Page 68 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

But when their father passed away and left them the papers, they decided to exploit the opportunity given them.

The business model of reporting about Westchester County planning and zoning meetings and covering light opera and modern dance left both brothers cold.

It was time for a makeover. Averell was quoted as saying, “TheNew York Timespromises to deliver all the news that’s fit to print. AndRolling Stonedelivers all the news that fits. We’re going to deliver all the news that peoplewant.”

Overnight most of the employees were fired and the local papers sold. All the resources went into founding theDaily Herald, a national paper in both print and online editions. Its stories were classic tabloid fare, with one exception: it took no political stance whatsoever editorially. They wanted advertisers and readers from the entire spectrum, and so the reporters focused on, or sank into, the world of celebrity and scandal.

Almost from the first day—the banner headline being about an actor who had evicted his own mother from his home so his girlfriend could move in—theHeraldhit big, and the cash flowed.

Several years ago, Whittaker Media acquired a limping TV station and created the WMG channel, its content as tawdry—and appealing—as its print counterpart.

The Googled articles Rhyme skimmed—and there were many of them—were punctuated with photos of Averell and Mary, and their son, Kitt. There were nearly as many of Lawrence and Betty and their Joanna. Athletically built, with fierce eyes, Averell looked every inch the captain of industry or ruthless prosecutor, while alcoholic Lawrence was retiring and unkempt and dowdy. Their wives were always photographed as if they were on their way to a fundraiser. Kitt seemed sullen and he dressed down. Joanna was her mother’s daughter, smiling for the camera and, sometimes, wearing a gown that matched Betty’s.

It was a lush life. The homes were palatial and in one series of pictures Betty and Joanna hosted a garden party in a greenhouse that was bigger than Rhyme’s town home. The company rose to the ranks of the Fortune 500, and the foursome appeared at galas, the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, the Academy Awards and untold black-tie events in Manhattan.

Then harder times.

Betty died, a heart attack, and her husband proved not to be the savvy Wall Street investor he fancied himself. He racked up severe debts and only by selling his brother his shares in the company did he avoid bankruptcy. Averell kept Lawrence on as a highly paid employee—while Joanna, a junior reporter for the paper, was given a huge raise and put in charge of the company’s charitable arm. Averell even signed over a vacation house and one of his yachts to that side of the family.

Then several years ago, Mary died from cancer, and after that Kitt largely vanished from the pictures of Averell, Joanna and her fiancé, Martin Kemp.

Recently the company itself began to unravel. Rhyme read about the consequences of false or careless reporting, resulting in assaults, suicides, even murder.

Complaints about Averell and his management approach began to surface too. He did not want women in any senior positions—he felt they created a distraction in the workplace—and the company’s minority hiring was a sham. One article in a competing newspaper called it the “White-aker Media Group.”

Finally, Averell underwent an epiphany and decided to liquidate the empire and put the proceeds into a foundation, which would promote ethics and minority education in journalism and create a watchdog group to oversee the threats to reporters around the world.

“Averell Whittaker Does a 180,” read one headline.

Rhyme logged off.

“Anything helpful?” Thom asked.

“Not really,” Rhyme muttered, his eyes on the Locksmith evidence board. He wondered again if the Locksmith’s whole plan was misdirection.

Looking to the side, he scanned the board that had been devoted to the Viktor Buryak matter.

And what, Viktor, are you and yours up to right now?

A question that could not be answered, of course, so Lincoln Rhyme let it vanish from his thoughts and turned back to the mute evidence board devoted to the Locksmith.

36

You know,” Aaron Douglass was saying, “you think about Austin. They claim to have the best food trucks in the world. Or at least more of them. Not true.”

He and Arnie Cavall were on a corner of Madison Avenue in the eighties, the poshest of the posh. Shorter than towering Douglass, Arnie looked up, confused by the lecture, but attentive. He was the “masseur” that Douglass had told Buryak about, which meant he wasn’t one at all.

Douglass continued, “New York wins. You’ve got lángos—that’s Hungarian fried bread with a bunch of stuff on it. Out of this world. Then, of course, tacos, Korean bowls, gyros, empanadas, pupusas—El Salvador, the best are with cornmeal—lobster rolls, though they’re pricey and you have to watch for too much mayonnaise.”

Arnie might have been short but he was strapped with muscles. He wore a denim vest over a white shirt. Tight-fitting jeans, cowboy boots. Just the thing for stomping, Douglass guessed. He wore three rings on his right hand. Big ones. Were they for punching?

Douglass was wearing what he usually wore—nods to the villainin the movieThe Matrix, dark suit and white shirt and tie (now pale blue, unlike the film). You couldn’t see the tie, though; a napkin was tucked into his collar. Douglass was presently eating a maple-flavored tempeh burger with kale, tomato and garlic aioli on spelt bread. As he was enjoying it, occasionally bits of sandwich escaped.

Arnie was studying the elaborate sandwich.

“You should get something.” A nod at the truck. Their other specialty was artichoke lentil cake with barbecue sauce. Douglass wasn’t vegan, but people who were made some very good dishes.

Arnie shook his head.

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