Girl of Rage (4 page)

If it hadn’t been for the insider, it looked very much like Andrea’s kidnapping—and the subsequent attacks—had to do with some kind of drug war more than anything else.

Which made absolutely no sense at all, unless she was working for someone else.

If so, that was one cool actress. He’d seen her right after she was rescued from the kidnapping. And not in a million years would he believe she’d been faking the shock and terror of that experience.

But something was clearly wrong here, and the Thompson sisters were right in the middle of it.

Julia. May 1. 11:30 pm Pacific

Julia Wilson ran her fingers through her hair. She was frustrated. It was eleven-thirty, and she and Crank had been at the Hall of Justice, the headquarters of the San Francisco police, for hours. She was more than a little bit tired of being stuck there, answering questions hour after hour.

For the last forty-five minutes, she’d been left alone. That didn’t fit well with Julia’s normal mode of operating. As the manager of one of the most successful bands in the world and the CEO of her own company, Julia didn’t spend time cooling her heels waiting on other people. So less than five minutes after her questioners left the last time, she’d gotten up and walked to the door to demand that the questioning be brought to an end.

That was when she discovered that the door was locked.

Julia didn’t panic. She didn’t raise hell, or bang on the door, or yell. Instead, cold as ice, she turned and walked from the door and sat back down at the small table. She sat with her back straight, one knee crossed over the other, and she stared at the mirror prominently placed on the wall.

She waited. Minutes went by, then more. She resisted the urge to take out her phone. She’d already received a text message from Carrie with the most essential information. Carrie, Rachel, Sarah and Alexandra were under protective custody somewhere in northern Virginia, under the protection of Diplomatic Security. Dylan and Andrea were missing, but Alexandra had received one last text from Dylan shortly after midnight.

I’m with Andrea. We’re safe for now. I’ll be in touch. Dylan.

Not enough information to do anything with, but at least they knew he was alive. Which was more than they knew about her mother or sister Jessica. Carrie had filled her in on that, too. Jessica had called, after being missing for days. She was with their mother, and according to their mother, everyone needed to run and hide.

That was oh-so-helpful. Typical of their mother, really. Make a short, cryptic phone call about something urgent and expect everyone to drop everything. It didn’t make any sense. But then again, little about Adelina Thompson made sense. Julia had long since made her peace with her mother, and generally wasn’t bothered anymore. But moments like this—when the entire family was in danger—she couldn’t help but be a little cynical.

But then she remembered the photos. The file.

It was pretty clear-cut. Carrie—Julia’s next youngest sister—wasn’t related to their father. Therefore, Adelina must have had an affair. That didn’t really surprise her—she had known for years that neither of her parents had been entirely faithful.

But the result was a surprise. In her father’s files, she’d found the report with the genetic testing. And filed away with it, she found a police report, documenting her mother’s brutal beating and rape.

The beating took place one day after the date of the test results.

The conclusion was inescapable. Her father—Richard Thompson—her
father—
had beaten her mother nearly to death. Raped her.
Impregnated her.

Julia had run it through her mind a thousand times in the last six or so hours and it still made no sense at all. The whole concept was unbelievable. How was any of this possible?

Julia didn’t have a chance to completely absorb the news however, because two men had shown up at the house. Normally that wouldn’t have fazed her in the least—but Andrea had
just
been kidnapped, everything was confused, and as they tried to figure out what to do, the men broke in. Julia and Crank—along with the reporter from the Washington Post who had been along for the confusing ride—tried to escape out the back door, only to be shot at. They made it out, but it was close.

Then, the unthinkable happened. The men had set off a bomb of some kind in the house. Julia stood there in shock, watching her parents’ home burning, until the police and fire department showed up.

And so here she was. Waiting. Because the police had apparently disappeared, leaving her locked in this room. She had to go the bathroom, she didn’t know where her husband or sisters were, and every second that went by without answers she got more and more angry. The more she thought about it, the more angry she became. Finally she gave in and began pacing.

And that, of course, was when the police came back in. Julia froze and said in a cool voice, “Unless you’re planning on pressing charges for some crime, you need to let me go to the bathroom, then talk to my family, right now. I’ve done nothing wrong and I don’t know why I’m locked in this room.”

The detective who had originally talked to her—Detective Sergeant Pam Larson—raised her eyebrows. An attractive woman with dark hair and a slightly red face, she had red cheeks and nose—broken capillaries—the obvious look of someone who drank too much.

Sergeant Larson said, “I think you’re going to want to talk to the gentleman.”

She didn’t say anything else, as a man in an off-the-rack grey suit walked into the room.

He set a briefcase on the table in front of him and said, “Mrs. Wilson, have a seat.”

A woman followed him, also in a grey suit. She had prematurely white hair, but unlined skin.

“And you are?”

The man nodded and gave a half smile. “I’m Wolfram Schmidt. Special Agent, Internal Revenue Service, Criminal Investigation Division. This is my partner, Emma Smith.”

His voice was smooth as butter, his accent odd, part Texas, part eastern European.

Julia stood there, frozen in place.
Internal Revenue Service?
“I’m sorry … what? Who did you say you were?”

“IRS, Mrs. Wilson. Criminal Investigation Division. Please … have a seat.”

Julia moved on autopilot, sliding into the seat across from … what was his name? Wolfram Schmidt. Who inflicts that kind of name on their child? “What can I do for you, Mr. Schmidt?”

He smiled and slid a business card across the table toward her. “Mrs. Wilson. First, I want to make it clear, you are not under criminal investigation at this time.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, suddenly alarmed.
At this time?
“Why would I think I would be under investigation?”

What the hell was going on? She thought about the last week. Her mother going missing. Her father preparing to go into confirmation hearings as Secretary of Defense. Andrea kidnapped, then attacked by gunmen. Her heart was beating forcefully in her chest.

What would the IRS want to do with her?

Schmidt seemed unperturbed. He opened his briefcase, took out a manila folder, and flipped through it. His attention appeared to be on the folder, but the game he was playing was familiar. He knew what was in that file. This was all about intimidation.

Julia wasn’t easily intimidated.

“Mrs. Wilson. In 2011, there were a series of transactions involving your Barclays International accounts that don’t have proper documentation in your tax return. Specifically, there was a sale of stock in Beta Pharmaceuticals. Are you familiar with the transactions in question?”

Julia blinked. She didn’t have the first clue what he was talking about.

She did, however, know that she was in over her head. She picked up his card, then said, “I don’t think I’m going to answer any questions at this time. My attorney will be in touch.”

Schmidt raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to go that route, Mrs. Wilson? We can probably settle this all here and now, plain and simple. I don’t see any need to make this an adversarial process.”

She shook her head. “First of all, as I’m sure you’re aware if you’ve been researching my company, I deal in hundreds of transactions a year. I have no idea about the specific ones you are talking about. Second of all, I think it would be best if you spoke with my attorney. In fact,” she said, standing up, “unless you or the San Francisco Police Department plan on pressing charges or coming up with some other reason to hold me further, I’ll be leaving right now.”

She backed away from the table.

Schmidt looked up at her. His eyes were blue and clear. Menacing eyes.

“Mrs. Wilson. I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she said. “But I’m leaving.”

For a second, she thought the police were going to stop her, which wouldn’t make any sense, because she hadn’t done anything wrong—but who knew what made sense? She was intimately familiar with her business dealings, and there was absolutely nothing of interest to the IRS. If anything, Wilson Enterprises, the holding company for the band and all its assets, overpaid its federal taxes. She was scrupulous about such details, and even if she wasn’t, her tax attorneys were.

Something was seriously wrong.

Sergeant Larson, the local cop who had originally questioned her, followed her at the door. “Mrs. Wilson, I’m going to have to ask you not to leave town.”

Julia froze in place. Then she turned toward the detective. “Sergeant, are you filing criminal charges against me? Yes, or no?”

The sergeant swallowed, then said, “Not at this time.”

“In that case, I’ll ignore your request. I don’t live in San Francisco; my home is in Boston. If you need to reach me, you can do so via my attorney. Where is my husband?”

“He’s being questioned, ma’am,” the sergeant said.

“No. Neither of us has committed a crime. We were in my parents’ house, which was attacked, and instead of helping us, you’ve been treating us like criminals. We are
finished.
”

As she spoke the words in a sharp tone, she saw a familiar face. Anthony Walker—the reporter from the
Washington Post
who had been with them in the house.

“I’m calling my attorney right now. My husband’s attorney. He’s going to advise you to release my husband
this instant
. Am I clear?”

“Wait here, ma’am,” the Sergeant said. Then she hurried off.

Walker sauntered up. “I was wondering when you would get fed up.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I told them to call
The Post’s
attorneys hours ago. They’ve been bluffing. Fishing for information because they don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

“I don’t have a clue either,” Julia replied. At that moment, she let out a sigh of relief, releasing tension she hadn’t even known she was holding in. A door down the hall opened, and her husband came walking out toward her.

Crank Wilson was considerably taller than Julia. Bleached and spiked hair. He wore half a dozen earrings, spread unevenly between his ears.

He gave her a lopsided grin, the same grin she’d fallen in love with when she was a college student and he was struggling as a musician, trading gigs for beer.

They’d had their share of conflict, especially their first three years together. Misunderstandings. Raging arguments. They’d thrown dishes, and on one memorable occasion, Crank had smashed an acoustic guitar against their dinner table, shattering it. Each time they’d apologized, with tears and emotion and love. And over time, they’d mellowed. Her barriers came down as she slowly learned to trust for the first time in her life. He grew up, and over time they discovered that on top of being passionately in love—they also liked each other, a lot. They laughed, and played silly games. They traveled the world together.

As soon as she saw his smile, Julia melted, walking to him and wrapping her arms hard around him.

“You okay, baby?” he asked.

“Let’s go,” she replied. “We need to go, now.”

“Right,” he said.

Five minutes later they walked out the front door of the Hall of Justice, both Crank and Anthony trotting to keep up with Julia’s pace. At the corner, she raised an arm high, and held it there. It took no more than thirty seconds before a cab pulled up.

“Never fails,” Crank said. “Takes me half an hour to get a cab, usually.”

“I wonder why?” Anthony said with a smirk.

“No one asked you,” Crank replied in a friendly tone.

They all climbed into the cab, and Julia leaned forward. “Hayward Airport, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the cab driver said. “You’ve got a flight arranged there?”

Hayward was a general aviation airport, of course, and the easiest place to get a private jet in and out of San Francisco. She was happy to be leaving San Francisco. It was her family’s home, in theory, but it had never been hers.

Julia, normally scrupulously polite even to people she intensely disliked, didn’t reply. It’s not that she didn’t hear the cab driver. She did, but the words didn’t really sink in until Crank said, “Yeah, we’ve got a flight. We’re a little late, so it would be great if you could get us there quick.”