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  BRAINSTORM

  By Margaret Belle

  Copyright © 2013 by Margaret Belle

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my crazy, wonderful family.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  Prologue

  Rochester, NY - 2003

  “So, Audrey,” said Dr. Collins, “we’ve come to the end of our last session together. I have to say, you’ve done a lot of soul searching and self-discovery over the past two years.”

  “No offense,” I laughed, “but it feels longer.”

  “In any case,” she said, feigning hurt feelings, “you’re about to head out into the world with your new marketing degree – are you nervous?”

  “Maybe a little,” I admitted. The faint aroma of Frankincense drifted to me; incense that Dr. Collins, my therapist, burned to relieve stress and anxiety. I liked it. I would take the memory of it with me as a reminder of the time I’d spent here, safe and comfortable in “my” chair, with Dr. Collins’ gentle strength propping up my own shortcomings, preparing me to deal with the days that fell between one session and the next.

  During my sophomore year, suffering from insomnia and extreme fatigue, I’d gone to a general practitioner, who in turn sent me to Dr. Sandra Collins, a psychologist, who’d determined that I suffered from Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. Once I heard the diagnosis, it made total sense. Back then I’d agonized incessantly over my grades and worried about everything, from whether I should brush my teeth up and down or sideways, to whether a plane flying overhead would plummet to Earth if I stared at it too long. I’d spun out horrifying scenarios of the imagined consequences of my thoughts and actions, as well as those of others, until I was so overwhelmed I would completely shut down. I called it my spin cycle.

  “You have coping skills now,” she continued, “and relaxation techniques to take with you.” She pulled a business card from a pile on her desk and placed it in my hand. “You’re always welcome to call me, but here’s the card of Dr. Karol Steele, a colleague of mine in the Syracuse area; I suggest you contact her to continue with your therapy. And remember, Audrey, you’ve earned the right to be happy.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping that was true. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” If only I’d been honest with you even once, I thought.

  She walked me to the door like a mother putting her Kindergartener on the bus for the first day of school; all she needed was a camera. “One last thing, Audrey,” she said. “You know that your anxiety can re-emerge in the face of highly stressful situations, so take things in stride when you’re able and use those calming techniques when you need to.” I gave her a hug and left her office for the last time.

  Out on the sidewalk, as I waited for a cab in the June heat, a man darted around the corner and plowed straight into me. His eyes – dark brown and intense – locked onto mine before he shoved me hard against the building and took off. Soon after, two police cars careened around the same corner and sped by with their lights flashing, sirens wailing, tires squealing.

  With my heart hammering in my chest, I lowered myself to the sidewalk. Sweating and feeling faint, I attempted the slow breathing technique that Dr. Collins had practiced with me, holding each inhale to the count of six, exhaling slowly between intakes of air, but I had difficulty following through. My vision swarmed with gnat-like specks, but something crumpled on the ground near me caught my attention and I reached for it. It was a black ski mask. Unable to loosen my grip on the damp piece of wool, I leaned against the building and waited for darkness to swallow me.

  Chapter 1

  Syracuse, NY - 2013

  My name is Audrey Dory, and I’m in the advertising business. I persuade people to buy product A over product B, choose brand C over brand D, and of course, my job isn’t finished until they purchase whatever it is from the company I want them to, instead of from one of the fifty other companies that carry it. I manipulate minds until my targets no longer want the product or service they thought they did, but instead crave the one I want them to. Whether I use facts, comedy, or play on emotions to do the job, the success of my business depends on my ability to separate people from their money.

  Ten years ago, fresh out of college, I began selling air time at a local radio station and quickly realized that I had a knack for writing commercials that were creative and perfectly timed to thirty or sixty seconds. It became clear that the people in the advertising agencies I serviced were no more creative than I was, so I set out to learn everything about the business from selling, to billing, to scheduling, to collections; the following year I left my job and opened my own agency, Silent Partner.

  The experience has been a satisfactory one for the most part, although I have occasionally found myself with a client who didn’t pay - who went out of business and left me hanging, or died and left me on the hook. I became meticulous about doing credit checks on new clients before signing them up, yet somehow I still manage to be left holding the bag now and then.

  I flipped through my Rolodex for Fergal Finnegan’s phone number – “Ferdy” to those of us who know him well. Ferdy is the owner of an accounting firm and has been a client of mine for three years. He’d left a message that he wanted to start work on a campaign regarding a piece of tax preparation software, for which he’d been granted a new patent. I knew from experience, that he would drive me up a wall before the campaign was put to bed, but I’d put up with it, because although Ferdy was a pain the ass, he didn’t owe me a dime. Plus, I had high hopes that his business acumen would translate into big bucks for him, and in turn, for me.

  As I dialed the phone, my assistant, Harley Bud, attired in one of her tie-dyed, hippie-dippie, maxi dresses, and clogs, clomped in. Her long dark hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck by something with beads that I couldn’t identify. She placed a decorative bag on my desk. “Happy birthday, Curly,” she said, referring to my mostly unruly auburn hair.

  About two years ago, when my assistant left without notice, Ferdy had saved my butt by recommending Harley, and surprisingly, she had taken the job. Surprisingly, because she is a well-trained techie with knowledge and proficiency she will never get to use in my employ, and has mastered software she is not likely to ever find in the confines of my office. Harley’d had the opportunity to work
for a big firm in another state, but stayed here because her grandmother, who was all the family she had, was failing and needed her help. I was able to offer her a flexible work schedule so she could take her grandmother to see her army of doctors and a good benefits package, but next to nothing in salary. Harley walked past me and dropped her tote on top of her desk, which was all of six feet from mine.

  Ferdy’s secretary picked up. “Cat,” I said, “it’s Audrey. Is Ferdy around?” Harley rolled her eyes at the sound of his name.

  “He didn’t come in this morning.”

  “I’d ask if he was taking a mental health day,” I said, “but I know that’s not him – he’d crawl in if he had to.”

  “No kidding.” I picked up on the worry in her voice and paid more attention. “It isn’t like him to just not show up,” she said.

  “Did you try his phone?” I asked.

  “I’ve been calling his house and his cell. I think something’s wrong.”

  “He left me a message,” I said, “but I don’t know if it was from this morning or yesterday after we closed. The time and date thing on my machine needs to be reset.”

  “Did he say where he was?”

  “No,” I said, “he just wanted to set up a meeting about his new software.”

  “Do you think I should call someone?”

  “Like who?”

  “I was thinking the police,” she said.

  “I don’t know – that might be jumping the gun, but if you’re worried, why don’t we meet at his house? If I leave now I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “All right,” she said. “But I hope it’s not like on TV, when someone doesn’t show up at work and then a co-worker goes to check and finds the person dead.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing like that. I’ll see you there.” I grabbed my purse and checked to be sure my cell phone was in it. “Harley…”

  “I know. I heard,” she said. “Go.”

  Ferdy lived alone in a tony section of the city, and soon I was standing at his front door with Cat right behind me. I rang and knocked, but there was no answer.

  “Now what?” asked Cat.

  “Let’s see if his garage has a window.” We followed a rose-bordered, brick sidewalk around to the side of his garage, where we found not one, but two spotless windows. Ferdy’s car was there. “Okay,” I said, “now we call.” I pulled out my cell phone, punched 9-1-1 into the keypad, and reported what little we knew.

  A police car arrived within minutes and the responding officer, who introduced himself as Officer Morey, tried the door and found it unlocked. “Why didn’t we try that?” I asked Cat.

  “Wait here,” the officer said.

  From what I could see from the porch, Ferdy’s front room was in disarray. A lamp, sofa pillows, and the pages of a newspaper were strewn on the floor; what appeared to be a cup of coffee was overturned on an end table. Right then, I knew that Ferdy Finnegan, a self-described neat freak, would never have left his home in this condition, and that something really bad had occurred.

  Cat was beside herself. “What could have happened?” she asked. “Where the hell is Ferdy?”

  I put my arm around her as we waited on the porch. Officer Morey walked toward us, and as he did, his radio crackled. I thought I heard the dispatcher say a private aircraft had crashed into Onondaga Lake.

  “What did that just say?” I asked, as I pointed to his radio. Tony Bravada, the air traffic reporter for this market, was also a client of mine, and I was hoping against hope that it wasn’t he who had just plunged into the drink. A check of my watch told me that Tony should be in the air, nearing the end of his morning shift. Crap.

  “Small plane went into the lake,” said the officer. “Unofficial report says it’s the air traffic guy.”

  Cat pulled me away from the house and toward her car. “We can listen to the radio.”

  We sat in absolute shock, as we listened to a witness describe how Tony’s plane, The Soul of Syracuse, had plunged into the lake; no word on Tony; not even whether he’d survived. What the hell was going on? So far today, I had one client go missing and another crash his plane.

  “There’s nothing we can do here,” said Cat. “Do you want to drive over to the lake?”

  Chapter 2

  When we arrived on the south side of Onondaga Lake, Air One, the county police helicopter, was circling above the wreckage of Tony’s plane. Emergency vehicles were lined up on the roadside and an ambulance waited near the shore; police directed traffic in an attempt to keep rubberneckers moving along. There were more flashing lights than I’d ever seen in one place. My stomach lurched, as I watched divers in black wetsuits working in the water.

  I tried not to cry. Tony was a good guy; a local celebrity, who was well-liked and well-respected, and now maybe he was dead. The press arrived. Cameras rolled. Microphones were thrust in the faces of police officers; everyone wanted to know what had happened to Tony. Including me.

  Cat grabbed my arm and pointed to the divers. We watched as Tony was floated to shore strapped to a board, not moving as far as I could tell. Finally, the ambulance took off with him in it, and we followed the speeding vehicle to the E.R. at St. Joseph’s Hospital, where we reported to the women behind the reception desk.

  “Are you relatives?” she asked.

  Cat pushed me forward. “No,” I said, “I work with Tony.”

  “Does he have any relatives that you know of? Someone we could call?”

  “He has siblings, but I don’t know how many or where they live,” I said. “I can tell you that he’s 58, and I’ve never heard him talk about any medical problems.”

  “Are you thinking about waiting here?” she asked. “Because there’s nothing you can do right now and we can’t give you any information. You might as well go home.”

  “At least he’s still alive,” I said, as we walked back out to the car.

  Cat drove me back to Ferdy’s to pick up my Jeep. Police cruisers and vans filled the driveway, and men and women in law enforcement uniforms traveled in and out of the front door. Cat and I hugged, agreed to keep each other in the loop, and then went back to our respective offices.

  The light on my answering machine was flashing, and I listened to panicked messages from the general managers of the radio and television stations who had Tony under contract to deliver traffic reports every weekday morning and afternoon. How was he? Was he even alive? Did I have someone to deliver air traffic reports in his absence?

  “Hey, Harley,” I said, “Do a search to see if you can come up with any of Tony’s relatives while I return some of these calls.”

  Even though I resented the fact that the station managers seemed to care more about their traffic reports than about Tony, I couldn’t afford to piss any of them off by not getting back to them. We’d had tough negotiations getting Tony’s current stations on board when he’d first hit the air eight years ago, as the voice of Syracuse traffic. Now his whole livelihood was at stake, and I, as his agency of record, had to try to keep his network together until I found out how long he would be out, or if he would be able to go back to work at all.

  I returned call after call, and with as little sarcasm as I could muster, promised to try and find a private pilot who had his or her own plane, and who could fly it while watching the sky above and the streets and highways below, report traffic problems, provide alternate routes to drivers, read advertising copy, and do it all while keeping track of which station he was on the air with at any given moment. Sure. Dime a dozen.

  As far as Tony’s condition, I had no answers. Not being related to him, I’d have to get my information from radio or TV reports like everyone else – unless I could find one of his siblings who could pass information along to me.

  “Here’s a sister,” said Harley, as she handed me a slip of paper, “she lives three to four hours away, in Newburgh.”

  Rose Bravada answered the phone, and although she was very upset at the news, assured me tha
t she would notify her other siblings and then drive right to the hospital. I asked her to let me know whatever she could about Tony and gave her the number to my cell. When I finished the call, I turned to Harley. “What about Ferdy’s next of kin?”

  Within minutes she had a number for a brother, Sean, who lived in Pennsylvania. I called him and explained what little I knew about Ferdy. He said he would be on the next flight to Syracuse. I gave him my cell number and told him to call when he arrived and I’d pick him up at the airport. Then I called Officer Morey and told him that Ferdy’s brother and Tony’s sister would be in town shortly. If he needed to speak with either one, he would find Rose at Tony’s bedside and Sean, since Ferdy’s home was a crime scene, at the Crowne Hotel. Then I called the Crowne and made a reservation for him.

  It was five o’clock, and although I had deadlines looming and needed to get Harley started on a website re-design, I was exhausted and hungry. “Want to grab something to eat?” I asked.

  “Right behind you,” she said, “just let me finish this one update and I’ll lock up and meet you at Krabby Kirk's.”

  Krabby Kirk’s Saloon is an establishment in the village of Camillus, a small suburb west of Syracuse. The best thing about the saloon is that I live above it. I most often do “take up” instead of “take out,” since it’s simply a matter of picking up my food at the bar and walking up the back stairs to my apartment.

  I know what you’re thinking. Advertising executives are supposed to be well-heeled and prosperous, live in large sprawling homes with panoramic views and drive BMWs. And that may be the way owners of large agencies roll. But when you own a two-person shop and your clients are people who run small businesses and cannot afford to pay large commissions and outrageous hourly rates, you keep your overhead low. And anyway, I like my little apartment. It has a great living room window that looks out over Main Street, where once a year, the Memorial Day parade marches by. Even though it’s always the same, never any surprises, I cherish the tradition and look forward to it every year. I do love a parade.