Dead Canaries Don't Sing (6 page)

In what Norfolk County police are labeling one of the most tragic occurrences in the area’s recent history, the body of public relations mogul Tommee Frack was discovered in a wooded area in the countrified yet chic Brewster’s Neck section of Seaponak.

Frack’s body was found near Atherton Farm, a horse farm and riding facility. Medical Examiner Richard Stokes has not yet released information on the cause of death. Frack was thirty years old.

The body was discovered by local veterinarian Jessica Pepper as she chased her three dogs, who were running loose. Pepper, who called police on a cell phone, has not been linked to the murder at this time.

“Great,” I muttered. “Three strikes, you’re out. First of all, that’s Popper, with an ‘o.’ No relation to the fizzy stuff. Second, that was two dogs, not three. Third, thanks for making it sound like there’s at least a chance your friendly local vet might be a cold-blooded killer.”

Still, I read on.

According to friends and family, Tommee Frack began his enormously successful public relations career while still a student at Caumsett High School. After graduating from Brookside College in Edgewood, he became an assistant account executive at The Babcock Group in Apaucuck. Within three years, his creative abilities, combined with what former Norfolk County Executive Eugene Guilford, a longtime friend, referred to as Frack’s “outstanding people skills,” catapulted him to the position of senior vice president.

After making a name for himself with The Babcock Group, Frack left to start his own firm. Tommee Frack & Associates, which he founded three years ago, represented a wide range of clients, including private companies, not-for-profits, and organizations such as the police union, the Norfolk County PBA.

Guilford stated, “Tommee Frack had an uncanny ability to read people. Just from speaking with someone for a few minutes, he instinctively knew what truly mattered to that individual. He had a sixth sense about where that particular person wanted to be next year and in five years. Tommee was truly an asset to Long Island. He will be sorely missed.”

“Tommee Frack was exceptionally versatile,” commented Joseph DeFeo, president of Pomonok Properties. “He had an understanding of so many different fields. He was comfortable with just about very aspect of government, business, and community service. And he really knew what made the media tick. He was a master at bringing people together, be it the presidents of companies, powerful community leaders, or even members of opposing political parties.”

That same sentiment was echoed by the president of a community hospital.

“The range of clients that Tommee served during his successful career as the head of his own public relations firm demonstrated just how versatile he was,” noted Gary Tarniff of St. Luke’s Hospital in Woodhull. “Frack was unique in that he recognized the common bonds that tie us all together. Perhaps his greatest contribution was uniting Long Islanders, finding ways for us to help us help each other in our shared efforts to make this the greatest place in the world to live and to work.”

Wow, I thought. Mother Teresa with a cell phone.

The standing-room-only crowd inside the funeral parlor served as proof that the captains of government and commerce who had been quoted in the
Newsday
article weren’t the only ones who revered the late Tommee Frack. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a newshound, but even I read the paper and watched the local news often enough to recognize many of the saddened faces around me.

Gene Guilford, the ex-county executive who had deified Tommee Frack in the newspaper, was there, glancing around and adjusting his tie nervously as if he, and not the dead guy, was today’s main attraction. Just about every other politician I could think of was there, too, representing every level of government. I identified the current county executive, our state assemblyman, three Norfolk County legislators, and all five members of the town council. I even spotted the commissioner of highways, who I recognized from the posters that had decorated every telephone pole in the county before the last election.

But those were just the politicos, people I assumed had bothered to put on their suits and ties because they recognized this occasion as a valuable photo op. I also saw businessmen whose faces were familiar, Long Island’s corporate bigwigs, like the head of a big computer company and the CEO of a major insurance company. As for the media, I saw so many of the reporters I was used to watching on TV that I wondered who was covering that day’s car accidents on the Long Island Expressway. There were quite a few men in uniform in attendance, as well, all looking dutifully somber. I even noticed Officer Pascucci standing in back, checking out the scene and, not surprisingly, wearing a malevolent expression.

All in all, it was an impressive showing. As I shuffled toward the rows of wooden chairs that faced the open casket, I had to admit that I was kind of enjoying being in the midst of such a high-profile event. That is, until I spotted one more familiar face.

“What’s the matter, Nick? Don’t tell me even you’re starting to find Tommee Frack’s murder intriguing.”

“Actually, Jess,” he said, without missing a beat, “you’re the reason I’m here.”

“
Moi?
Should I be flattered?”

“Let’s just say that after our conversation the other day, I had a feeling you’d show up today. And I wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”

“Were you afraid that I’d leap up in the middle of the eulogy and yell, ‘Would the real murderer please stand up’?”

“Something like that.”

It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to growl at him.

“Well, since you’ve taken it upon yourself to baby-sit me, you might as well make yourself useful. I recognize a lot of these people—the highway commissioner, the president of Kel-Tech Computers—but maybe you can fill me in on who some of these other movers and shakers are.”

He sighed, then reluctantly pointed. “That’s Daniel Sharpe, the police commissioner. And that’s Jerry Siegel, chairman of the board of Norfolk Imaging. Over there is Ralph Pereira, head of Channel 14 News. And I’m pretty sure that guy over there is on the town’s zoning board.”

“Golly, gee,” I said breathlessly. “Is there anybody Frack didn’t know?”

Nick shrugged. “That’s PR, I guess. From what little I understand, it sounds as if knowing the right people is the key to success. Jess, I hope you’re not planning to do what I think you’re planning to do.” He must have noticed me eyeing the crowd hungrily.

“Which is—?”

“Go up to complete strangers and start asking a bunch of inappropriate questions.”

“People do chat with each other at wakes, don’t they?” I asked indignantly. “I think it’s called being polite.”

Before he could get another word in, I said, “You know, I think I’ll pop into the ladies room before this thing gets started.” I wrinkled my nose. “Too much coffee.”

I moved away, no easy feat in that crowd. But I got far enough so that Nick couldn’t see what I was doing—or try to stop me.

I looked around, wondering how to go about meeting and greeting in a situation like this. It was like being at a school dance, desperately searching for some guy who was standing by himself so you could ask him to dance without anyone seeing you do so.

And then I spotted my victim, standing alone and looking decidedly awkward. Between his military-style haircut and his eyeglasses, so thick it was a miracle he could hold his head up, he had the look of someone very intelligent, not to mention important. Not a single wrinkle defiled his gray suit, his immaculate white shirt, or his dignified Harvard tie. Even his shoes gleamed, with not a speck of dirt or even a scuff mark daring to mar their shiny black surface.

I mustered up all my bravery and sidled up to him.

“Tragic, isn’t it?” I began conversationally. “That such a terrible thing should happen to someone so young?”

He peered at me, his eyes blurs behind the bullet-proof lenses. “Terrible,” he repeated in a voice that was at least an octave higher than I’d expected.

“I’m completely in shock,” I prattled on. “I mean, when I read about this in the newspaper, I was just beside myself.”

This time, all I got was a nod. It was increasingly apparent that my interviewing technique needed work.

I decided I had to be a little more creative. “I mean, Tommee was so . . . so . . .”

“Greedy?”

I blinked. “Actually, that wasn’t the word I was looking for.”

Of course, I didn’t add that I had no idea what word I was looking for. But I was pleased to have learned something about Frack, who was still pretty much an unknown quantity to me.

“Let’s face it,” the man volunteered glumly. “The guy did nothing but work. He barely slept. He’s the guy who invented the phrase ‘twenty-four/seven.’ ”

I’d often thought I’d like to find myself alone in a dark alley with whoever had invented that phrase. But I had a feeling that Tommee Frack, for all his accomplishments, couldn’t really be credited with that one.

“Did you know him well?” I ventured.

The man snorted. “Let’s just say I saw a side of him that very few people got to see.”

“What do you mean?”

My curiosity was piqued. Was I speaking with Tommee Frack’s bookie? His psychiatrist? His proctologist?

His answer was kind of a letdown.

“I am—I
was
—his accountant.”

Figures, I thought. Of all the people at the funeral who could provide me with an inside look at Tommee Frack and what might have brought about his demise, I have the bad luck to pick out the biggest dead end in the room.

“How . . . fascinating.”

He snorted again. I realized that what sounded to me like a colt who thought I was getting a little personal during a physical was actually this accountant’s laugh.

“Accountancy is an underrated field,” he informed me indignantly. His voice had gotten even higher, moving dangerously into the squeaky range. “Most people don’t realize just how exciting it can be.”

“Gee, I never really thought about it.” At least that part was honest. “But I’m curious: why do you think Tommee was greedy? I mean, as opposed to simply . . . successful?”

“Because his highest priority wasn’t servicing his clients. It was collecting their checks.”

Better and better. A mourner who had a grievance against the dead man. “I have to admit I’m at kind of a disadvantage here,” I said meekly. “I don’t know much about public relations.”

“Not much to know. A client hires a PR firm in order to get his name in the news as often as possible. And the way the PR firm accomplishes that is by employing account executives who get on the phone and pitch the media.”

“ ‘Pitch the media’?”

He looked at me oddly.

“I’m a veterinarian,” I offered as my apology.

“The account executive calls the editors of magazines and newspapers, as well as the producers of TV and radio shows, and basically tries to sell them an idea over the phone. You know, like, ‘My client, John Smith, just gave a million dollars to such-and-such charity.’ Or invented a new product or hired a new vice president or whatever. And if the account exec is doing his job, that story ends up on the six o’clock news or on page two.”

“I see. So what was Tommee Frack doing that made him, you know, greedy?”

“Pitching the media is time-consuming. You figure most account executives would probably handle six, maybe eight clients, tops. Even that’s pushing it. But Tommee liked to keep his costs down. He had only three or four account execs at a time, but he was billing over sixty clients.”

“Sixty clients! Wow, he
was
successful!”

“Except I never understood how he could possibly service all those clients with such a small staff. You’d think they would have felt shortchanged and taken their business somewhere else. Instead, they stayed with him, year after year.”

“Maybe he was just good with people.”

“Well, it’s true that he did have a way with people. At least, when he wanted to.” The accountant smirked. “Or maybe I should say, when there was something he wanted from them.”

It occurred to me that this hardly seemed like the kind of conversation one should be having at a wake. Then I reminded myself that I wasn’t here to mourn Tommee, but to sneak around and find out all the dirt I could about him.

But there was no more time to speak ill of the dead. A minister was making his way toward a wooden dais placed in front of Tommee, who lay in front of the room in pretty much the same position he’d been in when I’d first come across him.

“I guess we’d better sit down,” I said. “But I enjoyed talking to you, Mr.—”

“Havemeyer. Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. I glanced at it politely, then stuck it in my purse.

By the time I looked up again, Tommee Frack’s cranky accountant had wandered off toward one of the middle rows. I headed to the back of the room, where I figured I’d get the best overview of the proceedings.

I’d just found myself a comfortable spot, with a wall to lean on and a towering potted plant to hide behind, when I felt someone else’s presence. I glanced up, intending to offer to share my space. Instead, I did a double take.

“Officer Nolan! How nice to see you again!”

“Hey, call me Jimmy. And it’s Jessie, isn’t it?”

I felt ridiculously pleased that he remembered.

“I hope you’ve been keeping out of trouble.” He grinned, that same spectacular smile that had impressed me the last time we’d met. “No more dead bodies?”

“Not a one.”

“Good. Murder is something to steer clear of. Trust me.”

“I guess you should know.”

“Are you kidding? One of these days, you and I should sit down over a couple of beers so I can tell you about some of the things I’ve seen.”

I had to admit that didn’t sound like a bad idea. And my curiosity over Tommee Frack had nothing to do with it.