Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia

New York City

Tuesday afternoon

Mia stepped out of theGuardian Building into a splattering cold rain that could freeze your bones and couldn’t believe it when a taxi actually pulled over. She stepped quickly into amazing warmth. The driver addressed her in pure Brooklyn. “I hope you’re going more than two blocks, lady.”

“I am indeed,” Mia said and settled herself. “Eighty West Forty-Ninth, at Sixth Avenue.”

He fed the taxi into the sluggish traffic, looked in the rearview. “I’ve taken three or four people there in the last couple of days—it’s that guy Harrington’s campaign headquarters, right?”

She’d lucked out. A native New Yorker, a nearly extinct breed in New York City. His driver’s ID said he was Vincent Toledo. He looked to be in his midfifties with sharp dark eyes and ears sticking straight out from a nearly bald head. He had a flattened nose, probably broken more than once. “Yes, that’s right. And what do you think of Harrington? Will you vote for him for mayor?”

He gave her another look in the rearview. “Nah, fellow’s just a calf, can’t know his butt from his elbow, too young to know any of the players who make this town run right. I know he’s swimming in dough, his mama and daddy bankrolling him. No, give me Paulie O’Connor, he’s my guy, Brooklyn born and raised, our borough president since the Bloomberg days. He knows all the players, all the right people, he knows how to get things done. Remember the garbage strike last month? He put a word in the mayor’s ear and got that shut down like that.” And Vincent snapped his fingers. “Paulie knows whose palm to grease, knows whose back to scratch. I’ll tell you, the mayor knows what he’s got in Paulie, listens to him all the time. But, if not Paulie, then maybe they should change the law; it’d be okay if the mayor stayed in.”

“Unfortunately, the mayor is termed out. No changing that law.”

“I know, I know, but I can wish, can’t I? Bums me out. But Harrington? No way. With him, we’d have garbage up to our armpits.”

Pure gold. Mia opened her tablet as fast as she could and kept him talking. By the time the taxi pulled to a stop at the curb in front of Harrington’s campaign headquarters, it had stopped raining. Mia gave him a big tip. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Toledo. Thanks for your opinions. I’ll be sure to include them in the article I’m writing.”

“You might win a fancy award if you do. Nobody could disagree with me, unless they’re idiots.”

She stood a moment, staring after his cab, barely moving in the heavy traffic. She wondered if Harrington knew Paulie O’Connor. She looked up at the Walcott Building, five years old, all steel and glass. Even in the dull winter light, the acres of glass sparkled. Did his family own the building? She wouldn’t be surprised. She glanced down at her watch. Five minutes until her scheduled interview with Harrington.

Mia took the escalator to the second floor and stepped into a long open room that would soon be Harrington’s official campaign headquarters. It was filled with people on a mission, some carrying chairs, printers, boxes of supplies, setting up workstations. Mia barely missed running into a plump older woman carrying an armful of large cardboard posters with Harrington’s handsome face, his mouth beaming out a smile, a pithy quote underneath, on their way to being plastered throughout the city. The woman only nodded and sailed by her. She spotted Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager, looking as dapper and smooth as he had last night, only today he was in his shirtsleeves, eyeing his watch. She knew he’d been around the political block many times, for both parties, a politico to his heels. Milo had told her Hughes didn’t believe much in political philosophies, what he loved was the game and winning the game. His last success was running Governor Siever’s campaign. Milo thought Alex Harrington had a good chance of winning with Cory driving the bus.

Hughes spotted her, jogged over, a big smile on his face. “Good morning, Mia, good to see you again. You’re right on time, but then you always are, I’m told. Alex is up to his eyeballs today with interviews but I know he particularly wanted to meet with you.”

A line she’d expected, but that was okay, it was one of the rules of the game—make the candidate seem as busy and important as the president but with just enough time for one special journalist.

She gave him a grin and followed him past cheek-to-jowl desks, tangles of electrical cords, computer monitors, and signs everywhere, propped against the desks, against every wall. Many of the volunteers, most under twenty-five, had their cells pressed against their ears or were stuffing envelopes, making huge stacks of them. She could easily tell the volunteers from the paid staff because only the volunteers bothered watching her, wondering who she was and if she was important. The old hands who drew a check recognized her as a reporter and didn’t pay her any attention. She saw Miles Lombardy, Harrington’s senior staffer she’d met at the fundraiser last night, leaning over someone at a desk, speaking quietly. He looked up, gave her a small wave, but didn’t come over.

Cory Hughes ushered her into a glass-walled office to see Alex Harrington sitting behind a banged-up rented desk, with several rented chairs as derelict as the desk in front of it. Obviously a man of the people. He’d taken off his Armani jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the poster boy for the busy candidate hard at work. He ended his cell phone call when he saw her and rose.

He gave her a big smile. “Thanks, Cory, for bringing Mia back.” When Hughes had removed himself, closing the door behind him, the noise level fell magically to a low distinct rumble. He said, “Thank you for coming. Cory has assured me he trusts you to be unbiased. As I told you last night, I’ve been impressed with your blog Voices in the Middle. I think you’ll find echoes of some of your thoughts in my own campaign, and in my agenda for the city. It’s very brave of you, isn’t it, given the current no-holds-barred political climate? Too many of us have reduced politics to defending our own tribe, our own turf, rather than nurturing what unites us, and working to make the city a better place to live. Bloodying each other isn’t going to get us there.”

Harrington had quoted practically verbatim from her blog, which meant he’d done his homework before she’d arrived. He was being smart, careful, stacking the deck in his favor as best he could. Mia nodded, smiled at him as he came around his desk, pulled out a chair for her. She stepped forward and shook his outstretched hand, a strong hand, with a firm grip. Had he practiced it? She looked down and froze, her breath caught in her throat. On his left wrist was a thick silver link bracelet. Automatically, she looked at his left earlobe. Of course there was no sign of a tear. Stop it—don’t be an idiot, lots of men wear bracelets like that, they’re popular, manly. Get a fricking grip.

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 had 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.