Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

Harrington said in his pleasing baritone that had carried, she remembered, to the very back of the large ballroom, “Please call me Alex. Come, sit down, let’s talk. May I call you Mia?”

  He’d already called her Mia, but of course she nodded, sat, and opened her tablet. A staffer knocked and came in, bearing coffee, tea, and cookies. She said as she set the plate down on the desk, “I rescued these yummy Scottish shortbreads before the hordes could ravage them. I love your blog, Ms. Briscoe.” She was out the door before Mia could even say thank you.

  “That’s my campaign secretary and guard dog, Mrs. Millicent. Her last name is never used. Her sister’s been my secretary at First Street Corp. for as long as I’ve been New York director.”

  Mia took a shortbread to be polite, but since it wasn’t chocolate it didn’t really count as a treat. She accepted a cup of black coffee.

  Alex Harrington sat back down, steepled his long fingers, and cocked his head.

  Mia said, “My taxi driver thinks you’re too young, too green to know your butt from your elbow and your daddy and mommy are bankrolling you. And what does a Bostonian know about what New Yorkers want and need?” She smiled, paused a second. “Are you ready to deal with opinions like this?”

  To her surprise, Harrington threw back his head and laughed, a rich laugh. Sincere? Mia waited, the smile still firm on her mouth, and watched him.

  He stopped laughing and straightened, suddenly serious. “I consider myself a New Yorker. I’ve lived here seven years now, it’s my home. As I’m sure you know, I’ve been in charge of the New York office of the First Street Corporation for six of those years, which means my elbow and my butt have done a lot of living in New York, and believe me, I’ve learned a lot. Am I green? Well, if your taxi driver means am I buddies with all the movers and players in the political game here in New York, I’m not, but that has its benefits, too, and I’ll be saying so in my campaign. When I’m elected you can be sure I’ll meet them fast enough because they will come to me, and I’ll be the one who decides what I’ll give them, if what they want is in the interest of keeping New York the greatest city in the world. That’s what a good manager does, Mia, in politics or in business; I’m a very good manager with years of practical hands-on experience, and I have the vision and drive to make New York flourish under my hand.”

  She typed in canned, fluent, a dollop of humor, well spoken.

  Her attention was caught again by the chunky silver chain-link bracelet. Why not? She pointed. “Tell me about the bracelet, Alex. Does it have any special meaning to you? Is it a gift from a friend? A lover? Have you had it long?”

  He cocked his head to one side, his smile as firmly on his mouth as Mia’s was on hers. He raised his hand and studied the bracelet. “My first bracelet was a gift from my uncle Xavier on my thirteenth birthday. He said, and I quote, ‘A real man does and wears whatever he wants.’ He told me never to forget that as long as I live.”

  “Uncle Xavier?”

  “My father’s second cousin, not really my uncle. My family thinks he’s a nasty old man because he thumbs his nose at all their rules, still likes his cocaine, and spends much of his time cruising the Back Bay, carefree, his own man. Ah, but when I was thirteen, he was my idol.” He laughed, shrugged.

  Was that the truth? Or was Xavier a bit of exaggerated family lore to show her how human he was? “You said the original bracelet. Have there been others?”

  “Why all the interest in the bracelet, Mia?”

  “Human interest, Mr. Harrington—Alex. It’s something personal about you, a proven draw, just like your story about your uncle Xavier. If people can connect to you as an individual, as a real person, not just a politician who wants their vote, well, you get the idea. That’s what my first piece will be about—your background, your family, your personal anecdotes, and talk about a draw, Uncle Xavier.”

  “Fair enough. Actually, it’s the third silver link bracelet I’ve had. My mom bought me this incarnation last Christmas when the second one broke.”

  She typed three, nothing more, and sat forward, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How did you break the first and second bracelets? Anything fun?”

  He laughed again. “I broke the first one when I was playing lacrosse at Harvard. I was heading to score and one of the Yalies whacked me on the bracelet. Probably saved my wrist from getting broken, a lot of pain time in a cast, but the bracelet was toast. The second time was only a couple of years ago, when I fell off a mountain bike, and no, I learned my lesson. No more mountain bikes.”

  Mia said easily, “I saw a photo of you holding up a championship trophy for the Bennington Prep lacrosse team.”

  His eyes lit up with remembered pleasure.

  “And your friend Kent Harper is standing next to you; you have your arm around his shoulders.”

  He nodded. “Kent and I have been close friends since we were boys. Like me, Kent manages his family’s branch office here in New York. I imagine you’ll be speaking to him.” He cocked his head again, a longtime habit, she supposed. It made him look friendly, approachable.

  “Oh yes. I’m hoping he’ll have some clever stories about you.”

  “I’ll have to tell him to be very selective.”

  Mia smiled, said without pause, “Tell me about your stand on guns, Alex. Your party is in favor of a gun ban. What is your position?”

  “I’m not a hunter, but some of my friends take off for Canada to hunker down in blinds while other friends enjoy competitive shooting. Why should I want to deny them an activity they enjoy? But assault rifles, now that’s another matter entirely. Gun violence in schools, it sickens me. So, even though I’m not in favor of a complete gun ban, I am committed to banning all weapons that could kill people.”

  She nodded, made notes. “Let’s talk about education. What do you think of charter schools?”

  He sat forward, his hands clasped. “I believe some charter schools can fill a need, but I also believe caution is mandatory in terms of how the schools are structured, their educational approaches, their philosophies, their underpinnings. We don’t want a Hogwarts school here in New York City.”

  Mia obligingly smiled since she saw he expected it. She wrote down, Charter schools—waffles well. So what did he really think?

  She asked about unions and their influence in the lives of everyday New Yorkers and was treated to his political “tribe’s” honored position, that is, unions must continue to flourish to protect New York citizens and the rights of the worker. And taxes. “Ah, taxes, the bane of all our existence, from rich man, to poor man, to Indian chief.”

  Again, she gave him an expected perfunctory smile.

  He leaned forward, his eyes on her face, sincerity ringing in his voice. “Regardless of who we are, how much money we earn, we must all contribute fairly to the city coffers. Our great city must function at a high level, to keep not only our citizens safe, but our thousands of yearly visitors. Of course we must also keep our social programs properly funded, and this means evaluating need and impact.” He continued in this vein and Mia kept looking at the bracelet on his wrist. He used his hands a lot. He was articulate and sometimes amusing, but still, she could have written what he said without speaking to him. She could have also written what the termed-out incumbent would say without speaking to him. Political tribes repeated their stands like mantras.

  When Alex glanced down at his watch, gave a rueful shake of the head, Mia rose. “Thank you for the enlightening interview. As I said, in my first article I’m planning a background piece to start off as an introduction to a series on your campaign. What we spoke about today, that will be in my second article. I’ll be heading up to Boston to speak with some of your family there, friends, college connections. Perhaps you could give them a heads-up for me? Tell them I don’t bite?”

  Mia wished she didn’t have to ask him to pave the way, it gave those she was going to speak to time to carefully plan what to say. She’d much rather catch them off-guard. But Milo ha
d insisted.

  “Certainly. Unfortunately my parents are on a cruise at the moment, but there are people in Boston who can tell you everything you need to know for a background article better than I can.” He gave a rueful smile. “I can only hope they’ll be kind. I’ll have Mrs. Millicent text you a list of people to see.”

  Mia said smoothly, “Thank you. Of course I won’t have time to speak to all the names on your list.” She wondered if any of the names on his official list would cross with the people she wanted to speak to.

  She was shown out of his office by the big kahuna himself. He smiled at her and touched her elbow at the door.

  During her torturously slow taxi ride to Kent Harper’s Madison Avenue address, Mia pulled out Dirk’s print of one of the photographs from the Godwyn frat rave. She stared at the chunky silver bracelet on the man’s wrist as he reached out his hand toward Serena’s glass, well, maybe toward Serena’s glass. Maybe. What could she do with these photos by herself? She could look up college friends she remembered were at the rave, and then what? Why would anyone remember more than she did after seven long years? But maybe, just maybe, someone would remember something they’d seen and wondered about. All she could do was try.

  17

  Mia

  Mia’s taxi tucked in behind a long black stretch limo in front of the Harper Building at 320 Madison Avenue. She paid the driver, still on his cell, and stood on the sidewalk, people flowing around her, staring up at another tower of glass and steel. Unlike the Walcott Building, this structure looked more like a monument to the future, or the late-twentieth-century’s vision of the future. About fifty stories with a steeple on top, it speared into the sky, like the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco.

  Kent Harper had been a major player in Alex Harrington’s life, his closest friend he’d said. Was Kent still his confidant? Like Harrington, he was also the director of his family’s firm, Harper Strategic Services, in New York and that meant still more money, more connections for Harrington to draw on. But how involved was he now in his best friend’s political campaign? Could Mia catch him off-guard, get him to open up about the Alex Harrington he knew? It was doubtful. Politicians’ close friends, especially those used to protecting power of their own, rarely went off-script. Mia hadn’t called ahead, but she’d bet her sneakers Kent Harper wouldn’t be taken by surprise she was here to see him and had already prepared for her. Fingers crossed he’d see her, she took the express elevator directly to the forty-fifth floor to the Harper Strategic Services executive offices. She stepped onto a large black-and-white marbled floor shined to a high gloss, with art deco sofas and chairs in groupings next to the large windows, their draperies drawn against the dismal weather. Across the expanse an older woman sat behind a dark mahogany desk. Both she and her desk looked uncluttered, sleek and intimidating. Unlike Alex Harrington’s Mrs. Millicent, she didn’t look the type to waste her time baking cookies; she looked like a dragon guarding the gates, the head of the neighborhood watch.

  Mia smiled at her, all warm bonhomie. “Hello, my name is Mia Briscoe. I’m a journalist with the Guardian. I don’t have an appointment, but I’ve just come from an interview with Alex Harrington and he really wanted me to meet his best friend, Mr. Harper. Is he free to give me a few minutes?”

  Mrs. Irene Wallaby eyed the pretty young woman with the long streaked blond hair loose and shiny around her face, a loose curl here and there, and silently complimented her hairdresser. She noted her face was dominated by intriguing blue-green eyes, high cheekbones, and a lovely mouth that looked like she’d just added a bit more rose lipstick in the women’s room. She was tall, which made the slouchy black Hugo Boss jacket, black pants, white shirt, and black stiletto boots look very stylish. Add the lovely smile, not to mention the deferential tone of voice, and Irene decided she would let her into the inner sanctum. She said easily, “I believe you may be in luck, Ms. Briscoe. Mr. Harper just concluded a meeting, probably taking a Mountain Dew break until the next one, which, in fact, never seem to stop.” She picked up the phone, turned, and spoke quietly. She turned back, smiling. “He’s pleased you’re here, Ms. Briscoe, and agrees to see you.” She looked down at her iWatch. “You’ll have ten minutes.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you, Ms. Wallaby.” When Mrs. Wallaby stood up, she reminded Mia of her own mother, a high school counselor, always well dressed and utterly self-assured. She walked Mia down a gray-carpeted corridor with closed doors on each side and a series of enlarged photos of New York City in the nineteen twenties. Mia wished she had time to browse, but Mrs. Wallaby tapped on a set of beautifully carved ebony double doors, opened them, and stepped aside. Mia walked past her and stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t the large office with glass windows and the city spread out below that made her suck in her breath, because Kent Harper was the big boss, after all, it was the incredible display of gaming paraphernalia and posters of game characters that covered the white walls. Because of Serena, Mia recognized the large poster of the tough, patch-over-his-eye warrior from Metal Gear. She didn’t remember what his name was, or who the other characters on the walls were, but they were all iconic game heroes. Between the posters, gaming artifacts—swords, knives, and elaborate helmets—were beautifully displayed on specially-made shelves.

  She saw only one warrior woman, with huge breasts, legs encased in bright red thigh-high boots, a skimpy black crotch-hugging sort of bikini, a vicious curved sword gripped in her hand. Mia remembered how that sort of blatant sexism had burned Serena.

  She looked at Harper again, who only now turned from the window to face her. So this man, Alex Harrington’s best friend, was a gamer? Her mind flew to the photos in her purse. Did he look like the man who’d been talking with Serena? His hair was more blond than brown, and his build was roughly the same, but there was no way to say. You’re being crazy. Focus, woman. You’re here to talk about Alex Harrington.

  She saw something in his left hand. He was squeezing a yellow tennis ball in and out. A stress reliever?

  Mia studied him. Her first thought was that Kent Harper didn’t have the look of a man who sat in the big office. Where was the Italian suit, the hair perfectly cut, the tie shrieking power? There was no attempt to impress. He wore black wool slacks, a white shirt, open at the neck. He was wearing the requisite Italian loafers at least, but his black wool jacket looked like it had been flung toward the coat-tree behind his quite beautiful art deco ebony desk, and barely managed to hook it. His blue eyes were full of curiosity as he looked at her. He had a laid-back vibe in a young college professor sort of way, his aviator glasses completing the image. But she didn’t think he could be all that laid-back, not squeezing the yellow tennis ball.

  He nodded to Mrs. Wallaby, and she left, no offer of coffee, no offer of shortbread. On the other hand, Mr. Harper wasn’t running for office and Mia was a walk-in.

  “Ms. Briscoe,” he said and smiled at her showing nice straight white teeth. He discreetly slipped the yellow ball into his pocket, stepped forward, shook her hand. “Please sit down. May I take your coat?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Alex just called, said you and he had enjoyed a short conversation. He told me you’d probably be dropping by and to make room for you.” He laughed. “You didn’t waste any time. I told him you’d have to buy insurance from me if you wanted a scoop about the skeletons in his closet.”

  Mia changed her mind. She’d been expecting a longtime sidekick, Harrington’s Robin. But she didn’t think he was a Robin; he looked clever, his own man. She smiled back at him as she sat down in the chair he held out for her. She waited until he returned to his big chair behind his desk and said, “If you have any skeletons to offer, Mr. Harper, I’ll be happy to buy flood insurance, always a hazard for my eighteenth-floor apartment.”

  He gave her a quick smile, nodded. “Call me Kent, please. May I call you Mia?”

  “Of course.”

  He said on a sigh, “Let me thank you for
breaking up a day crammed with boring meetings. Can you imagine what that’s like in the insurance business? I guess I shouldn’t disparage the industry that makes me and my family a very nice living, but I tell you, Mia, meeting with Harper’s senior accountant, brilliant as he can be, is a trial; there’s not a single funny bone in Merkel’s body. He doesn’t even look at me, stares at my walls and makes me want a drink. Maybe he wants a drink too.” A self-deprecating smile, inviting her to join in, and she did.

  “You and I have never met, but as I said, Alex told me last night after his fundraiser that you write an excellent political blog, which, alas, I haven’t had a chance to look at yet. I assume you came to talk about Alex?”

  Mia pointed to the displays on his walls. “This is an awesome display. You’re a big gamer, obviously, or were. Is Mr. Harrington a gamer, too?”

  If he’d been standing, he might have bounced on his feet. His eyes lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. “Oh yes, at least at Bennington Prep, Alex and I gamed together more than studied, or so our parents thought. We cut back in college, of course, didn’t have much time for it. I’m still more of a fan than Alex is; I play to relieve stress, when I need it.”

  And you squeeze the yellow tennis ball. Mia suddenly heard Serena’s voice—Aolith the dreamer, she’s magic. I can see her floating through a green forest, birds fluttering around her, singing to her. And she’s a survivor. What had Serena called that name, Aolith? Her handle, yes, that was it. She said, “Do you have a favorite game, an online handle, I believe it’s called?”

  “Sure, all gamers do. I go by Snake, short for Solid Snake.” He pointed at the large center poster on the wall opposite. “That’s why Snake there dominates the stage.”

  Mia studied the poster. “Talk about domination, with that sword he looks ready for destruction, right? And he really needs a shave.”

  He was silent a moment, and Mia wanted to kick herself. Then she saw him decide not to be offended. He laughed, stroked his hand over his smooth face. “Good point. It’s part of his trademark.”