Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia and Sherlock

Mia’s Apartment

New York City

Thursday morning

Mia put her feet on the floor and stood up before she realized all was not well. Who knew the result of rolling around in garbage cans to avoid a car trying to run her down would be every inch of her body aching and throbbing and screaming in protest? Even her feet hurt. After three aspirin and a very hot shower, she forced herself to look in the bathroom mirror. A laugh spurted out of her mouth. She looked like a bunch of sugar-high kids had finger-painted all over her. She gingerly rubbed on bruise cream, whatever good that did, blow-dried her hair, and eased into loose sweats. She heard the doorbell ring as she managed to bend over to pull on thick white socks.

She knew who was there, but when she opened the door, all she could do was stare at the tall, slim woman dressed in a black leather jacket, white shirt, black pants, and black boots standing at her door. Her hair was amazing, a red nimbus around her fine-boned face. With her light blue eyes, she looked like a fairy princess. Mia would have told her so, but she didn’t want to sound like a groupie.

“Good morning,” the princess said in a pleasant voice. “I’m Special Agent Sherlock. And you’re Tommy’s Mia. He told me you were too pretty for your own good.”

Tommy’s Mia? Tommy thought she was pretty? Given the face she’d seen in her bathroom mirror minutes ago, pretty was an awesome stretch. Mia laughed. “If Tommy could see me now, he’d pull out his Glock and put me out of my misery.” She stuck out her hand. “At least I’m ambulatory, and believe me, that’s a big relief. Sorry I look like crap. When the aspirin kick in, I won’t look better, but I’ll feel better.”

Sherlock only lightly touched her fingers to hers. “Nothing broken though, right?”

“Thankfully no, all my bones are where they should be. But I ache in places I didn’t even know I had.”

“I’ve been there. You don’t look like crap, you look like you’ve been on a bender.” She smiled. “In three or four days, you’ll feel back to fighting strength. I remember aspirin was my lifeline.”

Mia grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my energy hasn’t flown south for the rest of the winter.” She paused a moment, couldn’t hold it in. “I’ve written about you, of course, but to see you here, in my apartment—I’m sorry, I’m keeping you standing here in the doorway. Please come in. You’re very kind to come, Agent Sherlock.”

“Please just call me Sherlock and I’ll call you Mia. It’ll save time.”

“That’d be great. Can I hang up your jacket?”

“That’s okay,” Sherlock said as she stuffed her gloves into her leather jacket pocket. “I know it’s early, but Tommy is very concerned, well, no, he’s scared for you, upset he couldn’t be here right away, and that’s why he asked me to be here to keep you safe.” Sherlock paused a moment, looked at Mia Briscoe, said slowly, “I have to say I was very concerned. I’ve never seen Tommy scared. He’s usually unflappable, like his dad, and his mom, too.”

Mia swallowed at the sudden memory of Serena saying, Mia, his mom is awesome. She’d fit under my armpit, but she runs the show, all four giant-size sons and her giant husband. Then she’d waggled her eyebrows, whispered, Maybe she can teach me how if Tommy and I decide to—well, we’re both young, and who knows?

Mia brought herself back, swallowed tears. “I don’t know Tommy’s parents well myself, only met them at Serena’s memorial, ah, but Tommy’s incredible. We’ve stayed close, emailing and calling. I was thrilled for him when he graduated from the FBI Academy. I remember he told me his dad was over the moon, kept pumping his hand and bear-hugging him.”

Sherlock said, “Tommy’s dad, Mr. Maitland, is my husband’s boss. We are very fond of him and his family.”

Mia ushered Sherlock into her living room, waved her to Mia’s own favorite chair, and stood over her, still aching all over. She felt clumsy and pathetic next to this amazing woman. “Ah, I was just going to make coffee. Would you like some? And maybe an English muffin slathered thick with chunky peanut butter?”

Sherlock could see Mia was hurting and said matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you take me to your kitchen. You will sit down and tell me where everything is and I’ll make us both breakfast. When was your last dose of aspirin?”

Mia wished she didn’t feel like the remains of a lousy meal. She wished she could fold herself up and sleep. “Three aspirin, about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Good, they should kick in soon. I won’t burn the muffins, I promise. Come along before you fall over.” Sherlock nodded toward the living room window. “This is an incredible view you have. When you have friends over do they ignore you and simply stare out the window down on Central Park?”

“Usually. All I have to do is put a glass of wine in their hands and let them look to their heart’s content. The view is gorgeous, but prepare yourself for a very small kitchen. At least it’s open so you can see the view while you cook.” Mia stopped in her kitchen doorway. She was supposed to sit down and let Sherlock feed her?

Sherlock walked straight to a kitchen chair and pulled it out. “Down you go, right there. Your kitchen’s nice and bright. I have a half dozen of those little herb pots you have lined up on the window ledge in my own kitchen. You’re right about the view. Central Park in all its winter glory, which makes me shiver just looking. You have a coffee maker I recognize, so, no problem. Everything else is in the fridge?”

Six minutes later, Mia sipped delicious coffee, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank you. You even heated the cream. It’s wonderful.”

“My mother-in-law taught me that. You’re welcome. Here’s your muffin, lots of peanut butter. The protein should perk you up.”

While they ate, they spoke of the frigid New York weather and the murder case Sherlock had come to New York to consult about. Sherlock gave her a few of the details. At the mention of a creative murdering psychopath who happened to be a real estate agent as well as a gun expert, Mia was leaning forward, her aches and pains forgotten. She wanted a name, only a name, but knew she wouldn’t get it. Sherlock only smiled at her, shook her head. “I’m hopeful we’ll close the case today. Then I’m sure you’ll hear about it.”

Mia watched Sherlock take their plates to the sink, pour two more cups of coffee, add the lovely hot cream, and sit down again.

Sherlock said, “Tommy’s already spoken to the current police chief in Creighton, sent him clear photos of Harrington and Harper back when they were twenty-seven, the age they’d have been at the rave at Godwyn. He’ll show them to his old list of witnesses, but it’s unlikely the photos will jog any memories. He’s tracked down the cars registered to them at the time—a Jaguar and a BMW, and their license plates. That might help put them at or near Godwyn that night, if we’re lucky. Tommy can’t check credit card records yet that could help put them coming or going from Godwyn that night seven years ago. Those aren’t in the public domain and we don’t have enough yet to get a warrant, especially on a candidate for mayor of New York City or a bigwig businessman. And since it’s unlikely Harrington and Harper started and ended their roofieing spree with Serena at Godwyn, Tommy’s going to check nearby colleges for unsolved rapes or disappearances. That kind of luck would be a lot to ask for though.

“Now, about last night. The NYPD will review the CCTV feeds, send a forensics team to West Third. The sedan struck some garbage cans, and there could be traces of paint or maybe a piece of broken headlight. They’ll spot the car, but it’s not likely they’ll see the driver well enough to make an ID.”

“Maybe the license plate?”

“We’ll hope.”

“Sherlock, do you honestly think Alex Harrington, now a candidate for mayor of New York City, would be crazy enough to try to run me down himself? Even Kent Harper, he’s the head of his family’s company here . . . it’s crazy.”

Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “No, I can’t see either of those two being directly involved. Since the attack happened so quickly after you got back to New York, they probably already had someone on their payroll or available to them. I doubt checking their phone records would help turn up anything valuable. I can’t imagine either of these gentlemen would be stupid enough to leave a record on their cell phones, or at campaign headquarters. But the records might tell us who tipped them off, from Boston or from Bennington Prep. Of course, it’s academic, no way to get a search warrant.

“Mia, if you’re right about this, about what those men have done, about their being responsible for what happened last night, you’re very lucky to be alive.”

Mia said, “I know, believe me, I’ve had a few bad moments thinking about that. I said I couldn’t see either of them involved directly. I take that back. Not Kent Harper, but Alex Harrington would. He’s got guts and he would view me as an obstacle like any other, to be overcome, or obliterated as the case may be.”

Sherlock studied the myriad emotions racing over Mia’s face—frustration, sadness, maybe a dollop of hope? She said, “I wasn’t in the FBI yet when your friend Serena Winters disappeared from the frat rave, but I heard about it later from my husband. He told me Tommy was wrecked over it, that it influenced his decision to join the FBI, like his dad. Tommy went on the warpath, determined to find out who killed her, but when there were absolutely no leads, and as time passed, as it always does, her case went cold, and even Tommy realized there was nothing more he could do. But no one who loved her forgot about her, least of all Tommy.

“Now, you think you’ve found the men who roofied her, killed her.” Sherlock sat back. “You’ve given Tommy hope again he’ll find out what happened to her, hope he thought was dead. He told me about everything, going back to the rave when Serena met that guy who was a gamer, about the two photos, the bracelet, the notch on Alex Harrington’s earlobe. And Kent Harper being a gamer too. Tommy’s retention is amazing so I’m confident I have all those facts.

“What I want you to tell me are your firsthand impressions of the people you spoke with in Boston, and at Bennington Prep.”

Mia said, “It’s hard to believe I met these people only yesterday, not twenty-four hours ago. Okay, first I went to Louisburg Square and met Pamela Raines Barrett, Alex Harrington’s fiancée. She’s pretty, polished to a high shine, shows off Armani very well. She knows her own worth and values herself highly. She’s arrogant and tried to hide it for the most part since I was there to interview her about her fiancé. She tried to make nice, but her belief in her own superiority shimmered off her.

“She’s smart, Sherlock, and I think she’d be as ruthless as she needed to be to get what she wants. And she wants Alex to be mayor as much as he does, maybe more. It’s her first big step toward the top of the power food chain, where she knows she belongs. So she really wasn’t of much help. But one thing struck me between the eyes. She’s still jealous of Harrington’s ex-fiancée, Juliet Ash Calley. She told me calling off the wedding was Alex’s idea, but it wasn’t. It was Juliet who called it off.

“I’m sure she doesn’t know about Juliet being roofied and raped by Alex Harrington and Kent Harper, or anything else. Yes, I imagine Tommy mentioned that to you. Even though it sounds unbelievable, it’s true. He not only roofied and raped his own fiancée, he also invited his friend Kent Harper to join the fun. And I wondered—if Pamela knew, would she be willing to cover it up to get what she wanted? I don’t think so, but I could be wrong.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “Let me guess. You really didn’t like her.”