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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.”
“Your collection is awesome, Kent.” Serena had tried to hook Mia on gaming, but it never took. Why was she asking him about gaming anyway? All right, the truth was she couldn’t help herself. She said with regret, “Alas, I was never introduced to gaming, even online.”
Another wrong thing to say. Mia saw him frown slightly, look down at a piece of paper on his desk. She’d lost his interest again. She sat forward and focused on his face, became the eager student. “I was always interested, but there was no one in my circle to teach me. They’re called gaming consoles, right? Like PlayStation 5, Xbox? Is that a console on your shelf there?”
He perked right up, leaned forward, the enthusiastic master ready to instruct the ignorant but willing student. “Oh yeah, it’s a classic, my first PlayStation.”
“Do your friends call you Snake?”
