Dead Canaries Don't Sing (18 page)

I headed down a flight of stairs, figuring I should leave the lone elevator to those who really needed it. The walls were badly in need of a paint job, and the scuff marks and stray bits of paper gave me the impression that the cleaning staff didn’t exactly make the stairwells a priority. I hoped they did better with the examining rooms.

The Babcock Group’s receptionist was even more of a shock. Maybe I’d seen too many movies, but I was braced for a mannequin with perfect hair, perfect makeup, and perfect nails. Instead, the very young woman sitting at the front desk looked as if she were just filling time until her punk rock band had its first hit.

Her black hair was cut short and gelled into spikes, the points in front dyed a lovely shade of cobalt blue. Her nails were perfect, but they happened to be black. And she wore no makeup at all, unless the silver eyebrow ring counted.

“Hi,” she greeted me cheerfully. “You looking for George?”

I nodded.

“Dr. Popper, right?”

“That’s right.” Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that
Newsday
got my name wrong. At least I was less recognizable to anyone who might be following the story of Tommee Frack’s murder—including his murderer.

“I’ll tell him you’re here.”

I used my few moments alone in the 10-by-10-foot space that served as a reception area to case the joint. The place was in chaos. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, stuffed with files. Thick books with titles like
New York Publicity Outlets
and
Bacon’s Business Media Directory
were piled up unceremoniously. Either George Babcock was moving or he needed a crash course in Feng Shui.

“George’ll be right out,” the blue-haired one informed me when she returned.

The phone rang, and she answered with the same chirpy voice.

“The Babcock Group. Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . Actually, we don’t represent them anymore. Gee, I guess it’s been a few weeks now.” In a slightly harsher tone, she added, “No, I
don’t
know who represents them now.”

I glanced at her, wondering if I should say something consoling. It was then I noticed the photograph on her desk. The same young woman grinned at the camera, as did her companion, a young man whose hair was at least as spiky and whose face was decorated with substantially more silver.

But it was the third figure in the photograph that caught my eye. His hair was kind of spiky, too, but not any more than that of any other wire-haired terrier.

Ah, I thought. A dog lover. Even better, a
terrier
lover.

I filed that fact away.

A few moments later, a small, wiry man with a thick blond mustache and a rumpled suit came rushing out from the back.

“Dr. Popper? I’m George Babcock. Thanks for coming in.”

He pumped my hand a few times, then dropped it as abruptly as he had grabbed it. “Sorry for the mess. We’re in the middle of a move.”
We’reinthemiddleofamove
. I immediately pegged him as a classic Type A personality. “Of course, this place was always just temporary. One of those emergency situations where I had to grab whatever I could find. But we’ll be in our new offices soon enough. Can I offer you some coffee? Belle, get Dr. Popper some coffee.”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. I’d only been in George Babcock’s presence for seconds, but I was already on the verge of swearing off caffeine entirely. Turning to him, I inquired, “Where are you moving to?”

“Oh, a much bigger space. Much bigger. Fact of the matter is, we’re growing so fast, we need a place three times this size. I’m about to bring some more people on board, just to keep up.”

I noticed that Belle’s eyes grew wide and her eyebrows shot up near her hairline, ornaments and all. When she saw me looking at her, she turned away, suddenly absorbed by her computer.

“But come in, come in, Dr. Popper. We’re both busy people, so let’s get right down to business.”

His office was small, windowless, and as desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint as the stairwell. But George Babcock seemed oblivious to all of it. He plunked down in the wheezing chair behind his desk, motioned for me to sit in the only other chair in the room, and clasped his hands together in front of him, as if he needed to do so in order to keep them still.

“I understand you’re interested in getting some publicity for you and your business.”

“That’s right.”

“Why don’t we start with you telling me about yourself and what you’re looking for in a public relations outfit.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, as I mentioned on the phone, I’m a veterinarian. I have a mobile services unit—a clinic on wheels, basically—that treats animals all over Long Island. It’s called Reigning Cats & Dogs.”

“Cute. I like that.” George’s head bobbed up and down. “Short, catchy, clever. Go on.”

“My practice is primarily small animal, meaning dogs and cats and the other usual house pets. But I do some large animal, as well. Here on Long Island, that means horses. Riding schools, private horse owners, that kind of thing. I also treat exotics, which is a little unusual. Tropical birds, lizards, turtles, pets that aren’t your usual garden variety.”

More nodding, even harder than before. “Good, good. This is all very good.”

I tried not to buy into his enthusiasm, reminding myself this was the sales pitch he fed everybody. Even so, I could feel my head swelling, at least a little.

“Anyway, when I started the business, I expected that by this point, my practice would have grown a lot more than it has. I’d like to have a couple of assistants, more clients, maybe even a second van. I figured the best way to expand was by getting my name out there, but I didn’t really know how to begin.

“Then, a few weeks ago, I was at a conference, and some of the other veterinarians were talking about how beneficial it had been for them to hire a public relations firm. You know, someone to get their name in the paper, maybe set up a few lectures at local libraries, that kind of thing.”

“You’re exactly right.” George’s nodding had accelerated to an alarming pace. “I can see you’re a very smart girl, Jessie. May I call you Jessie?”

I believe you already have, I thought.

“Actually, I prefer Dr. Popper, if you don’t mind. It’s more professional.”

“Dr. Popper, then. Anyway, given the current economy,” he went on, “keeping your name in front of people—in a positive way, of course—has never been more crucial. If you want your business to grow, you must become a household name. There’s advertising, of course, but we all know how expensive that is.”

I nodded.

“But what’s even more important is the question, Why should you pay an arm and a leg to be in a newspaper or on television when your PR firm can get you there for
free
?” His cheeks were flushed and the look in his eyes bordered on maniacal. “Did you know that more than half of what’s presented to you as news is actually the result of a PR pitch?”

Actually, I did. I really was becoming a PR expert.

“That’s what public relations is all about,” George continued. “The name of the game is taking who you are and what you do and turning it into
news
. Not only does that mean you’re getting your name out there without any charge besides the modest fee you pay your PR firm every month; it also means you’re being positioned as somebody the media
respects
. You’re an expert. An authority. You’re instantly someone who can be trusted. After all, the general public has seen you on TV! You’ve been in their living room, thanks to the six o’clock news. Or you’ve been in their car, your voice dropping pearls of wisdom on CBS radio. They’ve seen your picture in the paper. They’ve heard you at their community center, lecturing to an enraptured audience about the most effective ways of treating cats for ticks and fleas. All of a sudden, you’re not just a name in the Yellow Pages. You’re
somebody
!”

Yes! Yes!
I was tempted to cry. Instead, I reluctantly clung to my composure by reminding myself that I hadn’t really come here in the hopes that George Babcock could turn me into a household name like Lysol.

“It all makes sense to me,” I told him. “Except for one thing. It’s not as if I’m a celebrity. I’m not selling records or movie tickets or thrillers. I’m just an animal doctor.”

“Let me show you something.” Leaping out of his chair, George pulled a video labeled “Dr. Westoff” off a shelf. He inserted it into the VCR sitting on top of the television in one corner and commanded, “Check this out. Then tell me what you think.”

For the next five minutes, I watched a good-looking plastic surgeon do one television interview after another, discussing the pros and cons of manipulating fat, wrinkles, cellulite, and half a dozen other unseemly side products of being human. He was enthusiastic, cheerful, and authoritative, exactly the person I’d want rearranging my body parts if I ever chose to do so.

George was right. Seeing him on television shows that were familiar to me did make Dr. Westoff look like an expert. Now I understood the true alchemy of public relations. With the right connections, anybody could be made to look good.

“Of course, Dr. Westoff deals with an entirely different aspect of the medical profession,” George said as he hit “Eject.” “But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t try to get you coverage like that. Does this kind of thing look like it could be of value to you?”

“Definitely.”

“Frankly, I see a lot of opportunity here. You present yourself well, you’re obviously intelligent, you’re attractive . . . I think I could do a lot for you. Have you ever thought about a weekly television spot? Channel 14, maybe, on Saturday mornings? Or how about a one-minute spot once a day? Something like, ‘Pet Care Fact of the Day’?”

Right, I thought. We could call it “Sound Bites.”

“It’s certainly something to think about . . .”

“Why don’t you take a few days to do just that?” George Babcock suggested. “In the meantime,” he went on, “whenever you watch TV or listen to the radio or read articles in newspapers and magazines, think about what you saw here today. When you see a segment on the news about a discovery at some hospital, think about the fact that the reason it’s on TV is that the hospital’s PR department contacted the media. When you see a story about the head of some charity getting an award, think PR. When a rock star has a new CD out or a movie star has a new film, they’re suddenly all over the media. How do you think that happened? I’ll tell you how: their PR people have been faxing press releases and making phone calls, that’s how.”

“I had no idea PR played such a big role in everyone’s life,” I confessed. “But you’re right; I do need a chance to digest it all.”

I stood up to leave. It was time for me to focus on the real reason I’d sat through George Babcock’s sales pitch.

“You know, I keep hearing about somebody else who was in public relations here on Long Island,” I said casually. “That man who was murdered. Tommee Frack.”

A spasm creased George’s face.

“Did you know him?” I pressed. “I mean, it’s such a small world—”

“Yeah, I knew him,” he said, suddenly sullen. “In fact, I gave him his start in the PR business.”

“Really?”
Boy, I was getting good at this.

“Yup. I was the fool who offered him his first job, right after he graduated from Brookside College.”

“But that doesn’t sound foolish! From what I’ve read, it sounds as if Frack was a genius.”

“A genius at screwing people,” he shot back bitterly.

The same crazed glint I’d glimpsed earlier was back in his eyes. But this time, it had nothing to do with the thrill of getting a client on television to chat about sucking out love handles.

“Look, the guy did a real number on me. After I trained him—taught him everything he knew, in fact—he walked.”

“You mean he went to work for a competitor?” I asked, even though I already knew Tommee Frack’s history.

“He left to start his own PR firm,” George replied. “Problem was, he took half my clients with him.”

This time, my surprise was sincere. “How awful! That must have been quite a blow.”

“Damn right. And most of my clients were new to public relations. I was the one who’d spent hours convincing them that they could benefit from hiring a PR agency.

“Dr. Westoff is the perfect example. You sound like you’re pretty savvy, Dr. Popper. But Westoff started out as just a guy I played golf with. He didn’t know PR from a hole in the ground—no pun intended. I worked on him for months, educating him about the realities of building his practice by getting his name out there. Actually, Westoff’s one of the few who stuck with me.”

“But if Tommee was just starting his own firm, what could he possibly have offered your clients? I mean, you clearly had more experience and more contacts, not to mention a better track record.”

George’s facial muscles tightened into an expression I couldn’t quite read. “That’s something you and I will never really know,” he said darkly.

“But it’s all ancient history, isn’t it? Didn’t Tommee Frack start his company years ago?”

“Yes, but he never stopped stealing my clients.”

“I don’t know anything about this, of course . . . but would it be that unusual for a client to switch agencies every few years? You know, to try working with someone else to see if the results were better?”

George smiled coldly. “You clearly don’t know much about Tommee Frack.”

No, but I’m learning,
I was tempted to say.
And I
want to learn even more
.

“Competing fairly in the business environment is one thing,” George told me. “Resorting to immoral behavior is something else entirely.”

“You make it sound as if Tommee was doing something really unethical,” I said, “if not out and out illegal.”

If looks could kill, the expression on George Babcock’s face would have been registered with the police. “Why don’t you ask Joey DeFeo?”

Joey DeFeo. Joey DeFeo. The name sounded familiar . . .