Sarah continued. “So just, everybody stop. Andrea’s right. Where the hell is Jessica? Can we stop with the psychobabble for thirty seconds and track down our sister?”
Carrie nodded. “I think I just took it for granted she was safe and with Mother.”
Andrea nodded and then said, “I think what happened to me yesterday means we can’t take anything for granted.”
“Right,” Carrie said. She took out her phone and dialed. “I’ll try Jessica, then Mom.”
“Who was the last person who talked with her?”
“Dad. A week ago. He told me when I started calling about getting blood tests. That she’s at some kind of retreat or campground or something.”
Sarah snorted. “What did I tell you?”
Alexandra said, “If Dad says she’s at a retreat, then why—”
Andrea cut her off. “I don’t have any reason to believe anything he says.”
The other sisters were silenced. Not a word. No agreement. No disagreement.
Carrie took the phone away from her ear. “Jess doesn’t answer.” She dialed the phone again, and said, “If Mom doesn’t answer, I’ll try Julia. They’re leaving Los Angeles tomorrow. Maybe they can make a stop in San Francisco.”
2. Anthony Walker. April 29
When Anthony Walker stepped off the elevator, accompanied by a giant masquerading as a security guard, he was automatically inclined to be judgmental. People who rented the top floor suites of Los Angeles luxury hotels didn’t get the benefit of the doubt in his book. Not in a world where millions starved or died prematurely of disease. Not in a world where war destroyed lives.
Never mind that he knew that Julia Wilson was an active philanthropist. He’d done his homework, and knew she served on the boards of half a dozen nonprofits, the largest of which was the Cristina Center in Detroit, a shelter for young girls who had been trafficked and forced into prostitution.
But this… palace. It was unconscionable. Appalling. Marble floors and crystal chandeliers. A dozen security guards so far.
What he didn’t understand was where Wilson got her money. During his research for the interview, a friend had managed to pull her tax returns as well as her father’s. Richard Thompson was rich, of course. Old money, lots of assets, some of them less savory than others.
But the father had nothing on daughter Julia. If the story he’d been led to believe was true, she’d taken the money earned from her husband’s band and invested it in a wide range of businesses all over the globe, and made appalling sums of money. With a net worth well in excess of forty million, she could afford to fund a place like the Cristina Center and not notice the difference.
In Anthony’s experience, people didn’t make that kind of money unless someone was getting screwed somewhere.
Still, he didn’t want to prejudge her. He followed the security guard down the hallway of the suite… the hallway… and stopped when the guard indicated. A knock on the door, and then the guard said, “Through here, sir.”
Anthony gave the guard a weak smile, then stepped into the office.
He was met at the door by Julia Wilson. Professionally dressed in a dark blue suit and skirt with tasteful heels, she wore pearls at her neck and wrists, and smaller pearls in both ears. Rich brown, curly hair framed a face that highlighted blue-green eyes and full lips. Born December 16, 1981. She was three months older than Anthony, but looked easily five years younger.
That said, she wouldn’t look out of place in any executive office in the world. He reminded himself that this woman controlled a company far bigger than the rock band that had started it—she’d built it into a multi-million dollar international business.
“Mr. Walker,” she said. “I’m Julia Wilson.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilson.”
She gave him an insincere smile. “Julia, please. Have a seat.”
“Okay, Julia. Call me Anthony.”
He took the proffered chair, positioning a digital audio recorder on the desk and taking out the small pocket sized notebook he carried everywhere with him. Anthony had a strong verbal memory and could often recall conversations with near perfect accuracy. Unfortunately he was a disaster with other types of facts: dates, locations, and sometimes even people’s faces.
She took a seat behind the desk, across from him. Nice that this hotel suite had a built-in office with an imposing desk: dark stained cherry, green desk lamp, dark paneling throughout the office. It was classic east coast WASP. On the top floor of a LA hotel. He half-expected to see a balding man in a top hat with a cigar walk into the room. Anthony had interviewed enough politicians and bankers, weapons dealers and Senators to recognize the type.
“Drinks will be served in a moment,” she said. “In the meantime, why don’t we get started?”
“Thank you.” He was happy to get to business. This was uncomfortable enough. “Yes, I’d like to get started. Will Mr. Wilson be joining us?”
“Crank may be by in a little while.”
Anthony wasn’t happy about that. Despite the fact that Julia was infinitely more interesting than her husband, his assignment was Crank Wilson, the lead singer and guitarist of the obnoxiously popular alt-rock band Morbid Obesity. Julia was the band’s manager.
“I see. Well, then. I guess we’ll start with you.”
“Actually,” she replied. “I’d like to start with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I think you understood me perfectly, Mr. Walker. Surely you’re aware that I’ve spent my entire life around the Foreign Service? And that I run a large multinational business? I’m very familiar with your work.”
He blinked. “You are?”
“Of course. Which is why I find it difficult to believe that you’re here to interview Crank. You’re not an entertainment reporter, and I can’t see any reason a foreign correspondent would want to interview him. Unless you’re digging for information about something else.”
Anthony exhaled. She was absolutely correct, of course. He’d made his career covering wars, peace talks and international conflict. He’d covered stories in Afghanistan and Iraq, in Liberia and London. So finding himself suddenly assigned to the entertainment section of the Washington Post wasn’t exactly in his career path. “The short answer, if you must know, Mrs. Wilson, is that I’m in the doghouse.”
“Julia, please,” she replied, a prim smile on her face. “I’m guessing that’s because you went… um… off the reservation… with regard to the sale of the paper?”
He smiled sardonically. That was a mild way to put it. In the summer of 2013, when the Post was purchased by rich media mogul, Walker had published a series of editorials criticizing the sale, then gone on television to do the same.
It made for nice headlines. Pulitzer Prize winning reporter criticizes the sale of his own newspaper. On the second day, he’d been suspended.
There the shock began. Anthony, at first, wanted to thumb his nose at all of them. He was a veteran reporter with a national reputation. He’d covered some of the most celebrated stories of the last fifteen years, from the invasion of Iraq to earthquakes in Pakistan. He could work anywhere.
It turned out he couldn’t. The New York Times politely said no. Chicago and Los Angeles, the same response. Cox Enterprises, which owned a number of newspapers including the Atlanta Constitution, didn’t even return his call.
Even the Washington Times, founded and owned by the Rev. Sun Myung Moon, only gave him the barest courtesy interview. It didn’t help that Anthony had written a lengthy series of articles exploring the relationship between the self-appointed Messiah’s religious and corporate holdings and how they affected the news and editorial direction of the Times.
Effectively he was blacklisted.
It was verified when his friend Bill Lieby took him out for lunch. Lieby, also a foreign correspondent, bought him a beer, and told him the facts of life. The new owners of the Post weren’t happy and they made it clear. In an industry whe
re little loyalty existed, Anthony had still managed to cross a line by going public against his own newspaper.
After four months Anthony went back to the editors of the Post and asked what it would take to get back to work.
The answer was not a happy one, but it was one he accepted, because he needed to work. Anthony went back to work, but his punishment was ignominy. He would spend the next several months on the entertainment desk covering for a reporter out on maternity leave.
“It’s a chance to expand your horizons,” Bill had said.
“It’s a chance for them to humiliate me,” Anthony had replied.
So here he was, faced off with the manager of a rock band, when a year ago he’d been facing off dictators. He looked at her and gave a straight, direct answer.
“I’m in exile on the entertainment desk for six months. As punishment.”
“You’re not here to sneak information about the court-martial last summer?”
“I’m not. And that story has pretty much played itself out, I think. I won’t lie. I find your sister Carrie infinitely more interesting than… Crank. No offense, that’s just what I do.”
“Carrie is off limits.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, there’s no story there, now. And my assignment is Morbid Obesity’s new album. Though I would love to write about you and your growing little empire.”
Julia grinned. “I’m just a believer in putting my assets to work. And… I might be willing to work with you on that. But if you touch Carrie, I’ll put everything to work against you.”
“Mrs. Wilson, you may be rich and run a big company, but even you can’t take on the Washington Post.”
She gave him a wicked grin then said, “Apparently, neither can you.”
Anthony chuckled. “All right. Fine. Just let me get one question out of my system.”
“I won’t answer.”
“Fine. Tell me about your sister’s kidnapping.”
“My official answer is no comment.”
“And your unofficial one?” he asked.
“No comment. In fact, I don’t really know anything yet. I’m flying to Washington tomorrow afternoon. But she’s in good hands with Carrie and our other sisters, for now. So, why don’t we get started?”
Anthony nodded. “All right. So let me make sure I understand. Rules are, I can’t ask about the kidnapping, or the court-martial. Are those the only restrictions?”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “That’s it, but I may refuse to answer other questions as we hit them. And I want to know more about what angle you’re pursuing with this piece.”
“I don’t know yet. But I don’t want to just cover the album. Everything I’ve heard, you’ve been essential to the success of the band.”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. Crank and Serena write the music, and they’re magic on stage. That’s where the success of the band comes from. What I do is logistics and run the business side of things. I make sure they’re where they need to be when they need to be there. I make sure their investments keep growing, that the taxes are paid, and that the business keeps growing no matter what happens in the music industry.”
“I’d like to start there. I want to know how you built this into such a big business. I want to know what makes you tick.”
Julia sighed. “All right, then.”
1. Julia. April 29
JULIA WILSON couldn’t decide what she thought of Anthony Walker.
Even though she was most often described in the media as either an “entertainment mogul” or occasionally simply as a “business savvy band manager,” Julia’s background was in international relations. She grew up around the Foreign Service, lived in half a dozen countries by the time she was eighteen, and had majored in international business at Harvard University. Her father—former Ambassador, now Secretary of Defense-designee—had been appalled when she chose to forego graduate school and the Foreign Service and instead take up managing her boyfriend’s alternative rock band as a career. But Richard Thompson’s objections had waned over the years as Crank’s musical talent and Julia’s business acumen built a multi-million dollar business.
In short, Julia followed international news, both foreign policy and business. She read the Washington Post and New York Times nearly every day, and consequently, Anthony Walker’s name was very familiar to her. Both of his books—one covering the buildup to the Iraq War, and the other covering the savage Iraqi civil war of 2004-2006—sat on the shelves in her South Boston townhouse. She’d read with interest his editorials bashing the decision to sell the Washington Post in the summer of 2013. So it was with some trepidation that she’d agreed to this interview in the first place.
The phone call had come via the band’s publicist, Mike DeMint.
“This guy’s the real deal,” Mike said.
“I know who he is,” Julia replied.
“I think you should talk to him.”
“But what does he want?” Julia had asked. “He’s not a celebrity reporter. The only thing I know that might interest him is my brother-in-law’s murder. And there’s no way in hell I’m talking about that.”
“I’ll set ground rules with him before the meeting.”
“All right,” she had agreed.
Now she sat across the desk from a reporter who she’d admired. And her main priority was to protect her sister Carrie, which meant keeping him interested in other things. She knew most people would react by simply ignoring him. Refusing to do the interview. Refusing to have any interaction with him at all. But Julia knew better. Anthony Walker might be in the doghouse with the Washington Post, but he remained one of the most celebrated reporters of their generation. If she refused to talk to him, he’d dig in their trash, spy on Ray’s court-martial board, hire phone hackers, or God only knew what else.
Far better to keep him close.
“Okay, then,” Anthony said. “Let’s start with your background. I understand you’re the oldest of six daughters?”
“That’s right.”
“Carrie—Ray Sherman’s widow—is the next youngest?”
Julia’s eyebrows narrowed in warning.
Anthony’s next statement was defensive. “I’m not planning on doing a story about them, all right? But it’s important context.”
“She’s a few years younger than me,” she responded.
“Right. And she’s a NIH researcher.”
“I don’t know all the details. She’s doing work on infectious diseases and animal vectors.”
“Okay. And the next youngest is…” Anthony’s voice trailed off.
“Alexandra. She’s graduating from Columbia next month.”
“Okay. And then… the next two were twins?”
“Sarah and Jessica.”
“Sarah was injured when Ray Sherman was murdered.”
“Right.”
Anthony continued. “And the youngest is Andrea, who is all over the news right now.”
“Right,” Julia said. “But, as we discussed, Andrea and what happened yesterday are off limits. And I don’t know anything anyway.”
He held up a hand. “It’s fine. Tell me a little about your background.”
“Well… I went to Harvard. Majored in international relations and business. My dad kind of wanted me to go into the Foreign Service.”
“But you had other plans.”
Julia nodded. “I met Crank. We got involved. The band needed a manager, and I needed a new direction. It was a good fit.”
“So you took on managing the band.”
As he asked questions, he scribbled notes in his pocket notebook. She didn’t know exactly what he was writing, but it was loud, the point of the pen digging into the paper.
“I did. And never looked back.”
Anthony looked up at the last words. His expression, eyes widened slightly, seemed to register surprise. “Tell me why?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Not many people get to build a huge enterprise from the ground up. E
very dollar we made in the first three years got reinvested into the band. Into promotion. Better instruments. Honing their skills. We got out there on MySpace when it was brand new and built a major following. The band worked hard, I worked hard. I love this work.”
“You started buying unrelated businesses in 2007.”
She snorted. “If Crank had his way, I’d have just bought more and more expensive guitars. But this is a big business. We started going into commercial real estate, medical devices, software. My goal was to diversify the business so it could survive anything.”
The truth was, there was a lot more to it than that. Her goal wasn’t to build stability, or to prove her hand at business, or to diversify the band, or anything so pedestrian. Her goal was to erase the stain of shame her mother stamped on her heart at fourteen years old. Her goal was to use the band, the business, to create wings of success that would carry her out of the abyss of her mother’s abhorrence.
In the end, she’d been successful beyond her wildest dreams. Successful enough to eclipse her father’s impressive (but inherited) fortune. Richard Thompson knew how to spend money. Julia knew how to make it.
But sometime around the time she turned thirty, she realized it was all emptiness. She’d looked around in the fall of 2012, ten years after she and Crank fell in love. In those ten years she’d made millionaires of the band several times over. She’d built a large international business. She’d far surpassed the ambitions of her parents. But it hadn’t made any difference. She still felt empty inside sometimes at night when she thought of the things her mother had once said to her. She still felt like she wasn’t good enough. Sometimes she still felt like that eighteen-year-old girl sneaking through the halls of Bethesda Chevy-Chase High School as the word slut hung in the air, pregnant with contempt.
As Anthony finished taking his notes, she tried to steer the conversation away. But he promptly said, “I’d like to go back a bit. And you can tell me to buzz off if you want. This is old news, and it’s not necessarily germane to the story, and if you don’t want it mentioned, then I won’t mention it. Okay?”