Primary Storm (27 page)

From beneath the counter he pulled out a framed photograph, a black-and-white picture of a young man in a sailor's uniform standing on a ship. He said, "My dad. Was a quartermaster aboard the USS Converse in World War II. A hundred years from now, this photo will still look like this. Same thing with my wedding day picture of me and Cathy. But there's color pictures of me, taken in the 1980s aboard my own ships, that have already faded and will be blank in fifty years. And don't get me going on digital cameras. All these wonderful photos, and who knows if they can still be viewed in ten or twenty years when new operating systems are being introduced."

I nodded. "Read something similar to that about authors and their books. Used to be, researchers could look in the papers of a writer from fifty or a hundred years ago. Could look at the various drafts, see the handwritten notes, the sections that were crossed out, the inserts that were made, and could see the process of how a writer reached the final version of a novel. But now ... so many authors edit on-screen, and make changes right up to when the book is finished, so all that's in the records are the final versions. There's no record of how the author got there."

"Exactly," Mert said, and he gestured to the computer screen. "So that's what we do in our little volunteer group. Digital information can be manipulated, can be changed, can disappear. So what we do, we make hard copies, as much as we can, so that future generations can have an idea of who we were and what we did. And not have to worry about the final record being cleaned up and edited."

From the back room came a ding as a kitchen timer sounded, and Mert got off his stool and went to the rear of the store and came back with three tapes. He handed them to me and I thanked him and said, "How much?"

"Oh, let's say five bucks for the cost of the tapes. Sound fair?" "More than fair. Sounds pretty damn generous."

I handed him a five-dollar bill and he said, "Well, there was a discount. For two things."

"What's that?"

"For not laughing at me, and for listening to me." I picked up the tapes. "My pleasure."

Mert smiled and sat down next to his busy printer. "Just remember what I said, Lewis. Digital information is wonderful. But it can be manipulated."

"Just like people," I said.

He nodded in agreement. "Just like people."

A quick stop back at the Lafayette House, and I walked quickly up into the lobby and to the gift shop. Stephanie was using a label gun to put price labels on Tyler Beach sweatshirts, and I went over to her and handed back a copy of that day's
New York Times
, wrapped around the original surveillance tape and held again by a rubber band.

"Sorry," I said. "You must have given me an extra paper this morning, Steph."

Her smile looked relieved. "Thanks for taking the time to bring it back."

I looked at her, a smile on my face as well. "l owe you one." She put the paper and surveillance tape under the counter.

"No, no debt, Lewis. It's all taken care of. I hope it helped."

"More than you know," I said, and I got out of there as quickly as I got in.

A phone call later and I was in the office of Detective Sergeant Diane Woods, south of the Lafayette House, and I said to her, 'Well, I'm pleased that I can get you on a Saturday, but I'm not sure how pleased you are."

She shook her head, leaned back in her chair. "Not very, and neither is my sweetie Kara, but primary season will be over in three short days, and that will be just fine. I love making detail money but

you know what? It's a nice little bundle that's going to pay for a vacation to Cozumel next winter for the both of us, but I'm getting sick of all the candidates and their precious little staffs. 'Why can't the traffic go there instead of here?' 'Can't you do something about the news helicopter overhead?' 'Can't you put the protesters over there behind a fence?' Bah. Four years from now, let Vermont have this little circus."

Diane's office is in the rear of the one-story concrete cube that is the Tyler Police Station, and her desk was reasonably clear. I always told her that a live camera feed depicting her desktop could tell an alien species what season it was in New Hampshire: a clean desk meant it was winter, and an overflowing desk of papers and files meant it was summer. Diane had told me at the time that any aliens that existed no doubt spent their summer at Tyler Beach, and they could all go to hell, and that was that.

She was dressed in civvies today, heavy brown turtleneck sweater and well-worn blue jeans, and as she leaned back she had her hands behind her head, like a prisoner giving up, except I don't think Diane has ever given up anything for anybody.

"What's going on with you?" she asked. "The Secret Service treating you well?"

"I don't think they're treating me like anything, and for that I'm thankful."

Her face looked a bit somber and she said, "I hope you don't have bad feelings about that day I took you in to meet Agent Reynolds. I was doing you a favor, Lewis, though I'm sure as hell it didn't seem like it at the time. I wanted to bring you in nice and quiet, without them charging into your house and knocking things over and slapping your wrists in handcuffs or something like that. What I did seemed to be the best alternative."

I smiled to show her there were no hard feelings, and I said, "If one has to be arrested by the Secret Service, getting there through the actions of a friend is as good a way as any."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Cole. Nicest thing anybody's said to me today. And besides the Secret Service, how are the chattering classes of the fourth estate doing? Leaving your ass alone?"

"Ass is very much alone and belonging to me."

"Good. So. Now that we're all caught up and everything, what's going on?"

I took a breath. "Audrey Whittaker."

She tilted her head a bit. "Audrey Whittaker. Socialite lady for whatever passes as society on the New Hampshire seacoast. Very wealthy, working on her second husband, quite active in political affairs. Believe she's supporting Senator Hale from Georgia. Why the curiosity?"

"What else can you tell me about her?"

Diane dropped her hands and let the chair move forward some. "What else do you want to know?"

"Has she ... has she ever been the subject of interest from law enforcement circles?"

Diane now stared at me for long seconds, and I knew exactly then how she got suspects to talk, with that firm gaze and clear eyes. "That's a hell of a question, Lewis. Especially the way you just put it. Mind telling me what's gotten your attention?"

"Something involving a column I'm working on," I said.

"Oh, That makes it clear then. One of your famous columns that never seems to make its way into print. All right. I can tell you from my own personal experience that Audrey Whittaker, to the best of my knowledge, has never been ---- as you so delicately put it --- the subject of interest from law enforcement circles. But ... "

My ears got quite sensitive at that last word. "Yes?"

She said, "Like I said, from my own personal experience, nothing. But it doesn't mean that something hasn't gone on that I don't know about. Which means a records check could reveal something. But there's something you've got to know before you ask me to do that."

"Which is what?"

Diane carefully picked up a pen and moved it from one side of the desk to the other. "It's like this. Used to be, in the wild and woolly days when I first became detective, you could do a records search for no other reason than to satisfy your curiosity. Those days are gone. Records of inquiries are kept, and questions can be asked. Like, why are you so interested in so-and-so, Detective Woods? Is there an official reason for this inquiry? If not, why? And what prompted you to make such an inquiry if there's no official reason?"

"I see."

"Good. Because I'll do a records search for you, Lewis, if it means something important for you. But you should know that if something about Audrey Whittaker becomes public knowledge in the next week or month or something like that, some people might want to know why I was doing a records search on her, and for what reason. So, having wasted about half your Saturday morning, I just want to know this: Lewis, do you want me to do a records search on Audrey Whittaker?"

I looked back at her, and thinking of our friendship and our past and favors done and favors expected, I took a breath.

"No," I said. "I don't want you to do a records search on Audrey Whittaker."

. Her mood instantly changed, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to lighten right up. "Fine. I'm very glad to hear that. And here's a bit of advice from an old detective who's seen an awful lot. Ready?"

"Go ahead, ma'am."

"Leave Audrey Whittaker alone. She's old, she's rich, and she has a lot of time on her hands. A very dangerous combination. Focus on Annie Wynn. She's good for you, Lewis. Very good for you. And take it from someone who's an admirer of the female form and function."

"Glad we have something in common."

"More than you know. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some case folders to go through, and my better half is promising me dinner and entertainment, and since I've been lacking in the home-cooked meal and homemade entertainment departments lately, get the hell out."

I wished my old friend the best, and did as I was told.

It took some tracking on my part but by the time late Saturday afternoon rolled around, I had finally found Paula Quinn. She was at a campaign rally for Senator Nash Pomeroy of Massachusetts, and after promising at a volunteer desk that I would work my local polling station on Tuesday, bring five friends to the polls, wear a Pomeroy button on my coat and a Pomeroy bumper sticker on my car, and commit ritual suicide if he didn't win on Tuesday, I was allowed in.

The rally was at the MitchSun electronics plant in Tyler Falls, owned by an eccentric entrepreneur called Eddie Mitchell. Eddie was a firm believer in the electoral process and took a major hit in his productivity every fourth January by inviting candidates to stop by and talk to his employees. For the employees, it meant an extra long meal break --- especially for those doing time-and-a-half work on Saturday --- and for the candidates, it meant a captive audience of about a hundred potential voters.

Inside the plant's cafeteria, I found Paula at the rear, hiding a yawn with one hand, typing away on a laptop with the other. The light green tables were occupied by workers in white coats and slacks, not bothering much to hide their bored expressions, while on the far side of the room, Senator Pomeroy --- a product of prep schools, Harvard, and district attorney work in Massachusetts --- gave a talk in which he left no doubt that he'd rather be back in Washington than talking to his lessers here in --- horror of horrors ---- New Hampshire. He was standing behind a portable lectern that had a POMEROY FOR PRESIDENT sign taped to its front, and even the gaggle of cameramen and reporters off to one side looked almost as dispirited as the candidate and his audience.

I sat next to Paula and she looked over at me, and then looked over at me again with surprise and said, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Well, that's flattering. You need something, is that it?" There was a not-so-nice edge to her voice and I said, "Well, I was going to trade you something. Information for information. How does that sound?"

"Newsworthy?"

"Quite."

"Very newsworthy?"

"Oh, you know it."

"Newsworthy in a presidential primary sense?"

"Wouldn't waste your time otherwise."

She grinned and turned away from her laptop. "Oh, you better not be teasing me."

"Haven't teased you in months, and you know it."

"Lucky me. Okay, you go first. What do you need?"

"I need a quickie bio on Audrey Whittaker, and I already know she's rich, she's married twice, and that she's active in political events. What else can you tell me?"

Paula said, "Knowing how you operate, I'm sure you don't care much about her charitable activities."

"I'm looking for something a bit more edgy."

"Hmmm," she said. "Edgy. How come she's gotten your attention?"

"You know my methods, Paula."

That earned me another smile. "Another quest from the mysterious Mr. Cole ... how can I deny you that?"

"You've denied me before."

"On other things, my friend. All right. Audrey Whittaker and edgy. Here's the story I've been told, and you can't tell anybody else where you heard this story, because I'll deny having told you. Lord knows, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Or even a twenty-foot pole. Nasty stuff, it was."

I touched her hand. "I knew I could count on you."

"Ha, How sweet. Look, here's the deal. Word is, this particular event happened two, maybe three years ago. She lives in one of those so-called summer homes up in Wallis whose construction costs can support a school for a year. Nice place, of course, and across the street, there's a tiny little strip of beach. I mean really, really tiny. Most of the shoreline up there is nothing but rocks and boulders, but from what I've found out, over the years, she and her minions- --- God, I wish I had a minion on days like these ---would secretly and quite illegally improve that tiny section of beach. Nothing blatant, just a few boulders removed, year after year, and a little sand dumped in the right places. Pretty soon, Audrey had the only private beach on the oceanfront in New Hampshire."