by Anna Burke
“You don’t have to tell me about compulsions, Jessica. Isn’t it strange that two control freaks like us are so easy to manipulate? With my happy pills, some of it’s physical, but there’s also this state of mind I crave. I know that it won’t last and the path leads nowhere except to more pills. What an irony that in running from my fear of powerlessness, I end up on a path toward more powerlessness. How perverse is that?”
“I guess that’s what an addiction is—a misdirected impulse to avoid facing up to things. Just talking about it makes me want to hit Rodeo Drive. How’s that for perverse? My cross to bear, I suppose.”
“Oh no, is that priest giving you the ‘take up your cross’ pep talk? That leaves me cold, like staring into the grave already. If life is a cross, why not run for it, straight to Rodeo Drive or to booze and happy pills?”
“I’ve said almost the same thing to Father Martin, Mom. It’s like we’re being told to mill around in a big waiting room, putting up with crap, and sticking it out.”
“Well, I’ve heard people call Palm Springs God’s waiting room, Jessica, but that’s a new spin on it. I get what you mean.”
“If it’s a new spin it’s not one I like, Mom. The odd thing is, as much as I gripe about getting sandbagged by one calamity after another, I fight and scrap to save my neck and stay alive. Go figure.”
“I get what you mean. It’s a lot like that old joke about the food at the fat farm. One woman says to her friend, ‘The food is awful here, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ her friend agrees, ‘and the portions are so small.’ I’ve already heard that one around here with all the health food regimens we’re on. Life’s a bitch, and then you die, but we fight, tooth and nail, to stay alive.”
“That about sums it up. Father Martin has tried to get me to look at things in a different way though. Trouble brings you to a cross, as in crossroad—an opportunity for transformation, transcendence even, rather than a stumbling block.”
“That sounds like more of that buck up, stoic stuff, with a little silver lining thrown in for good measure. Trust me, I know stoic, and I don’t like it.” Jessica saw something pass across her mother’s face—a small shudder, too.
“Mom, what is it?”
“It’s nothing. My introduction to the way of the cross came with a bunch of stiff upper lip mumbo-jumbo, that’s all. There was nothing pleasant, or very holy, about it either. It seemed like just another way of hiding out, and a lot less fun than shopping or a few glasses of an exquisite chardonnay.”
“Look at the three of us sitting here,” Bernadette offered in a soft voice. “Even with all the troubles, we’re together in this gorgeous place. The sun is shining and our bellies are full. We’re sitting in a comfy room, drinking sparkling water poured out of beautiful blue bottles into crystal glasses. Don’t you feel lucky to be alive, and happy to be together? Isn’t that more than a little silver lining?”
Bernadette’s eyes wandered from mother to daughter and back again. Jessica met Bernadette’s gaze, and followed it, landing on her mother’s face. In it she saw what must have been her own expression, mirrored—a spoiled, pouty stubborn look. If she could have done so, Jessica would have folded her arms across her chest, as her mother did. With her mother’s defiant gesture, Jessica’s pout morphed into a smirk, and then a full-blown smile. That was infectious and her mother smiled too.
“Oh all right. I get your point, Bernadette,” Jessica said.
“Yeah, I suppose it could be worse. Instead of a mother who's a drug addict with early stage cervical cancer you could have a mother who’s a drug addict with terminal cancer.” There was humor, but also bitterness in that statement from her mother. “Ask me the same question a year from now, Bernadette, and maybe I’ll be a better sport about it.”
“You’re doing fine, Mom. Bernadette’s halo is glowing. As usual, she’s way out ahead of us. I do feel blessed to have this opportunity to go through this with you. I’m so grateful you were there with me at the hospital when I didn’t know for sure where I was or what was going on. We may be powerless over a lot of what’s happening in our lives, but Bernadette’s right, at least we’re not alone.” Misty-eyed, the three of them sat there in silence, caught up in one of those moments of solidarity among loved ones struggling together. Finally, it was Alexis who broke the spell.
The three of them spent another hour talking and roaming around the complex. They visited the resort-like amenities and meeting rooms, including a gorgeous dining area where Alexis ate breakfast and lunch, at dinner time her mother opted to eat alone in her own suite. Alexis spoke about the program, too. She impressed Jessica with how much she had already learned about drugs, and the way they affected her mind and body, from an orientation and psycho-education classes. It was amazing, since Alexis had only been at the facility for 72 hours. This wasn’t her first go round at drug rehab, so maybe some of it was more a refresher than new information.
When they returned to her mother’s suite, it was time to say goodbye. Jessica felt overcome by emotion. What if she and her mother never had more moments like the ones shared today? Her mother had been more open than she had been for a long time. Not once did she go into flighty socialite mode.
“Mom, when can I come back again? I don’t want to pry, but I have a lot of questions about what will happen next. Will you be able to be with us for Christmas? What about Giovanni? When do you see the doctors again?” Her eyes filled with tears as she blurted out questions. Her mother wrapped her arms around Jessica, careful not to jar the arm or those sore ribs.
“I don’t have the answers to all those questions yet. In a few more days I’ll know much more about how all of this will play out. We’ll work something out for Christmas—presuming I’m still here and not already in the hospital. Maybe you and Bernadette can spend part of the day with me here. I’ve spoken to Giovanni and he'll be here by then. He’d love to see you. Have you talked to Hank? Your dad will want to spend time with you, too, since he’s here in California for a change. Why don’t you call him and figure out something, so when we talk later we can work around your plans with him, okay?” The tears had spilled over and slid down Jessica’s cheeks. She didn’t want her mother to let go, but Jessica needed to get a tissue from her purse.
“I’m sorry to be a baby, Mom. That’s a great idea—Dad and I are working on a plan. Hang on while I grab a tissue, so I don’t weep all over you.” Jessica patted her mother with her good hand, then turned and reached for the purse she had left on the coffee table. She grabbed it by the wrong strap and dumped a lot of the contents onto the plush carpeting. The three of them looked down.
Alexis gasped.
“A gun! What are you doing with a gun in your purse? Isn’t that Hank’s gun?”
“Uh, yes, I can explain. Sort of...” Jessica said.
“I’m the one who has some ‘splainin’ to do—the gun was my idea. I had it with me the other day when we were chased by the paparazzi. I gave it to Jessica, and she forgot to give it back after we knew it was paparazzi and not a sniper.”
Alexis’ mouth opened like she was about to speak. Instead, she bent down and picked up the gun.
“I guess this goes back to you then, Bernadette. You shouldn’t be carrying around any extra weight, Jessica.” Alexis handed the gun to Bernadette, who stuffed it into her own bag. Alexis picked up the other items on the floor, including Jessica’s cell phone. She stopped for a moment and peered at the image that had popped up on Jessica’s phone—the one Jerry had sent Jessica at lunch of the man lurking outside Carr’s office.
“That’s an odd picture of the man. Does your firm have some business with him now that this IPO thing is going on?” She handed the phone back to Jessica who had got her bag situated on her good shoulder, so she had a hand free.
“IPO thing—what do you mean? Who are you talking about, Mom?”
“Eric Conroy, Jessica. That’s his picture on your phone.”
“Eric Conroy, do I know him?”
“Darling, he was at Hank’s gala back in July, remember? I was surprised you hadn’t already met when he introduced himself to you. The man’s quite the ‘influencer’ as they say in the social networking circles these days. That’s just another way of saying wheeler dealer, as far as I can tell, but he’s a rather charming fellow. How could you forget him with that goatee and shock of red hair?”
“I need to sit down.” Jessica felt faint. She took another look at the photos of the man on her cell phone. The memory of the well-dressed, redheaded man she had met that night at the gala returned. Their encounter had been brief, but she had not regarded him as charming. In fact, there had been something disconcerting about him. At the time she thought it might have been the striking resemblance he bore to the Heisenberg character on Breaking Bad, except for that red hair. On his arm was a young woman, closer to her own age, so maybe twenty years his junior. His date for the evening had been introduced as an up and coming member of some PR firm. A big one; Paul’s firm dealt with them regularly. Pinnacle, yeah that was it. It wasn't his devilish goatee, but something in his eyes that had made Jessica uncomfortable when they were introduced. Perhaps her powers of repression were working better than she thought. Less than six degrees of separation... Betsy Stark’s words came to mind.
“There is a red devil, Bernadette.” Bernadette sucked in a big gulp of air and sat down too.
25 Blond Wears Prada
Jessica was a woman possessed when she returned to the hotel. Dinner was at eight, so she had two hours before she needed to get ready. She took out her laptop and went to work. What she had learned heightened her sense that Eric Conroy was the red devil Libby had referred to, and Carr’s silent partner.
A lot of public information about Eric Conroy came up with a Google search. That was not at all surprising for a man well-versed in techniques to garner and shape media attention. A high-ranking executive, in an elite marketing and public relations firm, gaining attention was his forte. Despite his devilish goatee, the media portrayed Conroy as a benevolent figure. He could be found at important events throughout the Southland. That included charity galas, political fundraisers—for both sides—red carpets, ribbon cutting ceremonies, press conferences, name it, and he was there.
There was nothing sinister in any of the online information, nor was there anything revealing about Conroy's personal life. No mention, anywhere, of family, past or current, or of women. The man knew how to spend money, obvious from snapshots of Conroy handing over keys for pricey cars to valets at swanky restaurants, bidding on items at silent auctions, playing golf or skiing at exclusive resorts, and hosting a party aboard his boat. No, not a boat, but a yacht. To be sure, a modest model by mega-yacht standards, but the Sweet Retreat, was an expensive toy. He was always well-dressed, as he had been in those grainy photos taken outside Carr’s office.
The media had documented his rise up through the ranks at Pinnacle. There was nothing sinister about that, either. Speculators regarded Eric Conroy, second in command, as a likely successor to the top man at the firm. A brief bio on the firm’s website focused on the positions Conroy had held since they hired him at Pinnacle years earlier. While still in his late thirties, Conroy made partner, the youngest member of the firm ever to achieve that status. Pinnacle’s rise into the ranks of the top 25 public relations and marketing firms in the nation, was, in part, attributed to Conroy. When he became Executive Vice President, the company and the press credited him with having enhanced the firm’s international presence. Okay, so he can afford all the toys, clothing and amenities, Jessica thought. Why get mixed up with a two-bit hustler like Carr and his extortion racket?
The big news about the firm meant Eric Conroy would soon have even more money. Alexis' reference to an IPO was correct. An Initial Public Offering meant selling shares of Pinnacle to investors. That process was underway; the IPO was imminent. Jessica's search of old articles in online business news outlets revealed the idea had been under discussion for some time, with a lot of debate. Earlier this year, the debate ended, however, and the company filed an S-1, a document that Jessica knew well.
The S-1 was a term bandied about by Jim and his pals when shepherding new ventures or cleaning up after old ones massacred during the great recession. IPOs are the holy grail of startups—the point at which the high tech equivalent of a garage band becomes a pop sensation. Not everyone wants to become the next big thing. So maybe that was the reason for doom and gloom on the faces of some board members in earlier photos she uncovered.
Jessica pulled up the S-1 for Pinnacle, the official term for the forms filed with the SEC announcing the proposal to take the company public. The three lead underwriters taking the issue public were household names. The roadshow, where big names in high finance took the wannabe pop stars on tour, was already well underway. Out and about singing the praises of Pinnacle, they were lining up investors. At the helm was the current CEO, speaking with confidence about the firm and its future. The news leaked to the press was all good. Apart from those well-placed leaks, it was all polished, professional, and squeaky clean. What did she expect to find?
Trouble, that's what. Anyone willing to get mixed up with the unscrupulous Dr. Carr, and the troubled women associated with him, would surely have had problems before. Where were the “red devil” epithets directed at Eric Conroy by other young women like Libby? There were plenty of images of the dapper executive at events with women—some of them renowned. Not one of them appeared unhappy in photos taken with him. Nor was there any evidence, even in scandal rags, of any woman hell-bent on embarrassing Conroy, like Jim Harper’s lovely bride was wont to do. In a public interest piece about his participation in a charity event where they auctioned off a night out with him, he was characterized as one of SoCal’s most eligible bachelors. No one ever hinted that he was a womanizer or a playboy. If she believed the PR, the man was a loner, married to his job. She did not. Carr had come up clean, too.
“He's a ruthless, unprincipled bastard, willing to pay someone to kill Libby!” Jessica sputtered to herself, getting more worked up with each word. “Stop! Calm down,” she ordered aloud. Unjust authority and betrayal by those in whom you have placed your trust, personally or professionally, were triggers for a fast ride into the panic zone. She did not need that now.
That ardor. and small things Jessica unearthed online, kept her on the hunt. In one photo, the existing CEO clasped Eric Conroy's hand after a board meeting earlier in the year. Both men were smiling, but the tension in their jaws was easy to read.
“That must have been a bumpy meeting,” Jessica said, as she read the news story that accompanied the photo.
The good news for Pinnacle just keeps coming...
Reuters July 15, 2013
Pinnacle announced that net fees in 2012 topped two hundred million dollars for the first time. The firm credited much of that growth to new offices opened in Asia and the Middle East, brainchild of Executive Vice President Eric Conroy. The award-winning firm, identified by Advertising Age as one of its A-List Agencies for three years in a row, recently moved into the top 5 on several rankings of firms in relation to their industry-based performance. Information about the company’s financial robustness and recent performance is part of the firm’s disclosure that they hope to get even bigger. Pinnacle announced a proposal to follow the lead of several of their most successful competitors. After months of speculation and some debate, the board voted today to take Pinnacle public. No one at the firm has said yet how much capital they hope to generate from such a venture, but analysts say that an IPO could raise more than a billion dollars. The move should support more rapid expansion into global markets, spurring continued growth in earnings.
“A billion dollars,” Jessica gasped reading the story again. Why aren’t the boys beaming? Money like that would have had her ex, and his cronies, high-fiving each other. Well, more likely, in the world of bespoke suits and three hundred dollar ties, they would have been pouring top dollar
single malts and breaking out the hand-rolled Havanas. Maybe some high-fives too, off camera.
Jessica peered at that photo and a tingle ran through her. There in the background, sitting at the table of sober-looking board members, was Ned Donnelly, Shannon’s father. He was grim-faced. Was he upset about what had gone on at that meeting, or a stricken man, dealing with problems of his own? Taken before his daughter’s disappearance, so that couldn't be the cause for his misery. Was she already in Carr’s care at the time, and did his troubles have anything to do with Carr and Conroy’s scheming?
Jessica took another look at news coverage of the Donnelly investigation. Donnelly looked disturbed in July, but not devastated as he did now. Since Thanksgiving weekend, when Shannon went missing, the press had dogged him about his daughter. He had made a point of appearing in public, at first, stating that he was cooperating with the police. He made an appeal for his daughter to return home, if she could do so, and offered a substantial reward to anyone with information about her whereabouts.
As the investigation dragged on, he had disappeared from site. After last week’s events at the top of the tram, reporters had linked Libby Van Der Woert and Shannon Donnelly. They must be after him again, Jessica thought. Given her own recent encounter with paparazzi, and angel heiress fans, Jessica could understand Donnelly’s decision to withdraw. Still, maybe he would be willing to talk about his daughter, his role at Pinnacle, and his association with Conroy. If she were his lawyer, she would advise him to keep his mouth shut about anything having to do with his daughter. Especially, if he was dealing with horrendous allegations of abuse, like Libby’s parents.
Maybe Hernandez had already learned more about Donnelly’s trouble with his daughter before she disappeared. Detective Hernandez had given Jessica his private cell number after that last round of phone tag when she tried to reach him about that meeting with Libby. He picked up on the first ring.