Girl of Lies (13 page)

The next several pages showed Andrea and Carrie out and about in Calella. She recognized the front of the Chapel of Santa Maria in one of the photos and smiled. In the photo, Miguel and his wife Maria Carmen were exiting the chapel. He wore a tuxedo, and she wore a garish wedding dress with entirely too much cleavage.

Andrea shook her head. “We were at Miguel and Maria Carmen’s wedding?”

Carrie nodded. “Yes. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

“She’s a complete witch,” Andrea whispered.

Carrie snickered. “Yeah. She is.”

And that’s when Andrea froze. She picked the album up and held it closer to her face.

In the wedding photo, a large crowd was near the plaza and the chapel. The beginning of the market was right there, and hundreds of people shopped there throughout the week.

Standing in the shade, barely visible in the photo, was a very tall, pale man. He stood next to a shorter, darker skinned man. Both of them were maddeningly out of focus. But it was the same man, she was sure of it.

“Andrea?” Carrie said.

“Wait…” Andrea whispered.

She set the album down, and flipped back to the beach photo. She studied the too fuzzy features on the man’s face. Then she flipped forward to the wedding picture.

It was the same man, she thought.

From the photo, he was probably six foot five. Dark hair. Pale eyes, possibly green. Long, aquiline nose, she thought, but it was impossibly difficult to tell with the photo out of focus. But if she squinted her eyes enough, she imagined that the man might just resemble Carrie.

She reached out and pointed one shaking finger at the photo.

“Do you recognize that man?”

Carrie shook her head. “No… should I?”

“What about…” She flipped the album back to the beach photo. “Here.”

“That’s odd,” Carrie said. Her eyebrows scrunched together. She flipped back and forth between one photo and the other.

Andrea looked up and met Carrie’s eyes. Both of them stopped breathing.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Carrie asked.

Andrea swallowed. “It would explain… a lot.”

“But… Dad would have said something. When I started to get blood tests.”

“If he knew,” Andrea said.

Carrie swallowed. “But Mom…”

“Where
is
she?”

“Mom?
 
Well… it’s a long story.”

Alexandra said, “I can’t wait to hear this.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “It’s not that long a story. Mom thinks Jessica’s gay or something and took her off to a rehab camp.”

“
What?”
Andrea said.

Carrie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Andrea, you didn’t see Jessica at Christmas this year. She was stoned out of her mind. That’s why Mom decided to go back to San Francisco.”

Sarah shrugged. “I can’t figure Mom out.”

“No one can,” Carrie said. “She’s never treated any of us decently. Especially Julia.”

Andrea followed the discussion with a peculiar sense of confusion. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, she felt the urge to defend her mother. Because even though over the years Andrea had spent increasing amounts of time overseas, even though she’d seen less and less of her parents, what memories she did have of her mother were warm.

That was part of what made her rejection hurt so much.

“So no one actually knows where she is?” Andrea asked.

She looked at her sisters. Carrie. Alexandra. Sarah. They looked mystified.

“Okay, does anyone know where
Jessica
is?”

Carrie shook her head. She swallowed and said, “Between you and her, sometimes I feel like such a failure.”

Andrea and the other sisters sat there, stunned. Finally, Andrea jumped in and said, “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Carrie closed her eyes. Then she said, “It was… ten years ago? Longer? Julia and I made a pact. That… our mom couldn’t take care of us. She was too crazy. But we agreed that none of you would ever feel that loneliness. That we’d take care of you.”

A tear ran down Carrie’s face. Then another. She sniffed then said, “But we didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“You did!” Sarah said. “You took care of us. Even after you left for college, you called me every week, and I always knew I could call you.”

Confusion roiled through Andrea. She remembered the weekly calls from Julia. Every single week, without fail. The visits, every time Julia was in Europe, and sometimes just for the hell of it.

Had they been watching out for her all along, and she just didn’t know?

“I couldn’t though, after I left. I tried, but I wasn’t enough.”

Alexandra looked mortified. She stared at Carrie, an oddly resentful expression on her face, but she said nothing. Andrea saw it and took note.

“Oh, all of you be quiet,” Sarah said. “Nobody’s perfect. But you know what? The biggest hero I ever knew would have said we all do the best we can, and we have to live with that best. So don’t beat yourselves up for not being perfect.”

Carrie gasped at Sarah’s words, and Andrea sat there. Who was she talking about? Ray, Carrie’s husband? Dylan, who had remained silent throughout the long exchange between the sisters, swayed on his feet a little, then said, “He said something like that to me more than once.”

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.”

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 where 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.”