Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Deal (10 page)
I did find a picture of the Harem in a magazine article about Garth. I’d looked at it before I met with Ronnie and noticed that the group appeared to be the agency’s portrayal of a collection of young women in advertising rather than an actual staff, they were so demographically balanced and highly polished. But looking at them again with “the Harem” bouncing around in my mind, there was suddenly something about them that suggested a
Playboy
pictorial: “The Girls of GHInc.” I could see why Ronnie was so taken with them.
Playboy
pictorial: “The Girls of GHInc.” I could see why Ronnie was so taken with them.
I dug Emile Trebask’s card out of my purse and dialed his number. If I left a voice mail tonight, he could call me back as early as possible in the morning and I could take advantage of his offer to help to arrange a meeting with Garth’s staff as soon as possible.
“Hello?” his smooth voice said in my ear.
It took me a moment to realize I had the live guy, not his voice mail. “Mr. Trebask, it’s Molly Forrester from
Zeitgeist.
” I looked at my watch. Still in the office at ten o’clock. Impressive. Or obsessive.
Zeitgeist.
” I looked at my watch. Still in the office at ten o’clock. Impressive. Or obsessive.
“Good evening, dear Molly,” he said pleasantly.
“I didn’t realize you’d be working so late, I thought I’d get your voice mail. Am I interrupting?”
“I’m not at work and you’re not interrupting. I gave you my cell number for just such an occasion.” Cool. I had Emile Trebask’s cell number. I tried to imagine where he might be, but since he didn’t offer, I thought it better not to ask. “I’m so glad you’ve called,” he continued, “it shows me you understand how important it is that we continue to communicate during your process.”
Some little part of my journalistic ego chafed at that, but since I was calling the man to ask for a favor, I was in no position to complain. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have any concerns about today, I hope. Gwen and I, it’s a passionate relationship.”
“It’s evident you really believe in each other,” I said, even though his grand insistence in her innocence was one of the things that made her so suspect. The best friend doth protest too much. But keeping Tricia’s advice about deception in mind, I moved on to asking my favor. “I’d like to talk to the creative directors at GHInc., get a sense of how they feel about Gwen coming in—”
“They’re thrilled.”
Or at least they would be by the time I met them, I surmised. “It would be terrific for our readers to see Gwen as a role model in the—”
“The mother hen teaching her chicks. Wonderful.” He laughed, but it was cut short as someone grabbed the phone from him.
“Molly Forrester,” Gwen Lincoln said in that same assertive tone. “I shouldn’t need to point out that I do not wish to be portrayed as a mother hen, a den mother, a mother superior, or any other damn maternal figure to this collector’s set of brains with boobs.”
An interesting contrast to Ronnie’s assessment of the Harem. But before I even opened my mouth to attempt a response, the phone changed hands again. “We’re at dinner, it’s been a long day,” Emile said hurriedly. “Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, GHInc. The whole team will be there for you. And when you’ve spoken to the girls, then perhaps you can speak to Gwen again.” Once she’s a little more sober, no doubt.
“Thank you, Mr. Trebask. That sounds ideal.”
“I told you, Molly, it is my pleasure to help you. Anything I can do to ensure people are seeing the real Gwen. I want to protect her future, even if someone has savaged her past.”
“Nothing wrong with my past,” I heard Gwen complain hoarsely. “Mistake erased.”
“Good night, Molly. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Emile hung up and, I hoped, hustled Gwen out of whatever public space they were in before she said anything else provocative, incriminating, and/or embarrassing.
Guilt is a fascinating thing, even more intriguing in the
people who should have it and don’t than in the people who do or even the people who don’t need to have it and do anyway. A notion driven home by Kyle suddenly returning home. I jumped; not just because I was thinking for a brief moment about Peter, but because it had taken me weeks to learn to leave the chain off so Kyle could come in without knocking, but it still startled me when he did.
people who should have it and don’t than in the people who do or even the people who don’t need to have it and do anyway. A notion driven home by Kyle suddenly returning home. I jumped; not just because I was thinking for a brief moment about Peter, but because it had taken me weeks to learn to leave the chain off so Kyle could come in without knocking, but it still startled me when he did.
I put the phone down to greet him with a warm smile and a warmer kiss. He returned both, then nodded in the direction of the phone. “Didn’t mean to derail you.”
“No, I just finished. Work.”
“Pretty late.”
“Setting up something for tomorrow.”
“How’s it going?” he asked with a commendable lack of judgment.
“It’s been an interesting day.”
“That can cut both ways. Want to tell me about it?” Quite often, Kyle doesn’t want to talk about a case he’s working on, sometimes because there’s confidential information involved, but mainly because he tries to carve out some space in his life where all that doesn’t intrude. And then he winds up with me, who has no walls—normally—but he’s still a gentleman about giving me the out.
Tonight, I wondered if maybe I should take it for a change. Not just because the subject was a sore one, but because the day had included Peter. But then again, if I didn’t say anything about Peter and it came out later—and that’s one thing that investigations will teach you, sooner or later the things you work the hardest to hide come out anyway—it was just going to be that much more uncomfortable. And it really was not a big deal that I’d seen him, so why didn’t I just come out and say so?
I had my moment. I felt it, the opening, the rising energy, just like when you’re bodysurfing and you know that if you dive in right now, you’re going to fly and if you hesitate, the surf is going to pick you up and smack you down and you’re going to come up with sand in your teeth and a significant loss of dignity. But I hesitated anyway, overthinking how casual
I should be about “Oh, not much, just had drinks with an old boyfriend,” and an odd expression scrunched up his face, blowing my concentration completely. “Why, how was yours?” I asked.
I should be about “Oh, not much, just had drinks with an old boyfriend,” and an odd expression scrunched up his face, blowing my concentration completely. “Why, how was yours?” I asked.
He shrugged, his odd expression resolving into a smile. “Not bad. Closed the Seidman homicide.”
“Kyle, that’s great!” This case had bedeviled Kyle and his partner for months now. Even as they were required to move on to other cases, they kept spending every spare moment going back to this one, certain they had the killer and just needing that extra piece of the puzzle to prove it. “We should celebrate.”
“Ben and I grabbed a drink before we came home.” Ben Lipscomb was Kyle’s partner, a big rumbling bear of a guy with great insight and greater patience. “Thought I’d finish up the celebration with you.”
“Wanna go out? Your victory, your call.”
He pinched his lower lip, then released it to smile lazily. “Let’s stay in.”
I dove into creating an impromptu celebration, beginning with drawing a nice warm bath and insisting that he sit and let me scrub his back and pamper him while he told me about discovering the final piece of evidence that tied the suspect to the crime scene, then working the confession out of him. He so rarely talked at length about his work that I was captivated by both the story and his eagerness to share it with me. His eagerness to share the bathtub with me was endearing, too, as was his chagrin after he pulled me in and I told him that my sweater was dry-clean only. Its survival wasn’t really that important in the grand scheme of things, but he got points for folding it gently, soggy as it was.
After we toweled off, I made black Russians, wishing desperately that I had a fireplace we could curl up in front of—not because it was chilly but because it seemed the classic thing to do. We made do with lots of candles on the coffee table and curling up on the floor. And on the couch. And in the bed.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was on my way
to the GHInc. offices, that I remembered I hadn’t told Kyle about seeing Peter. I filed it away, still suffused with the glorious feeling of our night-long celebration and the adrenaline of my approaching interview.
to the GHInc. offices, that I remembered I hadn’t told Kyle about seeing Peter. I filed it away, still suffused with the glorious feeling of our night-long celebration and the adrenaline of my approaching interview.
GHInc. was on Seventh, Garth having built his business with fashion clients and wanting to play that for all it was worth. Stepping off the elevator was like walking onto the set of
Julius Caesar
as directed by Ridley Scott—everything was heavily textured stone and dramatic lighting, sound bounced around in an eerie but intriguing way, and the young lady behind the altar-like arrangement of stone slabs that I assumed was the reception desk had the sweet, beatific smile of a vestal virgin. Or someone doing some pretty serious self-medicating. The icon above her was the agency logo. No reproductions of ads here; perhaps that was the agency version of, “If you have to ask, you can’t afford us.”
Julius Caesar
as directed by Ridley Scott—everything was heavily textured stone and dramatic lighting, sound bounced around in an eerie but intriguing way, and the young lady behind the altar-like arrangement of stone slabs that I assumed was the reception desk had the sweet, beatific smile of a vestal virgin. Or someone doing some pretty serious self-medicating. The icon above her was the agency logo. No reproductions of ads here; perhaps that was the agency version of, “If you have to ask, you can’t afford us.”
“Welcome,” the vestal virgin intoned. “How may I help you?”
After I explained who I was, another temple attendant was summoned to escort me to the conference room. I followed her across the slate floor to mammoth double doors she threw her whole weight into opening. The inner sanctum, no doubt.
The Harem awaited within. Even more stunning in person, the six of them were arranged around the conference table as though waiting for another photograph to be taken. They all looked to be in their late twenties, give or take a few years for good genes, makeup, or lighting. Behind them, someone had cannily placed mock-ups of print ads for Success. Over various images of beautiful young women in various stages of dressing—or was it undressing—in front of beautiful young men ran the bold statement:
Get it.
Get it.
An African-American woman with caramel skin, green eyes, and perfect posture was the first one to rise and offer me her hand. She was taller than I was, even without the Miu Miu pumps, and wore a gorgeous mauve Bottega Veneta pantsuit. “Ms. Forrester?”
“Molly.”
“I’m Tessa Hawthorne. Welcome to GHInc.”
“Thank you.” I stepped closer to her to shake her hand and caught a scent it took me a moment to identify. I sniffed again.
Tessa smiled. “Success.”
“I thought so.”
“We’re all wearing it. A welcoming gesture to Gwen. In addition to the fact that it’s a terrific fragrance.”
“We’re not all wearing it,” a smoky voice corrected from the far side of the table. She was an athletic-looking brunette with heavy-lidded brown eyes and thin lips, dressed in a white Ellen Tracy blouse and a black Dana Buchman skirt, the pleats of which she was pressing between her fingers.
“Wendy Morgan. Wendy’s allergic,” Tessa explained.
“Lindsay, too,” Wendy, the brunette, said defensively.
She pointed across the table to an angular blonde with deep blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, dressed in herringbone slacks and a silk blouse with a cutwork collar. The blouse was sapphire blue, heightening the impact of her eyes. She glanced up at me, nodded, then immediately returned her attention to the legal pad in front of her, from which she was methodically tearing long, thin strips of paper. “Hi. Lindsay Franklin. I can’t wear any perfume, never have been able to,” she said.
“She still tried, when we first got the samples, and broke out in awful hives,” Tessa said, wrinkling her nose. “Made me itch just to look at them. For days.”
“Tessa,” Lindsay said, uncomfortable with the memory or the attention.
“Why’d you try it if you knew you were allergic?” I asked.
Lindsay smiled ruefully. “I keep thinking I’ll find one I can wear and wouldn’t it be nice if it were a client’s? Sort of the reverse of Wendy’s problem. She can wear every perfume except this one.”
“‘Wendy’s allergic to Success.’ Want to know how many times we’ve made that joke since we started working on the campaign?” Wendy spoke sharply, but the rest of them just smiled, which led me to believe it was Wendy’s normal tone.
“One-third of a group having an adverse reaction to a product is problematic, but we’ve had the manufacturer do broader testing and it’s an anomaly,” Lindsay explained. “Most women will wear Success with no trouble at all.”
Tessa shrugged. “Lindsay’s husband used to be a lawyer, so she’s always covering our bases, protecting us from the downside of everything.”
“It’s not because she’s married to a lawyer, it’s because she’s married,” Wendy said. “The rest of us have maintained our independence.”
Lindsay gave Wendy a practiced, tolerant smile. “I can’t imagine that has any impact on what Molly’s here to talk to us about, so why not just let her have a seat and ask her questions?”
To distract me from the tension crackling between those two, Tessa introduced me to the other three: Francesca Lib-erto, a petite, raven-haired beauty with flawless olive skin; Megan Carpenter, a gently freckled redhead dressed in a skintight lime green Juicy Couture sweater and matching leather skirt; and Helen Woo, an Asian-American beauty with close-cropped black hair and piercing eyes. They all greeted me cordially, unruffled by the interplay between Wendy and Lindsay.
As I shook hands with each of them, I noticed several of them wore the same Tiffany charm bracelet—a silver heart dangling from a thick silver chain. “Your bracelets are lovely. They all match?”
Everyone but Tessa shook a matching bracelet down from her sleeve for me to see. “A gift from Garth when the merger was announced,” Helen explained, holding her charm up so I could read the inscription. GARTH’S GIRLS ROCK. Apparently, “the Harem” wasn’t suitable for engraving. Or maybe they didn’t know that’s what the outside world called them. “And in recognition of an exceptionally profitable year.” She beamed at her cohorts and I half-expected them to launch into a cheer or at least a sorority song.
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