Professionally Averell was no better: he seized a controlling interest of Whittaker Media from his brother, Joanna’s father, by leveraging Lawrence’s debts.
As for Joanna herself, when Averell took over, and began skewing the empire to male domination within the company, he booted her out of her reporter job on the Herald and put her in charge of what a “girl was best suited for”: the company’s charitable wing.
Which did have its advantages, since she made a good salary, had perks and because of the job she met Martin Kemp, who was good-looking and wealthy and marginally talented in bed. Oh, and who did everything she told him to. Also the charity wasn’t tightly overseen, which gave her a chance to siphon funds to what she truly loved — playing the role of Verum.
Joanna Whittaker had had what she believed to be an insight about journalism as a business. If the rag Daily Herald outsold the New York Times and The New Yorker, if the WMG channel garnered far more viewers than PBS, then what would happen if you abandoned truth altogether? If you served up a diet of conspiracies, secret movements, dark operatives, hate and fear and schadenfreude — who doesn’t just love others’ misfortunes?
She decided to try it and, in a moment of inspiration — laced with a dash of contempt for the viewership — dubbed herself Verum.
True...
And was hugely successful from day one.
Martin, who funded much of the operation, had asked her if she believed any of her posts.
“Did you really ask that?” she’d replied, put out. “Obviously it’s bullshit.”
But she believed in the money that poured in from contributions and subscriptions and advertising.
She believed in the power she wielded over her thousands of followers, ranks that continued to grow.
She enjoyed too the creative side of the blog: coming up with her fake news.
From time to time she thought of what she could do with the Verum business model and the resources of Whittaker Media.
The possibilities were endless.
But not if the old son of a bitch, with his change of heart, was dismantling the empire and giving it all away.
For a month she’d debated. If Averell died before the dissolution papers were signed next week, his fifty-one percent of the stock in the company would go to Joanna and Kitt, split evenly. But if something happened to both Kitt and Averell, all the stock would be hers. She could take the company wherever she wanted.
Hurt them?
Of course she couldn’t do it. Impossible.
And yet...
Hadn’t dear Uncle Averell stolen the company from her father? Hadn’t he destroyed her career as a journalist?
Hadn’t he himself killed that young intern because he bought and buried the Charlotte Miller story, and because of other fake stories, paralyzed one of the leaders of the Apollos and killed a teacher and student in the Virginia satanic cult disaster?
Those were reasons, of course, justifications for the death of her uncle.
The bigger question she had to confront was: Could she take a life?
That question sat, rocking slowly within her, like the moored yacht she was looking at now, rising and falling in the gentle current of the Hudson River.
And suddenly she realized she could. The idea of killing was not horrifying or exhilarating; it sparked no emotion whatsoever.
She was utterly numb to the idea.
What had made her that way? she wondered briefly. But the anesthesia within her apparently extended to the motivation to ask that question.
And so she discarded it.
She now wasn’t asking “if” but “how?”
Joanna now sipped more smoky liquor and studied Greg, as she told herself: You’ve been given a gift. What are you going to do with it exactly?
It was almost a sign. A lockpicker. Joanna remembered sitting with her father, drunk and tearfully muttering, “My own brother... he’s locked me out of my own company. Locked me out and thrown away the key.”
The idea now slowly emerged. She thought of it as a headline:
It could play...
Kitt, the story would go, was never the same after his mother’s death. In his search for some career, he’d learned lock picking and, recently, snapped. He’d break into apartments and leave a page from the Daily Herald. Then a moment of inspiration: it would be page 3 from the 2/17 edition; 3/2/17.
The day Mary Whittaker had died.
Joanna smiled.
He would leave several of these calling cards, and then, a grand finale, kill his father and himself.
Would it work?
What of Martin? That was a non-query. He’d do whatever he was told, even be a party to murder.
What of timing?
Kitt was flighty. He’d disappear for days, weeks sometimes. They’d need to make sure he stayed put. She and Martin Kemp could kidnap him and stash him on their boat until the climactic final act of the tragedy.
Joanna’s palms began to sweat and her heart beat in excitement.
For ten minutes, she thought of refinements, removing some elements, adding others. It was as much fun as creating a Verum post about some presidential conspiracy.
61
I watch Joanna walk back into the room.
It’s a very masculine stride.
She sits on the couch and looks down at me.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Greg.”
And she spins quite the tale.
I’m supposed to play the role of enraged son, furious at my father. (Well, that’s hardly a stretch, though she’s speaking of someone else’s dad, of course.) I’m going to break into two more apartments and leave a particular newspaper page.
I ask, “You have anybody in mind for the break-in?”
“No.”
“And do I...” My eyes stray to the knife, and I feel a pleasing warmth in my gut.
She frowns and her voice is threatening. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t hurt a soul. The point is to send a message: that the newspaper you’re going to leave is full of lies and fucks with people.”
I nod.
Joanna looks at my latex gloves and hat and when she speaks she sounds like a stern schoolmarm once more, condescending. “How do you pick your victims?”
“From what they do online. Women, who live alone. I study their posts: locks, the doors, windows, alarms, that there’re no dogs, no weapons. It’s good if they drink — makes them sleep sounder. Even better if I can see a package of sleep aids or prescriptions.”
“So they’re random.” She seems pleased at my forethought. Then the stern façade returns: “You have to be very, very careful. Nothing you do can lead back to me.”
I nod. I’m beginning to see where this is headed. “So I stalk two.”
I think immediately of an influencer, Annabelle, whom I’ve had my eye on for some time. Who else? There’s a woman who sells toys from her Upper East Side apartment. Several others come to mind.
I ask Joanna, “And what do I do then?”
“That will be it. You’ll have finished your obligation. I’ll handle the rest.”
So she’ll kill the third victim herself, as if I did. I wonder who she’s planning to murder? A husband, a lover, a business rival, someone who insulted her prominent nose?
I think of Lady Macbeth.
And the other question: Who is she setting up to take the fall for that murder?
“I want you to generate press. I need a splash.” Joanna continues: “Come up with a name for yourself. Write it at the scene — no, I know, write it on the newspaper pages you’re going to leave.”