here he was. Chance neared the Monarch building and slowed his pace. Ahead of schedule, he used the extra moments to pull his thoughts together, to quell his rush of nerves, of excitement. He couldn't reveal either to Griffen Monarch. Just as he couldn't appear too eager. All would be the kiss of death. All would earn him nothing but the door.

Monarch's flagship store and corporate headquarters were located in the six-hundredth block of Michigan Avenue, appropriately dead center on the Magnificent Mile. Chance paused outside the store's oversize double glass doors. Surrounded by polished brass and weathered iron filigree, the doors had been designed by Monarch artisans nearly a century before. They, like the jewelry creations sold inside, had stood the test of time.

Chance lifted his gaze. Perched two stories above the door, a huge winged Nike, the goddess of victory, announced to all who passed under her that they had, indeed, arrived.

He certainly had. Chance smiled to himself.
This was the big time, McCord. Don't fuck up now.

The uniformed doorman opened the door. Nodding, Chance moved through the hallowed portal and into the small, richly appointed store. Salespeople and clients alike spoke in reverent, hushed tones, tones more befitting a church or sanctuary. He supposed to some, Monarch's was like a church, this was where they came to worship at the altar of beauty, self-indulgence and wealth.

Chance had done his homework. In the forty-eight hours since Griffen Monarch's call, he had read everything he could get his hands on about Monarch's Inc. and its history.

He knew that the company had begun as a jewelry atelier and had grown into a multifaceted, international company. Monarch's Design and Retail, now only one of the company's many divisions, had ten Monarch's boutiques worldwide, otherwise distributing their creations to only a handful of the world's finest jewelers. They didn't oversell, purposely keeping their exposure limited. That the public could only obtain Monarch designs in a limited number of places added to the Monarch's allure. It made their wares more exclusive, more expensive and more coveted.

Though the company had diversified, from what Chance had learned, the jewelry division was the company's—and the family's—pride and joy, its crown jewel.

Chance glanced at the glass cases as he passed them, taking note of several exquisite pieces, moving toward the back of the store and the elevators that would take him to the third floor. He checked in at the receptionist's desk, then headed into the elevator and up. Griffen Monarch's assistant, Ashley, greeted him there, then escorted him to a waiting area, asked him if he would like a refreshment, then to take a seat. Mr. Monarch would be with him directly.

Chance declined both, preferring to stand and study the enlarged photographs that lined the walls of the room. Most were photos of Monarch's fabulous creations; several were of family members with celebrities who had patronized their store over the years. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, President Kennedy, Princess Grace of Monaco, among others.

“Chance McCord, I presume. And right on time. I like that.”

Chance turned toward the man crossing the room. He had expected someone older, graying and distinguished. Instead, the man striding toward him looked to be close to his own age, more dashing than distinguished, and certainly not graying. He wore an Armani suit and a Cartier watch, he moved with the kind of confidence, the kind of unwavering belief in himself, that money alone could not buy.

No, that kind of self-assurance was the product of a lifetime of winning, a lifetime of every door being open, every opportunity there for the taking.

Griffen Monarch was the epitome of what Chance longed to be; he was the image of what Chance had been struggling to become.

“You presume correctly.” Chance grasped the other man's hand and smiled. “And you must be Griffen Monarch. It's good to meet you.”

“Call me Griffen. Come into my office. We'll talk.”

The man's office was spare and uncluttered, yet exuded wealth, nonetheless. Perhaps because the few things that graced the walls and shelves, the few pieces of furniture that filled the cavernous space, were obviously expensive and most certainly rare.

Or, perhaps, it was the presence of the man himself.

They took a seat on the leather couch that dominated a conversation area at the center right of the room. Chance cleared his throat. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“I took you by surprise.”

It wasn't a question, and Chance smiled. “Yes. You could say that.”

Griffen laughed. “Can Ashley get you a coffee, a Coke or something?”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Let's go on, then.” Griffen leaned back against the leather couch, completely relaxed. “Who is Chance McCord? That's what I want to know.”

So Chance began, slipping easily into his verbal résumé. “Until recently, I was vice president of public relations and special events for Adams and Sloane. I worked on the Chicago Symphony, on Art at the Park, Chicago Fest—”

“I'm familiar with their clients. Why did you leave?”

“Two reasons.” Chance leaned forward. “The first, I wanted my own business. I always have. I want to make it or break it, on my own. Second, the time was right. I'd gone as far as I could with Adams and Sloane. As you know, I'm sure, public relations and special events is only a tiny arm of Adams and Sloane. Advertising is the big gun over there. Someone from the PR arm wasn't going higher than V.P. of that division. Period. The same is true for most of the big agencies. No way was I going to coast for the next thirty years.”

“Everybody's ambitious.” Griffen made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “What can McCord Public Relations and Special Events do for me?”

Griffen Monarch didn't play around; he cut through the bullshit and said exactly what was on his mind. Chance liked that, though it didn't allow him any illusions about how important this meeting was in the course of this man's day. When you reached Griffen Monarch's level, you didn't have to play nicey-nice anymore. At least not with people the likes of Chance McCord.

“First of all,” he began, “we have to get Monarch's creations on celebrities. You've done some of that, but not recently and not near enough. The Oscars aren't that far off. I'd want to see key presenters and some—hell, all, if there was a way to arrange it—of the best-actress nominees wearing Monarch's jewelry.

“Second, I have a connection at
Vanity Fair.
When the right cover celeb came along, I'd use that connection to get them photographed wearing our stuff. We don't stop there. We contact the major designers, the hot photographers, the fashion editors and art directors for the big magazines. We want covers, we want exposure. We want the people with money to want to be seen wearing Monarch's jewelry.”

Griffen Monarch appeared to have no reaction to anything he'd said. He played his cards close to the vest, as any good businessman would. His lack of response only fired Chance's determination more.

“For that matter,” Chance continued, “why don't we get Adam and Dorothy Monarch on
Vanity Fair's
cover. Good God, the Monarch family is like American royalty. We need to increase awareness with the public of who Monarch's is and why it's so important. With its history, Monarch's should be an international household name, the way Tiffany's is.”

Chance sat forward, excited now, his mouth damn near watering for the opportunity to sink his teeth into this account. “Why hasn't a coffee-table book been done on Monarch's yet? Tiffany's has had several.
Tiffany's 150 Years
was put out in 1987 and
My Time at Tiffany's
in 1990, to name two. That's great exposure; it increases the public's awareness of the company's importance. When that awareness goes up, so do sales.”

Chance had gotten Griffen Monarch's attention now, he saw, by the subtle change in the other man's expression and posture. He looked less relaxed, more intent.

“Damn little has been written on the Monarch family in the last few years,” Chance continued. “Why is that? I went back, researching. A society blurb here, a business or philanthropical mention there. It's damn little. And not near enough.”

“How far back did you go?” Griffen asked suddenly, sitting forward.

“Eight years.”

Griffen nodded and sat back again. “Good. Go on.”

“Monarch's is a Chicago treasure. A natural resource. You're like the Sear's Tower or Marshall Field's Christmas tree. When someone comes to town, Monarch's should be on their ‘must do' list. The way Tiffany's in New York is.”

“And you can do that?”

“Yes. Though I'm not going to lie to you. It's a building process, some things will happen immediately, others take time before you see the cumulative effect. Monarch's has, in essence, been hiding its light under a bushel for years. My job is to get rid of the bushel and get people to see the light. Now, can I ask you a question?”

Griffen inclined his head. “Certainly.”

“Why did you call me? You're with Price, Stevenson and Price. And happy, I hear.”

“No specific complaints, I suppose.” Griffen shifted. “A bit bored, maybe.”

“Bored?” Chance repeated, arching his eyebrows.

Griffen stood and walked to the window that looked out over Michigan Avenue. Without turning, he murmured, “Ashley told me you seemed ambitious and bright. She thought you were hungry. Those are qualities I find useful.”

“Useful? Interesting choice of word.”

Griffen turned and met his eyes. Chance noted for the first time what an uncommonly brilliant blue the other man's were. Skye was the only other person he had known with eyes so blue.

“I think they're assets, Chance. When you have a fire in your gut to get somewhere, you usually do. The folks at Price, Stevenson and Price are fat and happy.”

“And complacent.”

“Yes. But they're also the biggest firm in the city, they have a lot of experience, a lot of connections.”

“If you've got enough drive, you can make connections. True, I'm small, but I don't have a lot of overhead to charge you for. And I'd work my tail off for you. An account like Monarch's would be my top priority. Can you say the same about Price, Stevenson and Price?”

“That's the question of the hour.” Griffen crossed to stand before him. He held out his hand. “I'll be in touch. Thanks for coming in.”

Chance's heart sank. Just like that, the meeting was over, and he was out the door. He stood and grasped the other man's hand. “I'd love to do an in-depth analysis of your needs and put together a proposal outlining what McCord Public Relations and Special Events could do for you.”

“Maybe. Like I said, I'll be in touch.” Griffen walked him to the office door, stopping and facing him when they had reached it. “Do you like surprises, Chance McCord?”

Chance drew his eyebrows together, surprised by the question itself. He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Why not?”

“Why not, indeed.” Griffen smiled. “I just might surprise you, Chance. We'll just have to wait and see.”