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5
Mia
The Cabot Hotel on East Seventy-Fifth was one of the special few New York hotels Travis admired. He thought the art deco style, lovingly restored, still made its discreet statement—we cater only to the wealthy and provide anything-they-want service.
Mia was politely asked her name, checked off on a list, and joined a group of invitees in the massive red, white, and blue–garlanded ballroom with matching red, white, and blue balloons hugging the high ceiling, a clever touch. What a relief the American flag wasn’t black and vomit brown. She saw a free bar meant to lighten fingers reaching for checkbooks, tables of clever finger foods including tiny tacos that immediately made her hungry, and an eight-piece band playing mellow background music. Everything was set for Alex Talbot Harrington to present himself.
Mia estimated five hundred guests were roaming around the huge ballroom, dressed to kill, most drinking, all in fine spirits. Liquor flowed, and Mia wondered what the final bar tab would be. It boggled her mind.
She figured Harrington, with his family’s support and reputed bottomless pockets, didn’t much need tonight’s contributions, capped as they were, for the campaign. He needed these fundraisers for the exposure, the publicity, the opportunity to meet the movers and the shakers, people he was smart enough to know he needed badly as a newcomer.
She worked the room, seeking out people’s impressions of Alex Talbot Harrington, came across a couple of social media hounds she’d locked horns with a couple of months before and would like to gullet.
The music stopped, conversation died out, and Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager, stepped to the microphone and introduced the candidate. Alexander Talbot Harrington stepped onto the stage to loud applause. He had to raise the microphone because he was tall, and wasn’t that lucky for him. Mia set her iPhone to record so she could focus on him. He was good-looking in person, with fine chiseled features and a square jaw, all the physical endowments a successful politician could need. He smiled and began speaking. She was struck by his lovely, distinctive voice, with only a trace of the Boston Brahmin accent, and wondered how long he’d worked at blending it with New York–speak. He came across a bit like another J. F. Kennedy, but easier on a New Yorker’s ear. His speech itself was smooth enough, self-deprecating at the right places. He obviously had good writers. He acknowledged he was young, an outsider to New York City government, and apologized, with a smile, for being from Boston, and he just about managed to turn those New York negatives into positives. He focused not on partisanship, but on solutions for the city’s festering problems, left unsolved for too long by the current administration. He said little of real substance, and Mia wasn’t surprised when the few specific positions he took were greeted with applause since the room was filled with like-minded people. After ten minutes, he grinned at the room and stepped back to thunderous applause.
The band blasted out “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Miles Lombardy, Mr. Harrington’s senior staffer. He was a fair young man no older than thirty, an up-and-coming political wunderkind. Mia thought he looked like a wise owl, with his big round glasses and goatee. He introduced himself, smiled, and said, “Mr. Harrington was pleased to hear you’ll be the chief correspondent for the Guardian covering his election for mayor. I’m confident you’ll feel quite supportive when you learn more about him.” He sounded slick as streambed rock, even smoother than Harrington.
She gave him a fat smile. “Don’t you mean his run for mayor? You do know it’s in my contract to be as objective as I can be, right?”
Mr. Lombardy returned her smile, showing perfect straight teeth. “One naturally prefers optimism, Ms. Briscoe. Whatever you need, please contact me, or Mr. Harrington’s campaign manager, Cory Hughes.” He gave her his card. “Mr. Harrington would like to meet you. Please wait here.”
Mia accepted another glass of soda water with lime and ice. She never drank alcohol, not since that long-ago night that had devastated so many lives, hers included. As she waited for the candidate to come to her, she wondered if it was her blog or the articles she would write about him in the Guardian he thought more valuable to him. Probably both. Her three-year-old political blog, Voices in the Middle, had garnered over three hundred thousand readers to date and was growing daily. Her scope was usually national, not local, and her readers a pretty fair sampling of the country as a whole.
“Ms. Briscoe?”
Mia turned to see Mr. Lombardy, and beside him, the candidate. “Alex, this is Ms. Mia Briscoe of the Guardian.” Miles stepped back and nearly bowed as if Harrington were royalty.
She took in Mr. Alexander Talbot Harrington up close and personal. She had to admit he presented the complete package. He smiled down at her, not all that far since she was five feet nine in her stocking feet. With her three-inch stilettos, she looked him almost straight in the eye. She felt the force of his complete focus on her. Potent was the first word that popped to mind. Natural or learned? It didn’t matter, she had no doubt it would serve him well.
He took her hand, held it in a firm grip, and said in an intimate deep voice, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Briscoe. Thank you for coming tonight. I’ve followed you in the Guardian, of course, but your blog—I’ve got to say I admire your ability to present both sides of a question without prejudgment or bias for either side. No matter how divisive the question you pose, you always find ideas to bring the disparate sides together. That’s exactly what I hope to do in my campaign, and as mayor. As you know, holding on to solutions that make sense can be very hard to do.”
She wondered who’d done the research on her blog and given him a rundown. She was impressed.
Mia said with a smile, “Sometimes I have to hang on to sensible ideas by my fingertips because few who sit in the center say much; it’s always the two extremes who shout out their views, dominate the news. They never shut up. But I do say that in my blog, don’t I? Is that where you read it?”
He managed to wince and smile back at her at the same time. “Since it’s what I believe, too, does it matter? I know I’ll be experiencing much the same. But all those folks in the middle? Aren’t they our real strength?”
Mia responded to his smile, even knowing it was highly practiced, part of his shtick.
He leaned forward. “Do you get a lot of hate mail from the extremes?”
She had to laugh. “More than I can count. Either I’m an idiot and deserve to be hit with a hammer or I’m a mealymouthed wuss and why can’t I take a stand?”
“Do you ever hear from the voices in the middle?”
“Oh yes. Usually they tell me I’m not entirely stupid.”
He grinned, lightly laid his hand on her arm. “I hope to meet with you again soon, talk all this over with you. Unfortunately, right now I have a lot of people to meet.” And he was gone, working the room like a pro.
Mia taxied back to her building from the fundraiser, exhausted and freezing, since the heater in the taxi had been on strike. As she shivered, she recorded some impressions so she wouldn’t forget them. Alex Harrington had been fluent, engaging, and careful to keep his actual stands on the more divisive questions unspoken. Still, all in all, his self-assurance was impressive. He managed to present himself as trustworthy, with a goodly dose of charm and charisma to boot. She wasn’t surprised he’d met with her personally, it had only been politic. She’d seen him assessing her carefully with his dark eyes, well aware that what she wrote about him in her articles and in her blog mattered.
Now it was time for her to start her in-depth research, time to dig in, find out if he had any skeletons, if he was for real or only another ambitious politician out for himself and for power. She’d even find out the brand of socks he wore. Mia didn’t think using personal details was unfair, or cynical. It was her job to find out what was real about him and what wasn’t, whether he could be the right person for the job, if there was such a thing.
When Mia was back in warm sweats and thick socks, she bulleted out what she already knew about Alex Harrington and began rhythmically tapping her finger on her laptop as she organized her thoughts, a longtime habit. Still stuff to accomplish before she slept or thought about Travis rubbing sunscreen on her back. Of course she’d give Harrington attention in her next blog since he’d announced he was running for mayor of New York City.
She got up, made a cup of tea to shake off her fatigue, paced her living room while she planned out what she’d write, then returned to her laptop. She looked at a photo of Harrington taken recently at a society party—he looked every bit as charming as he’d been this evening, in command of himself, totally comfortable in his surroundings. She never doubted he’d say all the right things, both to her and to voters. He simply had that look. She thought, then typed, “It’s not important what a politician says during a campaign, what promises he or she makes, it’s what they actually do when elected.” So let’s see how you’ve actually behaved in your life, Alex, outside the political arena.I’m going to look at your roots. Milo always said to look at the family first if you want to find out who a candidate really is.
Mia left her laptop and walked into her small kitchen to make another cup of tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she looked at the Christmas card from Serena’s parents she’d kept on the counter. She felt the familiar stab of remembered pain, the horrific grief Serena’s family had felt. Their not knowing, their tiny flame of hope that she was still alive somewhere. Somewhere. There was no rhyme or reason for them to hope, but it didn’t matter, probably never would.
Serena had been gone for seven years now, ever since the fire at the frat house. Everyone except her family accepted she had to be dead, even Tommy Maitland, Serena’s boyfriend at the time. Mia and Tommy spoke often, emailed several times a month. He was an FBI agent, for two years now, assigned to the Washington Field Office. She remembered his father, Assistant Director James Maitland, had sent the Philadelphia Field Office to assist with the search for Serena, starting at the scene, and with interviews. They’d found nothing to lead them to her, no clue, only that the fire had been set. When Tommy had graduated from Quantico, the first thing he did was repeat everything that had already been done, with the same result. It had led nowhere.
Mia closed down her laptop for the night when she realized it was two a.m. and her eyes were burning.
