He raised a brow but did as she asked. People in New York City did crazy things. It was probably the least crazy thing he’d been asked to do today, and there was more money in it for him, so what did it matter?
Sarah settled back against the seat and pinpointed what had been bothering her. Jason Carson, Sandstrom’s underhanded attorney, had been at Will’s Senate launch. In fact, Carson had lingered right by the side of the stage. What was he doing there?
Something’s up. Something dirty. Why else would Carson be there?
With the man’s reputation, his presence couldn’t be a good omen. Still, he’d managed to evade being caught on the wrong side of the law for years.
She closed her eyes and zeroed in on the scene, trying to recall every detail. It was a technique she’d learned from her older brother.
After Will had walked offstage, he’d paused for a few seconds at the side of the stage.
He stopped to say something to Carson, she realized.
Sarah focused, remembering seeing her brother lean in toward the attorney. When Will straightened, there was a stiffness in his march down the aisle that showed determination but also duress. Sarah recognized it now. And when he’d passed her, his expression was granite-like, as if he’d been forced to do something he wasn’t happy about. She’d seen it many times.
So, Sarah thought, it’s Carson. Or something to do with Carson.
But what could he have on her brother that would cause Will to change his path?
Will was a straight arrow. Yet even that wouldn’t stop Carson, who had been known to create dirt on good people out of thin air. With Sean’s support of ecological causes, Will voting for Worthington Shares to join the shareholder lawsuit against American Frontier, and Sarah’s role with the DOJ in the lawsuit, Carson had plenty of material to work with and probable cause.
So now he’s targeting the Worthington family. Sarah crossed her arms. Well, we’ll just see about that.
6
Sean arrived at the renowned One Madison building and tossed a Jackson over the front seat at the cabbie. Within minutes, he’d entered his apartment and collapsed on the off-white uncomfortable couch, still attired in the suit he’d worn to the Senate launch. Exhausted, he didn’t take his shoes off but propped his feet up on the coffee table. A second later, he could hear his mother in his head: “Take your feet off that table. You know better than that.”
The irony struck. Even when his family wasn’t there, they still controlled him.
Anger, embarrassment, and the futility of trying to please his father built to a crescendo as a text arrived on his phone. For the first time ever, he didn’t check the message. Just muted his cell, then slung it down the hallway.
After kicking his shoes off so his good breeding wouldn’t go to pot, he propped his sock feet back on the table. While waiting for his stress headache to subside, he scanned the room. Stark off-white walls, off-white furniture, with only a single large painting of birch trees and a weird sculpture crafted from branches that he’d allowed the extraordinarily expensive New York designer to talk him into. It was cold, sterile . . . like his life. Just when he’d thought things were about to change for the better, they’d leaped into the worst category.
When the AF board had swung in the direction of the old CEO, Will had walked out and arranged for an immediate sale of the Worthington family’s shares. Sean had applauded that decision. When Will decided to make a Senate run in New York, Sean not only supported him but agreed to be his campaign manager.
Sean loved Will—always had, always would. His older brother could walk on water. He was powerful, in control of his world. Sean admired Will far more than he’d admit to anyone, even himself. The problem was in the comparison. Sean came up lacking time after time. Knowing he could never measure up to Will as a standard, Sean had pushed ahead in his own accomplishments—in the opposite direction.
While at Harvard, Will had pursued the highest academic achievements and captained an NCAA national championship lacrosse team. Whenever Sean called him, though, Will was hunkered down in his room or in the library, studying. It was rare for Will to be found in a social setting, even on a Friday night. Sean never asked him why. It was Will’s pattern and had been since childhood.
Sean had chosen Stanford—as far from Harvard in location as he could get and still receive the satisfied nod from Bill Worthington—and had nearly achieved a 4.0 GPA. But his education lay more in the friendships and loyalties gained there and the discovered bridges that connected him with a wide world. He also garnered significant firsthand perspective by traveling and interning in far-flung locations that needed what a Worthington could provide. By his junior year, he was building wells in remote parts of Africa, improving the drinking water in parts of India, refitting old corporate cell phones so disadvantaged areas could access health services in China, and much more.
As a Worthington, he had nearly bottomless resources. He wrote six-figure checks often to launch start-ups. But more and more, pursuing NGOs with the sole purpose of increasing Worthington Shares wealth bothered him. What good was it to build an empire if it couldn’t bring a better life for those who were disadvantaged?
He could hear his father’s response already: “Without the empire and the resources it creates, we wouldn’t even have the opportunity to do good.” Such answers were so expected that years ago Sean had given up asking aloud the questions on his heart and his mind. Yet his longing to do all he could to make life better for others multiplied.
And there it was, the quandary he found himself in every day. The Sean Worthington on the front pages of GQ and the tabloids—the smiling, handsome playboy—wasn’t the real Sean Worthington. The real Sean felt more at home saving marine species on the high seas with Green Justice, stooping in the dirt with a Malawi villager to locate the best spot to dig a well, or assessing a remote mountain settlement in China to evaluate its medical needs. The real Sean didn’t sleep for 36 hours straight when he identified an emerging NGO that could financially sustain villagers for a 100-mile radius.
The people who knew the truth about Sean were disconnected—disparate groups who welcomed his help, flourished, and gave their loyalty, time, and talents in return. Even if an NGO wasn’t “successful” in the eyes of Worthington Shares, if the enterprise increased the standard of living of an area, Sean was satisfied.
Yet, in his wide social network, only two contacts had completely gained his trust and confidence—Dr. Elizabeth Shapiro and Jon Gillibrand, who had both been on the Russian-flagged ship with him in the Arctic.
The three had met some years back at an environmental symposium. Elizabeth was the quirky, brilliant daughter of a world-renowned marine biologist. She wanted to earn her own PhD in ecology and biology at UCLA. Jon, already a veteran reporter for the Times, was more informed about a wide variety of relevant issues than anyone Sean had met. They all cared passionately about ecological issues and disadvantaged groups.
Since that meeting over a cafeteria lunch table, the three had formed a deep friendship as they traversed the globe. Sometimes they couldn’t communicate for months when Elizabeth was undertaking a remote scientific expedition with her father, Jon was buried in a high-profile assignment, or Sean barely had time to switch out the clothes in his carry-on before he was on to the next potential NGO. However, in the ever-changing social scene of the wealthy and powerful, where dirty deals and betrayal abounded, two facts were a given—the three friends would reconnect, and if something big came up, they’d have each other’s backs.
Sean knew his family would also support him. However, the baggage that came along with that support—the expectations—he sometimes had to flee from. His father, never satisfied with anything Sean did and pushing him to do more. His mother, with her perennial questions about when he was going to find a nice girl and settle down. His sister, who nagged him to show up more often at family events and routinely shot down his excuses. Lately she’d even started calling him an hour
before, then a half hour, to make sure he was on the way.
Will? He didn’t pester Sean. When a bottom line on the start-ups was particularly good, Sean could feel Will’s approval. At times his brother verbalized it.
But Worthington Shares and the unspoken comparisons by their father continued to be the thorns that kept the brothers apart.
7
The minute Sarah walked into her penthouse on 66 East 111th Street in Greenwich Village, her cell rang. She ignored it. It had been a long enough day already. Whoever that was could wait until tomorrow.
But her cell continued to ring as she perused the FreshDirect soups and salads in her fridge for dinner potential. She was more than grateful for the housekeeper who came three times a week to tidy up her place, do laundry, and stock her fridge. Not that she couldn’t do it herself, but she was rarely home enough to do it. And when she finally got there, all she could manage was a ready-made meal in the microwave. But knowing she was eating healthy made her mother happy, which meant less pestering about Sarah’s coffee-drinking habits.
The caller was certainly persistent. Finally, she checked the caller ID. Darcy.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“About time you answered,” Darcy huffed. “We got the guy.”
“The Polar Bear Bomber? Seriously?”
“He did a Peter Pan off the top of a building near Times Square. NYPD got an anonymous tip about a jumper. He was tracked to an apartment in Brooklyn.” But Darcy didn’t sound satisfied like she did when a case came to a close.
“I’m hearing a ‘but’ coming,” Sarah prompted.
“When they got to the apartment, there was plenty of DNA to match to his body. He was definitely staying there. Even found a suicide note,” Darcy added. “Identified him as an eco-terrorist, an activist with Green Justice. That’s when NYPD called DHS.”
Sarah’s mind flashed to Sean and his buddy Kirk Baldwin. “You sure about the Green Justice connection? There’s no mistake?”
Darcy snorted. “Clear as day to anybody who can read. The guy was a whack job. Had it in for AF and big oil companies in general. The Arctic spill pushed him over the edge into crazy. At least that’s the theory.”
“But you’re not buying it.”
“The top dogs at DHS are so sure it’s wrapped up that they already released to the press that the Polar Bear Bomber is dead. It’ll be a news headline by tomorrow morning.” There was a pause. “They won’t release his name yet, until they do the customary search for closest relative to notify first.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sarah said. “It’s too neat and tidy.”
“Yeah. Too easy. The guy didn’t show up and handcuff himself to my desk but conveniently showed up dead. End of story.”
“And you can’t ask him any questions.”
“Like I said, too convenient. Especially with that bear suit showing up behind the radical environmentalist group’s office. Paints a trail wide enough a kindergartener could follow it.”
Sarah agreed with Darcy. The NYPD and DHS might think the case was wrapped up, but it was looking even more like a setup.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The photos were spread on the mahogany desk in his study. They’d been funneled to him through the usual channels. He’d been staring at them for the past several hours.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the men again, looking for any details he might have missed. The photos had been taken at an upscale bar near 20th and Madison, his source said. Both men were sitting on bar stools next to each other and seemed to be conversing in a friendly manner.
One man, with his slightly mussed red hair and well-known profile, was easily identified—Sean Worthington. He appeared to be laughing at something the other man had said.
The man at his desk frowned. He’d been told plenty of high rollers stopped at that bar after work, but it wasn’t the typical kind of place someone high-profile, like a Worthington, would frequent. Then again, Sean wasn’t known for doing what was typical.
The other person in the photo had been a mystery until an hour or so ago, when he was identified as the Polar Bear Bomber. He’d been found splattered on the pavement in downtown New York City.
The man reached for the most prominent photo and held it up. After studying it again, he sat back, concentrating on the task at hand. He wasn’t going to let the person responsible get away with this.
8
NEW YORK CITY
Something wasn’t right, and that something kept Sean awake most of the night, thrashing in the bedcovers. Finally, sweating in the new silk sheets and vowing to tell his housekeeper to go back to the 100 percent Egyptian cotton ones, Sean threw the sheets and covers off. He padded in bare feet to the fridge, opened it, and grabbed a carton of orange juice. Just as he tipped it back to chug it, he heard his mother’s voice in his head.
“Sean Thomas Worthington, pour that into a glass first!”
He chuckled. Why did mothers always use a child’s full name when chiding them?
Then what had been bothering him struck home. When he was sitting at the table with his mom and Laura, more than one unusual glance passed between the two women. At the time he’d been agitated enough to pass it off as women sharing empathy in a difficult situation. But the more he thought about it, he recalled that their gazes had often flickered to him and then back to each other.
Laura had said none of them knew before Will made his announcement. She had never been known to tell a lie. But they do know something, he realized. And they’re being as tight-lipped as Will.
Once again, Sean felt like an outsider in his own family. Perhaps that was why, as time passed growing up, he had become more comfortable relating to those who weren’t Worthingtons. The two exceptions were Drew and his wife, Jean. Sean considered them both family and friends. In fact, it had been Drew and Ava who had escorted Sean to his first day of kindergarten. His father had been in India.
Since then Sean had never doubted two things—Drew would shoot straight with him, and he would be in Sean’s court. In the swirl of wealth and fame, loyalty was a priceless commodity. Perhaps that was why, when Drew had phoned to get the Worthington siblings together for dinner awhile back, Sean had gone, even though he’d been late due to a business commitment at a bar near 20th and Madison.
That night Sean had nursed a drink for nearly an hour, waiting for the executive from the start-up company to show. The man never did. Instead Sean had chatted with a talkative guy who seemed slightly drunk or maybe a bit off his meds.
Later that evening Drew had given Sean, Will, and Sarah the longest speech of his life, warning them that the oil spill would shape each of their destinies. “I will fight with every ounce of my being to protect the Worthington business. But what I most care about is how this will affect you—each of you,” he had said.
That was one of many qualities that distinguished Drew from anyone else in the Wall Street high-roller circuit of America’s wealthiest individuals. Drew didn’t care just about the business. He cared about each of the Worthington kids personally.
That was why it had been Drew and Jean who had sent their nanny, Robyn, over to take Laura and Will’s kids away for a while. It was also why, Sean surmised, Drew was conspicuously MIA. He still hadn’t texted Sean to check in, which was highly unusual for the man who kept tabs on everything Worthington. That meant Drew was on the trail of figuring out what had happened.
For now, that was enough. That security would allow Sean to go back to sleep.
He squinted at the kitchen clock. It was 4:00. So he’d have a short sleep. That was nothing new. With his globe-hopping, he was used to pulling all-nighters.
But even when he settled back in bed, he was haunted by Will’s strange expression—the sadness, the pity, the fear. It was downright weird. Will was normally the high-strung one, needing every detail to be perfect. Instead he was calm, as though his emotions had been wrung out.
Sean couldn’t shake the impression
that something was deeply wrong with his brother.
Will and Laura were still awake, drinking decaf at their kitchen table. It was after 4:00 a.m. In another three hours, their youngest, Davy, would bounce in, demanding breakfast.
Laura’s brow furrowed in thought. “So Carson and Sandstrom think they won.” The green in her hazel eyes won out over the brown. That happened only when she was spunky or really angry, and both emotions now vied for precedence.
“Yep,” Will said.
She tilted her head. “But you’re not going to let them win.”
He smiled. “Of course not.”
9
Sarah was already on her third cup of coffee at 9:00 a.m. The hours she’d pondered in the park yesterday gave her even more to catch up on at the office. Ever since Harvard Law School, she’d given up on any real breakfast or lunch and adopted the dark brew as the catchall for any meal missed. She’d long ago dismissed the guilt for not eating “balanced meals,” as her mother would say, and had become a master at evading Ava’s questions about what she ate and when.
The DOJ offices buzzed with activity. Her lead investigators on the criminal negligence suit against American Frontier continued to dig. They were cross-checking information as it came in with the red-haired CNN field producer, Catherine Englewood. She had inadvertently shot footage of the Polar Bear Bomber and had given both Sarah and Darcy their first real leads in tracking him down. For now, the trail seemed to end with the bomber’s suicide in Times Square.
Still, Sarah and Darcy believed that the timing was too perfect, as if it had been planned to sidetrack the public from the much bigger, real issue—a disastrous oil leak that was wreaking ecological havoc in the Arctic but would spread to all the earth’s ocean systems. No one had been injured in the bomb’s blast. The only part of the building damaged was a storehouse. And the Polar Bear Bomber had been walking around in Catherine’s footage calling attention to himself, like he was a street actor and it was his job to be noticed.
A Powerful Secret Page 3
