In fourteen years he’d had to use mortal discipline only three times. Perhaps now he’d have to make it four if there was any chance the Americans could trace Claude back to him. But how could they? He might give Claude one more chance.
Henri drummed his fingers on his ebony desktop, thinking through the blunders that shouldn’t have happened. For the first time, he felt a tingling of fear. He got hold of himself; he could deal with this.
He rose, walked to the window of his sixth-floor office to stare beyond the thriving city of his birth to the hills beyond, toward his family vineyard. His vineyard now, since he’d saved it from bankruptcy along with the company from his father’s excesses and stupidity.
At a knock on the door, he called out, “Entrez.”
His own personal assistant, Trevor Cavandish, minced into his office, a frown on his face. A dapper little man, maybe five and a half feet in lifts, he was dressed in his habitual too-tight Savile Row suit, a frown on his face. He was older than Henri, at least sixty, and he dyed his hair black as midnight, reminding Henri of a manager for a second-rate cabaret on the Left Bank. Still, he was useful, had the brain of a chess master who saw twelve moves ahead.
“Oui, Trevor? Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”
Trevor knew his boss spoke French only to remind him a Frenchman ruled his life—Henri spoke only minimal French—as a point of pride. Because Trevor was very well compensated, he let it go. His status-conscious boss didn’t know Trevor had been born in Liverpool to two very common parents named Smythe, though he claimed Mayfair in London. He said smoothly, in his carefully learned Oxford Brit, “You are aware the CIA agent, Olivia Hildebrandt, killed Hasid at her house last night.”
“Of course I know. Claude called me, whining.”
“Yes, well, he will arrive within the hour. He wishes to explain what happened to you personally, which, I imagine, will find no favor.”
Henri said, “You of all people know I despise failure. He knows quite well what this could mean. It’s a fine kettle of fish, isn’t that what you English say? I’ve decided to send René to straighten things out.”
“René will not be happy. He enjoys his current mistress in Cannes.”
René had always been a vicious creature who wallowed in death and mayhem. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her since he takes after the old man.” Henri shrugged. “He will do as he’s told.” René was many things, but he understood necessity and financial recompense. He would clean up the mess Claude left in the United States. “I will deal with our clients.”
Trevor knew Henri preferred leaving any killing he needed done to his vicious younger brother. Trevor hoped René would never be sent to visit him.
“We must move quickly. Get René on the phone, Trevor.”
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 hea
rd 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.”
The rave? The night Serena disappeared? Mia froze, couldn’t breathe. She whispered, “Do you see her, Gail? Do you see who took her?”
“I don’t know, but maybe you can see something.”
Mia brought up the photos. The first one showed a roomful of college kids, laughing, talking, dancing, most of them drinking, even on the dance floor. She made herself out, standing beside—yes, it was Norton Canberry, now a professor at MIT. He was probably trying to explain vector analysis or some such thing to her and she was laughing her head off.
“The second photo,” Gail said, “Serena’s photo—it’s blurry because I probably just raised my cell and snapped it.”
Serena, Mia’s best friend for three years at Godwyn. She looked wildly happy and wildly drunk. Mia felt a horrible punch of loss, of rage. She managed to get hold of herself, swallowed her tears, and concentrated on the man standing next to Serena. A profile, but she could see he was gesticulating with his hands. “Gail, do you recognize the man talking to Serena?”
“No. Remember, Mia, there were lots of grad students who crashed the rave, hoping to find an undergraduate hookup, or at least get laid. This guy could even be from another college. The Godwyn Delta Rho Phi raves were legendary.” She paused. “You told me Godwyn canceled every rave on campus after Serena disappeared. Mia, do you know someone who could work some magic on these photos? Help identify all those people, especially that man with Serena?”
Mia’s heart was pounding. Finally, after all these years, seven years to be exact. Maybe now, just maybe. “Yes, I do. His name is Dirk Melcher, the Guardian’s photographer. He’s a pro’s pro, has a gift, really, and if anyone can sharpen up these pictures digitally he can. Now, the guy she’s talking to, I can tell he’s not that much taller than Serena, which makes him maybe five foot ten, eleven. And look, Gail. Do you see the other man standing off to the side? We see only his profile. He’s wearing jeans, a black tee. He’s much taller, at least six foot two. Look closely, Gail. Isn’t he reaching his hand out toward those drinks on the table? And he’s got a bracelet on his wrist.”
Gail said, “I don’t know him, either. You think he might be roofieing Serena’s drink?”
“Maybe. Gail, look at the bracelet.”
“Okay, he’s wearing what looks like a chunky silver chain on his left wrist. I never knew any Godwyn boys who wore a bracelet like that.”
“Me either. Even blurry, you can recognize lots of people, right? Even if you’ve forgotten their names? But this guy talking to Serena, and the other one standing off to the side—Gail, I don’t think they belong there. One of these guys might have drugged her, took her, maybe even set the fire to get her out.”
“Lots of maybes, Mia. Don’t jump the gun. Maybe this Dirk Melcher can sharpen the photo enough so we can identify them. Then maybe the police can contact them, speak to them.”
Mia magnified the photo of Serena, sharpened the edges with her cell phone photo app. “Okay, the shorter guy has light hair, nearly blond. He’s slender, nothing really distinctive about him that I can see. He’s waving his arms, maybe slashing down like he has a sword? Like he’s acting out a character in a video game? And look, Serena is laughing, pretending she’s getting sliced through. I remember Serena told me, when we were coming back from the bathroom, about a guy she met, but I never saw him. She said he was a gamer, like she was. World of Warcraft, that was Serena’s favorite. Her handle was Aolith.” Mia swallowed. “Serena thought Aolith was a magical name.
“Wait, Gail—look closely at the guy with the chunky bracelet. Do you see a sort of notch in his earlobe, like he was wearing an earring and it was ripped off? Or maybe it’s a shadow, can you tell?”
“Okay, maybe, but I can’t be sure. Look, we have only the two photos I shot at one point in the evening. Early? Late? I don’t remember. There were so many of us packed into the frat house, and we were all over the place, including the upstairs bedrooms.” Gail paused a moment. “Mia, I wondered if I should even send you the photos, but I knew I had to. You loved her so much.”
“Thank you, Gail. I’m so glad you did. Now I have to do what I can with them. After Dirk works his magic, I’ll email them back to you, see if they ring any bells.” As she spoke, she was staring at the notch in the larger man’s earlobe and the chunky silver bracelet on his wrist. “Give Lucia a big kiss for finding your old cell phone.”
“Mia, wait! I’ll admit I was hesitant to send them to you because I worried what you’d do, that it could be dangerous. I know you, and I want you to promise me you won’t go playing Lois Lane and haring off after these two men by yourself. Please promise me after this Dirk cleans them up, you’ll give the photos to the police.”
“And tell them what, exactly, Gail?” Mia said. “Serena was murdered, Gail, probably raped. You know as well as I do that’s what happened. I owe her whatever I can do, and right now I can do more than the police can. I promise I’ll be careful, and I’ll give the police whatever I find.” That wasn’t the promise Gail wanted to hear, but it was the best Mia could do.
She ended their call and dialed Dirk Melcher at the Guardian, caught him just before he was off to a crime scene in SoHo with a reporter. She offered to make him her famous meatloaf if he’d sharpen two old photos for her. Dirk had told her once he’d kill for her meatloaf, and so the deal was quickly sealed. She emailed him the photos. She got to her feet, stretched, stared again at them, then got herself a fresh cup of tea and went back to Kali’s landing page, but it was hard to concentrate. Mia got up and walked to the large window overlooking Central Park. Not many people out, too cold, the wind whipping the naked tree branches. For the first time in seven years, she felt a leap of hope. The two young men in the photos, they were seven years older now, in their thirties. Were the bastards still out there somewhere roofieing and killing women? Was Serena just one of many? Did they even remember her? No matter if they’d stopped, they were still monsters, still deserved to be in prison for the rest of their lives.
The police and the FBI had both done their interviews, looked into date rapes, deaths, and disappearances at other universities at about
the same time. They’d had no luck.
But that was then.
13
Mia
The Guardian
1185 Houston Street
Tuesday, early afternoon
The Guardian was an old grande dame of a building, mellow redbrick, built in the thirties by Alfred Lowell to an impressive fourteen stories. The newspaper, still owned by the Lowell family, sprawled over most of the top five floors.
Mia stepped into the noisy newsroom, one floor below where the bigwigs hung out. She was so used to the chaos she barely heard the clacking keyboards, people talking to one another and on their cells, a senior editor chewing out a reporter inside one of the glass offices lining the room about something involving a lame-ass tagline as she walked to her cubicle. She saw a soda can go flying toward Janine, who deftly caught it. Janine was the Guardian’s woman-about-town writer, known as the Scooper by her colleagues. She saluted, popped the top, and drank.
Dirk Melcher waved to Mia. She gazed fondly at him; he was supertalented and always ready to help, always ready with a joke. He was thin as a stick and movie-star handsome, but even at twenty-four, he hadn’t picked up yet when a woman was into him. He wore Lady Gaga T-shirts in the summer, primarily those with her singing her heart out, and thick Madonna hoodies from January to the end of April, primarily with Madonna with very few clothes on.
“Hey, Briscoe!” Dirk handed Mia two eight-by-ten prints. “Best I can do, Mia. I tried everything, even swallowed my pride and called my buddy Thor, master of all things pixel. Thor has access to some NSA software he has no business having, but even then, because of the limited resolution, the camera motion, and the compression, neither of us could get the two guys’ profiles any clearer, sorry.”
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