Killer Deal Read Free

crotch and once in the head. In that order, apparently. No arrests had been made, but the police had spent quite a lot of time talking to his ex-wife Gwen Lincoln and to Ronnie Willis, whose advertising agency, Willis Worldwide, was poised to merge with Garth’s at the time of the murder. There was tremendous pressure on the police—primarily from Garth’s many influential friends—to make something happen soon and I was glad for Kyle’s sake that he hadn’t caught the case.
    Garth Henderson had specialized in blurring the line between provocative and incendiary. His clients often got extra bang for their advertising buck because Garth’s campaigns, with their hefty dose of sexuality, received vociferous attention from the media. So you not only saw his ads in the places he’d paid to run them, but on news programs and in magazines that critiqued them, often finding them salacious and inappropriate. Clients generally found them hugely effective.
    The only publicly unhappy client in recent memory had been Jack Douglass, the CEO of Douglass Frozen Foods. To launch Douglass’ new soy ice cream line, Garth and his agency had designed a campaign that featured a buxom young movie actress, best known for appearing on late-night talk shows in a drunken tizzy, apparently about to perform oral sex on a soy fudgsicle. The television commercial had shown her stripping the wrapper off the fudgsicle with mounting excitement, then slowly raising it to her mouth while she licked her lips. The tagline of the campaign was: C’ mon, you’ll like it. You know you will.
    Sales had soared, particularly among college-aged men, but the critics and pundits had howled mightily. And Mr.
Douglass, a neo-con who was reportedly being wooed by heavy hitters to segue into a political career, found himself being excoriated by those very same wooers as the media tempest crescendoed. Even when it died down, Mr. Douglass’ political future was now said to be dim at best. But Garth Henderson signed several new clients.
    “The Garth Henderson article,” Eileen repeated with that vinegary touch of impatience that makes us all love her so. “I have a new take on it.”
    Apparently, the new take included actually doing it. When the news of Henderson’s death broke, all the murmurs of Gwen Lincoln’s name intrigued me. That only sharpened when the police investigation seemed to stall. I’d pitched the idea of an article on the couple—and the murder—to Eileen but she’d shot it down, dismissing Garth’s death as “when good divorces go bad.” So why this change of heart?
    As I pondered that question and whether I dared ask it, a tall, angular man with marvelous cheekbones and a wild and thick head of sandy blond hair stepped out of her office. I placed the hair before I placed the face; it was Emile Trebask, the ascendant design demigod. You can find his reflection on some surface in all his print ads, smiling approvingly as dazed teenagers who have partially pulled on the clothes he designs grope each other for the camera. It’s become a game to find Emile when each new ad comes out—sort of like finding the “Nina”s in Hirschfeld’s drawings. Or perhaps more accurately, the fashionista’s version of Where’s Waldo?
    I was surprised to see him walking out of Eileen’s office. We go to people like him, they don’t come to us. Eileen smirked at my reaction, thinking I was impressed. “Molly, you know Emile, don’t you?”
    Of course I didn’t. I’d slapped down plenty of cash over the past few years to buy his clothes, but I’d never met him. I’d have to do some serious social climbing to even approach his strata. Eileen knew that and, I suspect, was enjoying the fact. “Haven’t had the pleasure, Mr. Trebask,” I said, offering my hand.

    He shook it gently, as though one of us might break. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me he was worried about. “Ms. Forrester, I’m so glad you’re going to be talking to Gwen,” he said