Dead Line

by Brian McGrory

  I first met Dan Harkins a decade ago, back when he was a junior varsity developer who had leveraged himself to his nose hairs to build what turned out to be a thoroughly bland hotel in Boston’s Back Bay. The most notable thing about the hostelry was that there was absolutely nothing notable about it at all, but in the high-tech and biotech booms that defined the city through much of the 1990s, he made a not-so-small fortune gouging businessmen who didn’t know there was another way.

  His problem was, he wasn’t bright enough to build another hotel. Or check that. Maybe deep down, he was shrewd enough to know that he couldn’t possibly replicate his success. So in a fit of whimsy, in a flood of money, he threw his proverbial hat into the political ring, splashed his business credentials all over his television commercials, sucked in millions of dollars in campaign contributions from other developers and businessmen, and one odd day woke up as the newly elected mayor.

  The most vexing issue he faced in the campaign was that of his estranged son. Toby Harkins had served some jail time in his late teens for stealing cars and selling drugs. In his early twenties, he was rumored to be an up-and-coming mobster, a Dorchester kingpin who ran an elaborate criminal enterprise that took a piece of every drug sale and loan sharking deal in the most active neighborhoods in and around Boston. That’s when I first met Harkins, the elder, during the campaign. We sat down for a long interview focusing exclusively on his son. He repeatedly said that his boy was a challenge from a very young age and that he had failed miserably as a father to meet it. He said their contact now was nominal and growing less by the week. Still, he stressed, he had hope that he could somehow play a role in turning his son around. He added, though, with no small amount of sadness, that he had no idea what that role might be.

  The public didn’t seem to mind. How many parents are there in the world who wished their kids turned out better, who saw in their children’s failings some failings of their own? I suspect he carried that vote by a wide margin, and on Election Day, he swept to easy victory all across the city.

  Once in office, word of his son’s growing prominence within the Irish mob became more prevalent. It wasn’t long before Toby Harkins’s name was linked to gangland killings, major drug trafficking operations, and the occasional spat with the Italian Mafia based in the city’s North End. It proved to be an appealing story for the networks, the heavyweight newspapers, and the national news magazines—the successful mayor and his criminal son, each operating with a sense of impunity on different sides of the spectrum in the same city. Still, the mayor survived, always with the explanation that he had lost control of his son, that he was filled with regrets over his parental shortcomings, and overcome with sorrow for the people who were affected by his son’s crimes. He loved the boy, he’d say, in the inevitable way that a parent always loves a child. But he had been completely shut out of his life.

  The year before, the U.S. attorney’s office in Boston obtained a twenty-seven-count indictment against Toby Harkins that included charges ranging from heroin trafficking to murder. When FBI agents knocked down the door to Harkins’s $3 million condominium in Back Bay, he was gone—with luggage, untold amounts of cash, and his passport. Every few months, a new tip was publicized that he was spotted in a Dublin pub drinking a black and tan, or at a hairdresser in one of those dusty Central California valley towns that no person with any sense would ever think to go. But there’s no tangible sign that the Feds were any closer to catching him now than the day he left.

  All of which was fine for his father, the mayor. With the son out of town, he was also out of the headlines. And this was no doubt exactly where he wanted his son to remain in the run-up to his potential Senate appointment. New publicity could easily deep-six his prospects with a governor who was nervous about alienating the electorate.

  And then along comes Agent Tom Jankle to leak word to me that Toby Harkins is a suspect in the Gardner heist. Then we obtain a videotape showing that Hilary Kane had been in Mayor Harkins’s apartment. The morning of my story linking Toby to the Gardner, Hilary winds up dead.

  Which brings us to the mayor’s office. It is a cavernous space with towering ceilings and exposed concrete beams. A wall of windows overlooks the famed Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall, one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, though a place that no one from Boston would ever consider visiting, except for a weekday lunch.

  The mayor stood in the doorway until Mongillo and I walked in behind him, slammed the door shut, and raged at us, “That’s the most obnoxious, underhanded, sensationalistic stunt that I’ve ever had a reporter pull on me in ten years of politics.”

  Mongillo, aimlessly walking around the office, turned to him and tersely said, “I’ve done worse than that. This week.” Well, this was really turning into some interview.

  Harkins smashed his fist against the closed door. He stalked over to a sitting area and took a spot in a leather club chair without extending an invitation to us to join him. We did, anyway, side by side on a leather couch that looked like a throwback to when Mildred had just started on the job.

  I said, “Mr. Mayor, nice as it would be to make small talk, you don’t have the time, and truth be known, neither do we. We have a problem. We have videotape of you and Hilary Kane entering your apartment together at two A.M. on Saturday, and of Hilary leaving alone thirty-two minutes after that. Three days later, she’s dead, shot in the head. We’d like you to answer some questions.”

  If a man, if a mayor, could actually foam at the mouth, I think he’d be doing it now. His entire face was crimson, and not because he graduated from Harvard. He didn’t. It appeared that blood vessels were about to burst in his nose.

  When he finally spoke, it was with a surprising clarity and sense of calm that belied his appearance. Carefully enunciating every syllable, he said, “I don’t have to speak to either one of you or to your fucking stupid newspaper about this or anything else in my personal life. You understand that?”

  Mongillo, God bless him, said, “We’re on the record here.”

  I shook my head and said, “No, I don’t understand. A woman, a city worker, is dead. You were with her in unusual circumstances three nights before. It’s a fact worth reporting, and we’re going to do just that in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Were we? Probably not, not unless we got something more to go on. Harkins may or may not have realized that his refusal to speak would put enormous pressure on us to justify rushing the story into print. On the other hand, a detailed denial would somehow give it credibility, or news value. If that seems warped, it’s probably because it is, but I never said the news was an entirely rational business.

  He looked at Mongillo and said, “I’m off the record.”

  Well, he’s wrong about that, really. A subject doesn’t go off the record unless the reporter agrees to it. The default setting is always on the record, which means that anything that’s said can be used in print—kind of like the Miranda thing, only for the media age.

  Mongillo was about to say something that was no doubt terse, if not incendiary, so I quickly cut in and said in an even voice, “Sir, we’re not going to talk off the record to the mayor of Boston about his possible involvement in a murder investigation. This isn’t about your campaign strategy for reelection, in all due respect.”

  No respect intended, really, but I didn’t think it wise to tell him that.

  He looked at me and said, “I don’t specifically recall being with Hilary Kane in my apartment. I would tell you that any tape that you claim to have is probably a dupe, doctored in some way by the many opponents I have who seek to discredit me. You’re just a tool. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Good points, all, and believe me, I’d felt like a tool lately, somebody’s bitch, if you will, racing into print with a story that I wasn’t completely comfortable with, watching the news unfold of a young woman’s death, being told by her sister that I in some way was linked, now watching that sister running across another cont
inent for her life.

  Mongillo furiously jotted down his quote in one of those pocket-size reporter’s notebooks that bad actors carry in movies when an obnoxious scribe with an invariably bad haircut plays a bit part.

  I replied, “Sir, we’re authenticating it right now.” A lie, but a damned good idea. I’d have to jump on the phone with Peter Martin to do just that as soon as we left. “We’re also confirming the story with actual witnesses.” Another lie, another case of needing to get on the horn with Martin and sending a team of reporters to swarm the Ritz and its environs.

  Outside, the light grew pale and bluish, sending the office, which faced east, into shadows. Harkins hadn’t bothered turning any lamps back on when he unexpectedly returned.

  He said, “Well, I tell you what. When you test the video and realize it’s a fraud, when you fail to find a single witness that puts me in that building with Hilary Kane, then you can give me a call and apologize for that repulsive exhibition in my lobby and these demeaning questions in my office. Meantime, stay the hell away from me.”

  He stood, meaning, I guess, that he was through. I wasn’t. So from my vantage on the couch, with the very angry mayor towering above me, I asked, “Sir, when’s the last time you’ve had contact with your son?”

  He glared at me even harder than he had before, and I didn’t think that was possible. If his eyes were lasers, I’d have a face full of holes. He seethed, “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  Interesting answer, informative, even while it wasn’t. Before I could speak, Mongillo stood up beside me and said, “It has to do with the story in the Record yesterday morning about your son being a suspect in the Gardner theft. When’s the last time you spoke to him or saw him?”

  He looked at the floor, as if calculating his response, thinking back through time, not wanting to misstep or misspeak. He looked at Mongillo, and then at me, and said, “Too long to clearly remember.” He shook his head in sadness, relieved of some of the anger that encompassed him just a moment before, and added, “Far too long, and that’s the shame of it all.” And then he turned and walked out.

  Mongillo and I followed behind him at a respectable distance. We allowed him and his police escort to ride down in the elevator alone while we waited for the next car. Once we got on it, I looked at Mongillo and him at me, and he said, “You’re a father. Your son’s an accused murderer, one of the ten most wanted fugitives in America. Can you really not remember the last time you spoke?”

  I shook my head. The doors slid open and a pair of bureaucrats, Mildred’s sister and cousin, from the looks of it, stepped on. We had a lot, but nothing fit for print. In the newspaper business, it’s called gathering string. At this point, I still had no idea where it led, I just knew we had to get there fast.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday, September 25

  T he Boeing 777 landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport as if it had descended on the wings of angels, making me wonder why it always is that the larger the plane, the smoother the touchdown. In fact, the entire flight had been utterly flawless, a sentiment attributable to the lovely young woman at the ticket counter in Boston who had the generosity of mind and spirit to upgrade me to business class. My only concern was the fact that the pilot, an unceasingly handsome fifty-something man with a voice as deep as well water, kept strolling through the cabin. Two people I never need to see while I’m in their care: the chef and the pilot. And yet, all of them seem to think that they’re the next Bill Clinton.

  I racked my brain wondering if da Vinci had any inventory in the stolen treasures from the Gardner Museum, because if so, maybe I’d be seeing his work literally come across my desk in quick time.

  I was tired, exhausted even. Back in Boston, I had punched out the tell-all story on the return of the Vermeer, raced home to pack an overnight bag, and left the keys under the mat for Melissa Moriarty, a delightful senior at a nearby college who regularly sat for Baker. She’d probably have sex on every surface in the house, throw wild parties with keg beer spilling all over the rugs, and have college guys hanging off my balcony screaming for their lives, which was all fine, just so long as Baker got his three long walks and his two square meals a day. And then I made my way to Logan Airport with about nine seconds to spare.

  These European flights are like those college all-nighters spent writing the final research paper of the term. You land, and all you want to do is sleep the soundest sleep you’ve ever slept, and yet something pushes you onward in the face of physical and mental adversity, some unknown facet of the human soul.

  In my case, on this trip, I think it’s called disgust, and no, not angst-ridden disgust, for what I’d already done to Hilary Kane. This was an even more urgent, pointed disgust for what I suspected I had unwittingly done to Maggie.

  To wit, refer back to our telephone conversation of the previous morning. I dispensed what I thought was reasonably sound advice on something that’s always of the utmost importance to me and many others, and that’s superior accommodations, especially while journeying through a foreign land. I provided her a rendezvous spot with me. I gave her a precise time. I recommended a pair of very nice hotels.

  What I didn’t give her, I realized on the long and restless plane ride over the ocean, was even a speck of thoughtful advice on how not to be found. I didn’t tell her to avoid her credit cards or her bank cards or her calling cards. I didn’t instruct her to get cash, or offer to wire her any currency. I didn’t advise her not to check into the hotel under her own name. I didn’t order her not to call home.

  And I kept thinking of that errant shot fired by an unknown gunman in Copley Square.

  In essence, I came to realize somewhere in the skies over Newfoundland, that if she checked into the Raphael under Maggie Kane, laid down a Visa card issued to her name, withdrew money from a local automatic teller machine, and called home on her AT&T account, then she and her sister were about to spend eternity together, both pretty much on my dime. Let’s just say that by the time I got off the plane, I was sick to my stomach, and not from the four-course meal that the nice people of American Airlines see fit to serve in their premium classes.

  It was 8:15 A.M. Our meeting on the rooftop of the Raphael was set for 10:00 A.M. Walking through the bustling airport, I stepped into one of those newfangled Italian phone booths with plans to call Maggie’s hotel and then Elizabeth, before realizing that I had a better chance of personally piloting the jet airplane back to Boston than I did of figuring out how to make a call in Italy. For kicks, I picked up the receiver and pressed 0. A woman’s distant voice came on the line. I panicked slightly and said, “Je ne parle pas Français.” Hey, it’s the only line of any European language that I knew. She said something in what I presume was Italian, knowing full well now that I couldn’t speak French. I said something loud in American involving the acronym AT&T. She said something that seemed to end in a question mark. A moment later, I just hung up the phone.

  On the cab ride into the old part of the city, to the Albergo del Sole, I thought back to my last visit to Rome, a couple of years before, a weekend getaway with Elizabeth Riggs of Boston, Massachusetts. She had just finished a series of sensational stories for the Boston Traveler—sensational in the good sense, not the common journalism criticism sense—on a shady real estate scheme presided over by the president of the Boston City Council. It cost him his job, those stories did, and later, his liberty. It made Elizabeth one of the hottest reporters in town in more ways than one.

  I met her at home under the guise of an early, celebratory dinner at our favorite Italian joint in the North End. Instead, I packed bags for both of us and hid them in the trunk of my car. Our passports and tickets were concealed inside my coat. She thought we were going for pasta. We were, just on a different continent. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more than a little proud of myself.

  “You missed the turn, goofball,” she said with quasi-urgency when I drove into the mouth of the
tunnel for the airport.

  “Damn,” I said, and kept driving. “I’ll turn around at Logan.” It wasn’t until I parked the car, popped the trunk and handed her the overnight bag that I told her we were going away. She didn’t know where until we got to the gate. It was and will always remain one of the best weekends of my life.

  Funny thing, though. On that weekend, I recall thinking back to my previous time in Europe, on a honeymoon with my wife in the south of France, and I remember, even feeling as close as I did to Elizabeth, that constant ache for Katherine. A couple of years later, here I was again in Rome, this time alone, longing for the relationship I once had with either woman. Some people squander their whole lives dreaming of things that they’ll never have. Maybe I’m wasting mine by longing for things that are already gone. Rare are the good soldiers of life who can devote themselves to the present.

  I was in this thorough state of depression when the taxicab rounded the corner of an ancient alley and pulled right into Piazza della Rotunda, one of the most inviting squares in the entire world. The sun shone brightly on the cobblestones. Beautiful Italians lolled in the outdoor cafés sipping cappuccinos and espressos. A few tourists in matching windbreakers and sneakers—I’m going to guess Americans—filed into the McDonald’s across the way. If I wasn’t so tired, I might have been ashamed.

  I traded pleasantries in rudimentary Italian with the nice man at the hotel’s reception desk, and to his considerable credit, he neither laughed in my face nor carried the conversation any further. Rather, he began speaking better English than half of the copy editors at the Record are capable. I was assigned a room on the third floor, facing front, and when I pulled open the floor-to-ceiling shutters, and then the enormous French doors, I walked onto a step-out that looked directly down on the hulking gray edifice of the Pantheon.