Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 22

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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 h.e.l.l, 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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.ses of the fourth estate doing? Leaving your a.s.s alone?"

"a.s.s 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 pa.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 h.e.l.l 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon rolled around, I had finally found Paula Quinn. She was at a campaign rally for Senator Nash Pomeroy of Ma.s.sachusetts, 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 b.u.t.ton on my coat and a Pomeroy b.u.mper 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 Mitch.e.l.l. 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 Sat.u.r.day --- 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 Ma.s.sachusetts --- 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 sh.o.r.eline up there is nothing but rocks and boulders, but from what I've found out, over the years, she and her minions- --- G.o.d, 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."

I said, "No such thing as a private beach in New Hampshire. State law."

Paula laughed. "Look who's talking, the gentleman with his illegal No Trespa.s.sing signs outside his house."

"The signs are a suggestion, not an order. Besides, we're talking about Audrey Whittaker."

Up forward, Senator Pomeroy seemed to pause in that part of his speech that said, Pause, wait for applause, and when no applause came forth, he pressed on.

"Yes, we are, aren't we. Anyway, Audrey --- from what I was told --- loved to bundle up a picnic lunch, chair, umbrella, and thermos full of martinis, and walk out her front door, down the majestic front lawn, across Atlantic Avenue to her private little beach, and spend the better part of a day there. Pure delight, for a woman like her. Her own private beach, her little stretch of paradise, which she didn't have to share with members of the working cla.s.s."

"What happened then? Someone from the state tried to kick her off?"

Paula shook her head. "Nothing so official. One day she went there and found some people on her private beach. Three families, up from Ma.s.sachusetts --- Lawrence or Lowell, still a bit murky --- and they were having a grand old time partying and playing loud music, little barbecue grills, the usual stuff. Audrey told them to leave. The families told her no, in so many words. I guess they had gotten the word that there are no private beaches in New Hampshire. More words were exchanged, Audrey left, and when the families left ... well, they and their friends never came back. Not ever."

"Why?"

Paula tried to laugh, to lighten her mood, but it didn't seem to work. "Lewis, from what I hear, she went back to her house and got to work --- with her minions lending a hand, I'm sure --- and soon enough, she found out who those three families were and where they had come from. She picked one family, randomly, probably, and she destroyed them."

"Destroyed them? How?"

"From what I hear, the father worked in maintenance for the Lawrence school system. His wife worked in the system as well, as a secretary. Within a week, both of them were out of work. Then they were evicted from their apartment. Their children got into trouble at school and were suspended. No matter what they did, no matter who they talked to, their lives were ruined. They even packed up from Lawrence and moved to New York. And like some curse or something, she followed them there as well. Last I heard, the parents got divorced, Dad is serving time at Concord-MCI, Mom is on welfare, and who knows what kind of future the children will have. All because they were on her beach. And didn't leave when they were asked."

Above us, Senator Pomeroy's face was turning a light shade of red, as he did his best to work the crowd into a frenzy. Near me, a woman of about thirty was looking up at the senator while she worked on her nails.

I said, "Appreciate the history lesson."

"That was the lengthy lesson," Paula said. "Here's the short lesson. Don't p.i.s.s her off. She's a wealthy woman with time on her hands who can afford to see her whims, no matter how nasty they are, be fulfilled. I'd hate to see you become one of her whims."

"Point taken," I said.

The young lady next to me started working on her other hand. Paula said, "So, that's what I've got for you. What's your side of the deal, my friend?"

I thought for a moment and leaned into her and said, "Take in this scene well."

"What scene is that?"

"Of Senator Pomeroy, running for president."

She turned to me, face now serious and inquisitive. "Say that again."

"Senator Pomeroy. He won't be a candidate in a few weeks."

"He's dropping out?"

"That's what I hear."

Now her tone matched the look on her face. "Lewis ... this is Paula from the Chronicle now talking to you. This isn't Paula your bud ... got it?"

"Got it."

"All right then," she said. "What do you have for me?"

I chose my words carefully. "An informed source connected with the Nash Pomeroy campaign has confirmed that due to personal reasons, Senator Nash Pomeroy will withdraw from the presidential primary race within the next few weeks."

Her hands seemed to fly across the keyboard. "How good is this source? Not some volunteer who's upset that they've run out of b.u.mper stickers."

"Nope, a well-paid consultant."

"Okay," she said. "The personal reasons. What do they involve?"

"Something involving the senator and events in Illinois."

"Illinois? Far from home."

"Away from your fellow scribblers and other prying eyes."