The Billionaire's Revenge: Billionaire Brothers Billionaire Bachelors (Tycoon Billionaires Book 3) (14 page)

The next morning Eleanor woke up early in Joseph’s arms and dragged herself under the shower. It was still dark outside, and she felt half-dead, but it was toasty in Joseph’s apartment and she was glowing inside with love and excitement. Joseph made them a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and maple syrup to prepare them for their adventure to Nebraska, then he called his bandmates and told them he wouldn’t be coming to the studio today.

They held hands in the back of the cab as it took them to the airfield where Adam’s private jet was ready to fly to Omaha airport.
It was so different to being at a regular airport where the public were shunted around like cattle. Here Eleanor was treated like a princess by the over-attentive ground staff who insisted on carrying her laptop bag and helping her ascend the wheeled staircase – which was manoeuvred next to the jet’s cabin-door on the back of a truck. Matthew was wealthy and well-connected, but she’d never experienced anything like this before.

She’d flown many times in a regular airplane, but the inside of the private jet was something else. Instead of the usual rows of seats, it was like a flying five-star hotel room, complete with luxury couches, a drinks cabinet, and even a king-sized bed. The thick carpet and arty wall décor seemed brand new, as if the interior had recently been given a refurbishment. Eleanor sank into a soft velvet couch and realised that Adam could probably afford to refurbish as often as he wanted: he was clearly a very wealthy man. And Joseph would be too, as soon as his royalty payments started to come through. He’d be set up for life. Somehow this realisation scared her. She didn’t want him for his money; she wanted him for his charms, his affection… for the fun they had together.

Joseph sat down next to her and she snuggled into his arms. Eleanor had always wanted to join the mile high club, and hopefully she would on the journey home. But for now, there was a lot at stake in Nebraska. Saving Ivan’s reputation was clearly Joseph’s motivation, but Eleanor’s mind was fixed on the bigger prize – bringing down News Scape from within.

Three hours after they’d taken off, they touched down in Omaha, and climbed into a taxi to take them to Weeping Waters. Omaha itself was much more hilly than Eleanor was expecting, but as the taxi took them out of the city, the wide road opened out ahead and the landscape transformed into the sweeping flat vistas of cornfields and scrublands that Eleanor associated with Nebraska. The fields seemed to roll all the way to the horizon on both sides, and the term ‘wild frontier’ sprang to mind. It was so different to New York. At one point during their journey, the driver had to negotiate around a herd of bulls coming along the road in the opposite direction. A couple of cowboys on buggies were guiding them, and the driver explained this was perfectly normal in these parts.

It was a cold day out here in the sticks, and the frost clung to the trees even at noon, making it look like a Christmas card. The beauty was breathtaking.

“I never realised winter could be so pretty,” Eleanor whispered.

Joseph squeezed her hand affectionately. “You’re not a huge winter fan, are you?”

She chuckled. “I definitely prefer the beach.”

“Well, when this is all over, I’ll take you to our own private island. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“As for me – I don’t care what season it is. As long as I’m with you… you make the sun come out.”

She grinned with joy. The gently flowing landscape was easy on the eye and it made her feel wide and open; as if she was part of the beauty of nature all around her. She felt relaxed and ‘at one’, as her tension and stress started to unwind. She turned to gaze into Joseph’s eyes, and they smiled at each other with affection.

The taxi pulled up outside Bob Crowe’s farm. It was a wooden colonial-style farmhouse, probably built a hundred years ago, and it looked peaceful and serene. It had been recently painted a warm olive green, and – as Eleanor made her way with Joseph up the long driveway – she saw that there was a porch with a swing chair, a Juliet balcony, and shutters for the windows. It was like stepping back in time, to an era before cars and skyscrapers. Eleanor realised the house was set in acres of lush green grass surrounded by trees. She imagined there would be a horse paddock out back.

Joseph knocked on the wooden door and they exchanged a look of anticipation, listening as the sweet sound of birdsong encircled them. There didn’t seem to be many cars passing through this way, which made it very peaceful, but also eerily secluded – depending on how you looked at it. After a few tense moments, the door was eased open and Bob Crowe peered out. He looked tired and weary. He was reasonably attractive, with receding brown hair and lines on his round face that gave away how hard he’d worked. Or possibly how hard life in prison had been. His nose seemed slightly too big for his face, but his smile was warm and welcoming. He was dressed in jeans and a padded lumberjack shirt, which made him look more relaxed than when he’d been pointing a gun at Blair Robertson – and at Eleanor. He suspiciously inspected the strangers at his door.

“You?” he whispered, as realisation dawned.

“Hi,” Eleanor said. “Can we come in?”

He hesitated. “Why?”

“We just want to talk to you,” Joseph said.

“But why?” he asked. 

“Because I think you were right,” Eleanor said. “You were right about News Scape being corrupt and I want you to tell us everything you know about their underhand reporting techniques.”

He stared at them for a moment, then stepped back to let them in. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’re not planning to attack us with your plastic gun again then?” Joseph asked with a smirk.

Bob wrung his hands. “No. But my shotgun’s in the kitchen; ready and loaded.”

Joseph’s grin faded and he nodded. “Right.”

“Come through.”

He led them to the living room, which also seemed to have been frozen in time – it was like a museum of American history. It was impeccably neat and tidy, with a dark blue carpet, bold patterned wallpaper, net curtains, velvet-upholstered wooden chairs, and long windows that allowed the winter sunlight to flow through in shafts, lightening up the room. It smelled of polish and home-baking.

“Do you live with your mother?” Eleanor asked.

“No… I don’t have any family.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Please sit.”

They all sat down. There was a grandfather clock standing by an antique writing desk, tick-tocking loudly in the silence.

“I’m sorry about last time,” Bob said. “I’d just got out of prison. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“It’s okay,” Eleanor said. “Did you get arrested for that?”

“Yeah.” He picked at some loose skin on his thumb. “But the police didn't file charges, and told me to go home and to never return to New York.”

“Well, it seems nice and peaceful here,” Joseph said.

“Yeah it was… until
you
showed up.”

He threw them a cynical grin and the awkwardness unravelled as his unexpected humour softened the tension.

Eleanor pulled a notepad out of her purse. “Can you tell me what happened in the run-up to your arrest – in your own words? How did you get caught? Why did Blair Robertson drop you so fast?”

“I was the fall guy,” Bob said. “After I was initially arrested for using underhand methods to get my stories, Robertson said he’d take care of me. But as time went on and the case grew more public, he paid me off and fired me.”

Eleanor gazed into his eyes. He seemed defeated and broken. 

He shook his head and continued. “Obviously I’m now unemployable in the media. I only ever wanted to be a journalist. To try to make a difference, but now I’m spent, because Robertson threw me to the lions – implying that
I
was the only one doing what I did – that I was just some evil rogue reporter who’d sullied his entire organisation. He said it was an isolated incident and no other journalists would ever employ such underhand techniques.”

Joseph leaned back in his seat. “Well, we know that’s not true. Someone’s been listening to my voicemails.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Bob said. “Loved your first album by the way, Joseph. Before the commercial machine got its hooks in.”

Joseph smiled humbly. “Thanks, Bob.”

“What other techniques do they use?” Eleanor asked. “I’ve only been on the job for a week, so I’m still learning. I know all about blagging… and obviously the phone hacking. But can you tell us what else you did?”

Bob laughed cynically. “I got most of my information from a private investigator who keeps company with corrupt civilian cops, IRS workers, and government officials – to name but a few. I know he still works with other News Scape journalists, so it definitely wasn’t just me.”

“But it was only the phone hacking that you actually got arrested for?” Eleanor asked.

“Yep. I did that independently of the private investigator by forming my own contacts inside one of the big telecoms companies. It’s amazing how easy it is to bribe people. Five hundred dollars to access a few voicemail inboxes seemed like such a bargain at the time.”

“It sounds like such a lot of effort, just to find out who’s sleeping with who,” Joseph said.

Bob sighed. “I allowed myself to believe I was a detective, putting together the pieces of the puzzle to find the truth. I was so detached from the people I was writing about. I’d convinced myself it was okay to listen to people’s personal messages and to write about them in the paper. It’s big business, you see? And it’s the public who are to blame… they’re interested in those sorts of stories, so we write about them, and the advertisers pay over the odds. And so it goes on.”

“While you destroy lives and reap in the massive bonuses,” Joseph said.

He crumpled and deflated. “Yeah... But I’ve paid the ultimate price for what I did. A year in prison puts things in perspective.”

“How did you get caught?” Eleanor asked. “And why didn’t anyone else at News Scape get implicated?”

“One senator who I’d discovered was sleeping with rent boys got upset and retaliated by informing the cops that I must’ve been tapping his phone – which was true. The police ordered Robertson to carry out an internal investigation, so then all he needed was a scapegoat. Guess who?”

Joseph stared at Bob in disbelief. “Wait a minute – Robertson was asked to investigate
his own company
?”

“Yeah.”

“And who carried out the investigation?” Eleanor asked. “Robertson himself?”

“No. Stinger. They both promised they wouldn’t let me fry, so I confessed in court that I willingly used phone hacking and blagging, blackmail and coercion. And of course, as soon as I'd confessed they closed ranks and dropped me, leaving me to the sharks. Now I have no means of getting the truth out there. And who’d believe me anyway?”

“I believe you,” Eleanor said. “And I’m going to make sure the world knows the truth.”

He shook his head. “You can’t beat News Scape. You’re a sweet girl, but they’ll drag you down.”

Eleanor refused to let his cynicism quash her determination. “Is there any other info you can give me?”

Bob rubbed his chin. He shifted position uncomfortably, then eventually he said, “Have you heard of Catherine Allen?”

Eleanor frowned. “That schoolteacher who was murdered in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah… well, it’s my belief that Stinger hacked her phone after she’d died – right in the middle of the police investigation. He asked me to do it, but I refused – I mean, digging the dirt on celebrities and politicians is one thing, but even
I
wasn’t prepared to go down
that
road.”

“But you’re the one who wound up behind bars.”

“Yep.”

“We need to tell the police about this,” Joseph said. “It’s disgusting.”

Bob chuckled pessimistically. “No, no, no… Robertson is great buddies with the NYPD commissioner and the mayor. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had dirt on
them
that he’s hanging over their heads. When the police were investigating me, they conveniently forgot to check anyone
else
at News Scape.”

Eleanor chewed the end of her pen. “Well, I guess that’s how police investigations go, isn’t it? They
would
only look for evidence to support their case against you – not to implicate anyone else.”

“Yeah, whatever. Robertson and Stinger know they’re protected by the police. They think they’re invincible. Listen, if you can get a comprehensive list of all the people their journalists have hacked, then you’ll discover hundreds of names on it – high-up cops, politicians, victims of crime… it’s not just celebrities.”

“No one’s above the law,” Eleanor said. “And it’s time they realised it. Bob, what steps can I take next?”

“There’s only one person I can think of who
might
let go his cards. As I said, we all use private investigators to liaise between ourselves and corrupt infiltrators. If you can get my private investigator to confess – to squeal on the journalists he’s been working with – then you’re halfway there. Well, obviously you’ll need to find a senior cop who hasn’t yet been seduced or blackmailed by Robertson.”