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12
Mia
Mia’s Apartment
One Lincoln Plaza
New York City
Tuesday morning
Mia didn’t have to show herself at the Guardian until the afternoon, so after happily chowing down her latest favorite breakfast, a cup of tea and an English muffin loaded with peanut butter, she sat at her ancient desk in her sweats and wrote notes about her impressions of the players she’d met at the fundraiser. She’d finished her second cup of tea when her boss, Milo, called, and said right out of the gate, “I didn’t want to wait. Tell me about the fundraiser.”
She grinned into her cell. “Well, hello to you, too, Milo,” and she told him about the Cabot Hotel, the ballroom with a gazillion red, white, and blue balloons, open bar, everything first class down to the bite-sized tacos...
When she finished, Milo said, “Harrington’s campaign manager, Cory Hughes, costs big bucks, but I think he’s a good choice, smart, an excellent debater. He could even bring my mother-in-law around, so watch out for him.
“Now, you don’t have a lot of hours to spend researching the Harrington family, so I asked our intern Kali to put together a landing page for you with some of what you’ll need to know and some photos.” He gave her the link. “I’ve met the Harrington family so I can add some things Kali wouldn’t know. First off, there’s Harrington senior, Theodore Talbot Harrington. Theo’s quite a character, decided years ago he was too ugly, too short, and too honest to be a politician, and besides, he sweats too much under lights. But I’m sure he’s very pleased to be backing his son. He’s been one of the powers behind the throne in Boston politics for over thirty years now. A politician wants a big lift, thinks the right way, and maybe Theo will put some bucks in his coffer and good words with other movers and shakers.”
Mia scrolled to his picture. Ugly was right. He was squat, heavy, even his arms seemed too short. He wasn’t smiling, but she saw intelligence in his dark eyes. She imagined he was a formidable opponent. Mia said, “He looks ruthless.”
“Yeah, both in politics and in business.”
“I hope he has a great personality.”
Milo grunted. “Not particularly, but he’s got the gift of the gods—the gift for making money. He still rules as chairman and CEO of the First Street Corporation in Boston with all its real estate and manufacturing assets.
“Now, take a look at his wife, Brianne Gregory Harrington, Alex’s mother. Lucky for Alex, she gave him his handsome face and his height. She’s a social powerhouse in her own right, on the boards of a number of charities, sponsors up-and-coming artists. She’s a poster girl for good breeding and old money.”
Mia admired her wonderful bone structure, and her smile, charming but aloof. And her great posture. There was a picture of the three of them together, with Theodore Harrington looking like a poorly carved quarry stone between two statues of fine marble. “She looks like a princess. I wonder why she married Theo? For his money?”
“Nah, it would make sense if that was the reason, but she’s from a rich family, no need to marry for more. In fact it’s said her daddy considered Theo no better than a low-class dockworker. Word is it’s a love match. Go figure. They had two children, Alex, now thirty-four, nearly thirty-five, and a younger sister, Liliana, thirty-one. Bless her heart, she looks more like daddy, but in her case it wasn’t a drawback. She’s done well, married to a physician, has three young children, and lives in Newport. Actually I’ve met her. She’s homely, true, but she’s sincerely nice, Mia, she’s kind. And she’s as smart as her daddy.
“I don’t know if you met Kent Harper last night, but he’s going to be a player in this campaign, whether officially or not. He’s Harrington’s oldest friend, also from Boston, also old money. Look at the photo Kali found of the two of them in their freshman year at Harvard drinking beer at the local hangout. They’re having a great time, both big gamers, both wearing gaming T-shirts. They’ve been friends since they were kids.
“And next there’s Pamela Raines Barrett, Harrington’s fiancée of three months. They’ll be bringing her front and center into the campaign when the time comes. They’re to be married in a big August society shindig on Nantucket, where the Harringtons have a summer home. You can see she’s a looker, has a pretty smile, but my buddy at the Globe who’s been around her says Pamela’s got a solid underlayer of mean, doesn’t give a crap about anyone who’s not in her own social class. She’s thirty-one, married and divorced early, no children, and lucky enough for that not to matter because she was born into a solid Boston Brahmin family with scads of old money. She’s doubtless known Harrington most of her life since they’re in the same social group. Oh yes, she’s an interior designer with ready-made access to monied clients, and she’s making something of a splash for herself in Boston.
“Get a good taste of what to expect, Briscoe, she’s an important piece. You’ll want to interview her when you go to Boston tomorrow.
“Oh yes, and here’s a photo of Juliet Ash Calley, too. She was Harrington’s fiancée for a while, some two years ago. Maybe you’ve heard of her, she’s—”
“You mean Juliet Ash Calley, the concert pianist?”
“That’s her. Never heard her play myself, but she’s performed at Lincoln Center and Carnegie. She’s a knockout in the photo, lovely warm eyes, maybe a bit on the shy side? People like her, praise her. Who knows why she’s out of Harrington’s life now, but it’d be interesting to see what she’d have to say about him. So give her a call, set up an interview. Kali checked. She’s at home in Boston.
“I’m out of time, gotta go, the FBI is calling back.” He laughed. “I knew they’d jump at the Agent Sherlock fluff piece I dangled in front of their noses. Be here by one o’clock.”
“FBI? Agent Sherlock? What piece?” But Milo was gone.
Mia was reading about Harrington’s years at Bennington Prep when her cell buzzed again, and she jumped. Milo again? More dirt to dish about the Boston players? But then she smiled. It was Gail Ricci, one of her friends from Godwyn, calling her from Rome, where she’d lived for the past six years with her Italian husband, Francesco Ricci, and her daughter, Lucia. Gail had told Mia she’d be grateful to her parents forever for giving her the Italian trip for her graduation present. She and Mia still kept in touch, with emails and an occasional phone call.
“Gail! Goodness, what a treat. What’s going on? Everything’s good, right?”
Gail laughed. “Everything is good in Ricci-land. Mia, I know it’s your workday, but I found something and I need to talk to you. Do you have time?”
“Sure, for you I’ve always got time.”
“Actually, Lucia was playing in my dresser drawer and she found my ancient Apple 5 cell phone, the one I had at Godwyn. Long story short, I was looking through the gazillion stored photos on it and there are a couple of shots from that frat rave on the night Serena disappeared. I actually forgot I took them, but remember, we were all drunk as skunks. The photos aren’t great, there’s some motion, some blurriness, but I want you to see them. Emailing now.”
