Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia

New York City

Tuesday afternoon

When Mia stepped into the newsroom, the first person she saw was Judy Larrson, an assistant editor, who was married to a gamer husband she threatened to divorce twice a month. Should she ask to speak to Judy’s husband? Maybe, and she could study online, ask around. Gamers were thick on the ground everywhere, weren’t they? Kids, teens, adults of all ages—and Serena. Next time she spoke with Kent Harper, she could know enough to engage him.

She made her way to her desk, sat down, shoved her messenger bag in a drawer, and wondered: Why did she want to engage Kent Harper? Because I’m nuts, that’s why. Because I saw him slash down his gaming sword like that man did that night at the rave with Serena. Even after seven years, Mia would swear his movements looked exactly the same, fluid, fast, practiced, the warrior. She remembered how excited Serena had been that night; she was having so much fun. He’s a gamer, Mia. How lucky is that? He knows everything.

And Alex Harrington wore a chunky silver link bracelet, like the man in the photo. She shook her head. It simply couldn’t be. Harrington was running for mayor of New York City, and both he and Kent Harper ran the New York branches of their families’ companies, both successful, upstanding citizens. And best friends, partners in everything? Had her imagination gone off the rails? All coincidence, that’s what it was, what it had to be. You don’t believe that for a single fricking second.

No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t just shake off what she’d seen with her own eyes. Even the possibility that both Kent Harper and Alex Harrington really were the men at the frat rave at Godwyn that night seven years ago made her question her own sanity. But she was a reporter, a good one, so she wasn’t about to allow herself to leap headfirst to a conclusion based on how a man handled a gaming sword and another man wore a bracelet. She could hardly tell anyone at the Guardian about it, least of all Milo. He’d think she’d lost it. What she had to do was—

“Hey, Mia, you having a meltdown? You haven’t moved in forty-one seconds, I timed it.”

She jerked, managed a laugh at Benny Tate, their social media and website guru, young, of course, and always coming up with crazy new app ideas that were oddly intriguing, the latest, Alone in the Serengeti: A Beginners Guide. “Nah, just thinking about how you’d make a great date, Benny.”

“Har har,” but his eyes lit up as he shot a sideways look at Kali Knight.

“Yes! Yes!”

Both Mia and Benny turned to see Millie Jones waving her arms and doing a happy dance by her desk.

Mia said, “What’s going on with Millie? Did she win the lottery?”

Dirk looked up from the photos he was working on, called out, “This is her second spontaneous eruption. We’re going to start calling her Krakatoa. A couple of minutes ago, she burst out with “The Sound of Music” and fist-bumped herself. Gotta admit, she’s got some moves.”

“So she did win the lottery?”

Dirk raised his iPhone, snapped a photo of Millie tap-dancing. “Nope. Milo got a call from a ‘friendly’ who works at One Federal Plaza and told him that the FBI agent who took down the terrorist at JFK—Special Agent Sherlock—will be in town for a couple of days about an overlapping case, or whatever, who knows? Milo got through to an FBI bigwig in Washington to see if one of our reporters could meet with her. He sold it by saying what an awesome job the FBI agent did saving the world—you know, the sort of crap he thought the FBI would latch on to. Of course they did, they can always use positive publicity. And of course a nice article with a photo of Agent Sherlock might sell some issues of the Guardian, too. I think Milo assigned Millie to do the article because she dated an FBI agent last year. Didn’t end well, but she probably knows more about them than any of the rest of us.”

Mia felt a stab of envy. She remembered, like most Americans, what Special Agent Sherlock had done. Sherlock—what an amazing name. She said, “If Agent Sherlock ran for mayor, I think she might even get herself elected. Voters would know she’d clean up the streets, keep crime down.”

To everyone’s surprise, Kali the intern said, “I saw a photo of her husband, he’s an FBI agent, too, Agent Dillon Savich. He’s extremely hot. They’ve got a little kid, too. I wonder how it all works.”

Benny gave Kali a long assessing look, slowly smiled, and nodded. Good, maybe he’d ask her out.

Milo, the boss, came striding out of his office, waving his big hands. “Cut out the dancing, Jones, and sit your butt down. I can see you from my office. You look like a spastic kangaroo. Time to hunker down, get your questions together for Agent Sherlock so I can review them. There you are, Briscoe. Did you interview Alex Harrington?”

All the voices died, as did Millie’s dance, but not her indignant, “Kangaroo?”

Milo gave her the stink eye when she executed a rather cute last little skip before sitting down. They hadn’t been all that loud and Milo’s door had been closed, but everyone knew their boss had Spock ears. Mia said, “Yes, I had an initial interview with Harrington already, Milo, and his best buddy, Kent Harper, too. You know he runs the New York office of his family business—”

“Yes, yes, Harper Strategic Services, in the Harper Building on Madison, ugly modern piece of crap, full of itself. Okay, good. Then you’re all set to get up to Boston tonight?”

She grinned at him. “Yep, I’m all set, no worries. However, Harrington’s parents are off on a cruise somewhere, won’t be back for another month or so, so I’ll have to wait on them, but he did text me a list of people he’d like me to see. As if he expects me to talk only to the suck-ups he’s cherry-picked for me. Fat chance.”

Milo grunted. “All right, I trust your judgment, at least in this.” He raised his voice. “Jones, I want you in my office about that Sherlock interview in”—he looked down at his watch—“two hours, no longer. Move, people, it ain’t happy hour yet.”

When the newsroom recovered, Mia hunkered over her desk and called Tommy Maitland at the Washington Field Office. Seven years, she thought, and wondered if Serena hadn’t gone missing, if what he and Serena had shared their senior year would have become permanent. She and Tommy rarely spoke of Serena now, but she was there, always, a ghost hovering over them. Serena had bound them together for life. Mia liked Tommy, occasionally wished he were her brother, admired his brain, and knew it was time to bring him in, but too soon to bring him all the way in. She needed his help finding proof.

After two rings, “Mia? Good grief, woman, we haven’t spoken in far too long. What’s going on?”

“Well, I’m working my butt off, but that’s not why I called. Tommy, it’s about Serena.”

A beat of thick silence, then, “Serena? What about her?”

“I don’t know if you remember Gail Ricci, but she found some photos on her old iPhone from that night at the rave. Our photographer here at the Guardian enhanced them. They’re still not very clear, but I’m sending them to you.”

When Tommy had the photos, he said only, “Two blurry guys, and you don’t know who they are? What do they have to do with Serena? Talk to me, Mia.”

“No, I didn’t recognize them, either, and neither did Gail. I wanted you to see them. They were at the rave, Tommy. I was thinking maybe facial recognition? Compare them to photos you already have that the police might have collected from cell phones that night? Ask the police chief to show them to some of the students who were interviewed?”

“Yes, of course, I can do all of that, but what makes you think they could be the guys to take Serena? And that’s what you think, isn’t it, Mia?” She hadn’t heard such excitement in his voice since he’d told her he’d been accepted into the FBI.

“Yes, I’m sure leaning that way.” Mia pointed out the earlobe tear, the bracelet, told him about the gamer. “And look, Tommy, couldn’t he be ready to put something in Serena’s drink?”

“If it is her drink.”

“It is, it has to be.”

He paused a moment. “Mia, tell me who you think these two men are. Where did you spot them? You’re going on a torn earlobe and a bracelet? A gamer?”

“Yes. Tommy, I don’t want to tell you yet. I don’t want to prejudice you or the sheriff.”

Tommy had learned over the years how stubborn Mia could be. “All right. But don’t you go showing these photos around, all right? If you have come across the two men who took Serena, you know they’d do anything to keep from being exposed. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. You know that, right? Come on, Briscoe, I don’t hear you nodding.” He sighed deeply. “You’re not going to leave it to me, are you? You’re going into full reporter mode.”

She said, “Tommy, be realistic. It’s nowhere near a sure thing that these photos show the same two men. And yes, I’ll be careful, just in case. Please don’t worry. You’ll keep me posted, all right?”

“Only if you promise you’ll tell me what you’re doing on your end.”

“Sure, of course, we’ll see. Now, before you head off to arrest some crooks, tell me, how are your folks?”

When she punched off her cell, Mia felt a blast of guilt. No, she’d been right, it was too soon to tell him about Harrington and Harper when she had no real proof. She couldn’t ask Tommy and the FBI to investigate a candidate for mayor based on a hunch, it wouldn’t be fair. She had to learn more first and she fully intended to. Sins of omission, she thought, weren’t really sins if there was good reason for them. That was her reasoning and she was sticking to it.