Primary Storm (6 page)

"All right. Be safe."

And in a few seconds, she was out the door, and I was alone.

I coughed some more and rolled myself up in the comforter, and thought again about turning on the television, but decided I needed sleep more than news. So sleep is what I got.

The phone ringing got me up, and I sat up, nose runny, throat raspy, my stomach still doing slow rolls. I answered the phone and there was nobody on the other end, and then there was a click and a bored female voice said, "Sir, good day, I'm conducting a survey of the presidential candidates, and I want to ask you a few questions if I may."

"I don't ---"

"Sir, would your vote in the New Hampshire primary be different if you knew that Senator Nash Pomeroy accepted PAC money from gun manufacturers, even though he comes from a state that saw two of its favorite sons cut down by assassin's bullets?"

"Good try," I said.

"Excuse me?" came the female voice.

"I said, good try. This isn't a survey. It's a push poll. You're trying to drive up the negative poll numbers for Senator Pomeroy by asking crap questions like this. Who's paying the freight? Which campaign or PAC?"

Click
The mystery caller had hung up.

The constant joys of living in the first-in-the-nation primary state. Annoying phone call after annoying phone call.

I stumbled into the kitchen, washed my face, took a big swallow of orange juice that almost made me cough as the acidy juice slid down my throat, and then I started the stove to make a cup of tea.

Another ring of the phone. Another brief delay as the automated computer connected me to a live person, a woman again.

"Sir, I'm calling from Alliance Opinion Surveys, gauging the mood of the electorate. On a scale of one to ten, with one being strongly disagree and ten being strongly agree, how would you rate orbital space-based weapons as a campaign issue this year?"

"Orbital space-based weapons?" I asked, looking for a clean tea mug and accompanying tea bag.

"Yes, sir," she said. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being ---"

"How long?"

"Excuse me?"

"How long is this survey?"

"Sir, it's only fifty questions, and we find that most callers complete the survey in ---"

Click.
Now it was my time to hang up.

I usually find these types of surveys oddly amusing, but I guess that's just me. Being from Massachusetts, my dear Annie never receives such phone calls, and Diane Woods of the Tyler Police Department says she hardly gets any at all, since she has an unlisted number. Paula Quinn of the
Chronicle
follows the three-second rule, meaning that if nobody on the other end speaks up in three seconds, she hangs up before the computer can switch her over to a live operator.

All of us in this state have different strategies, but I guess I like Felix's best. He politely listens to the opening remarks, and then says he has one question of his own: Does the caller have any suggestions for cleaning fresh bloodstains out of clothing? "Usually, they hang right up," he told me once. "And it really has cut down on the follow-up calls."

Now the water was boiling and I was about to pour it in my tea mug, when the phone rang again, and by now I was tired of all the attention. I picked up the phone and said, "I swear to God, if this is another survey, I'm going to trace this number and hunt you down and rip your phone out of the wall."

The woman on the other end laughed. "Can't do that, Lewis. I'm on my cell phone, right in downtown Manchester."

"Oh."

Annie said, "I feel bad about something and I need to tell you that."

"Okay, go ahead." I poured the water into the mug, liking the sensation of the steam rising up to my face. "Still upset about the shooting, I'm sure."

"No, it's not that."

"It's not?"

"No, and if you let me talk, I'll tell you all about it. Look I came in and dumped all over you, and you gave me a shoulder and a few hugs and all that good stuff. But you told me you were sick, that you threw up in the conference center's parking lot, and I found you all wrapped up on the couch when I came to see you. I should have asked you how you were doing. I should have offered to help you. But I didn't. I'm sorry."

"No apologies necessary," I said. "You've had a tough day. Don't worry about it."

"Well, I did worry about it, and I wanted to let you know. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. I'm in front of the campaign headquarters now. I'll call you tomorrow. Hope you feel better. Bye."

"Bye right back," I said, and sure enough, even before I had the cup of tea, I was feeling better.

Dinner was a couple of scrambled eggs and toast, and maybe my aggressive nap schedule was working in my favor, for I felt more human as the day dragged on. I caught a bit of the news at six-thirty and saw some of the shooting coverage, but missed the actual first footage of the shooting and what it looked like from inside the building. Still, most of the coverage was similar, with all channels showing a graphic of the interior of the Tyler Conference Center --- I'm sure the management couldn't buy advertising like this, and I wasn't sure what they thought of this particular good fortune ---- and there were interviews with a cheerful Senator Hale, who did his best to shrug off the attempt on his life. Plus the usual and customary interviews with a variety of eyewitnesses, none of whom actually saw a damn thing, but heard plenty, or thought he did. This was followed by the typical stories of our violent society, and how we were all to blame for what had happened in Tyler this day.

When that coverage was over, I decided that I'd had my fill of politics for the day, so I channel-surfed for a while, and almost cheered my luck when I saw a two-hour documentary on one of the cable channels on the history of U -boat operations in the North Atlantic. I settled back on the couch, fire in the fireplace, comforter wrapped around me, and cherished a time when the conflicts were so clear, so finely drawn. The next morning when the phone rang, I was washing my breakfast dishes, feeling much better, and I was surprised at the woman's voice on the other end of the phone: not my Annie Wynn, but my good friend Detective Sergeant Diane Woods. It sounded like she was on a cell phone.

"Hey," she said. "How are you doing?"

"Doing all right," I said. "How are you?"

'Well, got my fingers in a bit on this Senator Hale incident," she said.

"You do, do you? I thought the state police and the Secret Service would be all over this and pushing poor little you aside."

"I'm not poor, and I'm not little."

"All right. Point noted. And what part of the investigation has your fingers in it?"

She sighed. "You."

I folded up the dish towel I had been using. "Mind saying that again? I had the oddest idea that you just said 'you.' Meaning me."

"That's right."

"Why?"

Another big sigh. "I don't know, Lewis. All I know is that the Secret Service wants to talk to you about the shooting. They came to me, asked me if I knew you. When I said yes... well, here's the deal... "

I took the folded towel, wiped down an already clean kitchen counter. "They asked you to bring me in. Right?"

"Right."

"All right. What's the deal? You want me to meet you at the police station?"

"Urn, no ... "

Then I got it. "Where are you? Up the hill, at the parking lot?"

“Yeah.''

"Okay. I'll be up there in a minute."

I hung up the phone, thought about making a phone call, but to whom? Annie? Her law firm? Felix?

No, nobody, not now.

I went out of the kitchen to the entranceway and grabbed a coat, and then went out the door and trudged my way up to the Lafayette House's parking lot.

There Diane was waiting for me, standing next to an unmarked Tyler police cruiser, a dark blue Ford LTD with a whip antenna, engine burbling in the cold morning air. She was bundled up in a short leather coat with a cloth collar and dark slacks. I stood there and she said, "Sorry."

"No, it's okay. If I'm being brought in, would rather it be done by a friend."

She got in the front seat and I walked around and joined her.

As in all cop cars, the upholstery was heavy-duty plastic and there was a police radio slung under the dashboard. She picked up the microphone and said, "Dispatch, D-one, coming in."

"All right, D-one."

She tossed the microphone back in its cradle, shifted the cruiser into drive, and in a matter of seconds, we were on Atlantic Avenue, heading south. Six months earlier or six months from now, the roadway would be packed, each parking space would be filled, and the sands of Tyler Beach would be packed with almost as many people who were set to vote here the following week.

But this was January. The road was nearly empty, and the temperature inside the car seemed to match the temperature outside.

After a few minutes I said, "Anything else you want to say?"

She looked troubled. "No, I'm afraid not."

"You know why the Secret Service wants to talk to me?"

"No," she said.

I stayed quiet for a little bit, and said, 'Well, didn't you ask them?"

She turned to me for a quick second, exasperated. "Hell, yes, Lewis. I asked them. Over and over again. And all I got was polite and federal push back. The attempt on the senator's life is a matter for the Secret Service, and the state police are assisting. I've been told by my own chief to cooperate, and that's what I'm doing. Getting your cheerful butt from your house to the station with a minimum of fuss. All right?"

I thought for a moment and said, "The Secret Service has already talked to me. Two days ago."

"Really?"

"Truly," I said. "Came by on what he called a routine check. Thing is, I seem to be on a list of 'persons of interest,' to be interviewed before the arrival of a president or presidential candidate. He came by, made sure I didn't have a bomb factory in the cellar, and left. Ten, fifteen-minute visit, tops."

Diane said, "Might be a routine visit then. Just to check your name off a list."

"Sure," I said. "Routine."

"Routine," she repeated, and as we pulled into the police station's parking lot, I was sure that neither of us believed that at all.

Chapter Four

At the Tyler police station, she parked in the rear of the fenced-in parking lot, reserved for police and other official vehicles, and she led me through the back door, where the on-duty dispatcher buzzed open the rear inner door after seeing Diane through a closed-circuit television. The building was the usual one-story concrete style of decades earlier, and one of these days, if the chief could convince three-fifths of the eligible voters in Tyler, he would get a new station built nearby.

Sure. One of these days.

We went through the booking room, past the empty holding cells, and through an open door marked INTERVIEW. A tired looking man with wavy black hair in a fine dark gray suit was sitting there. He stood up when Diane and I entered. There was a battered conference room table and four chairs, and the usual one-way glass mirror on the near wall. Diane reached over, squeezed my hand. "See you later, Lewis."

"Sure, Diane."

"Thank you, Detective," the man said in a quiet and firm voice. "Please close the door on your way out, will you?"

She said nothing, but did as she was requested. I sat down. The man said, "Mr. Cole, I'm Glen Reynolds, Secret Service."

"Nice to meet you."

"Sure," he said, opening up a file folder. No hand was offered, and I wasn't offended. I had an idea of where this was going.

"Mr. Cole, I'm looking for your cooperation."

"All right."

"You can imagine what we're up to, trying to determine who shot at Senator Hale yesterday, and why."

"Yeah."

"So I'm going to ask you a series of questions. All right?"

I looked behind him, at the mirrored glass. I wondered how many people were back there watching us, and how many recording devices were listening to us.

"Sure. That'd be fine."

He grinned. "Nice to have a cooperative witness, for once in my life. All right. Mr. Cole, were you at the campaign rally yesterday for Senator Hale?"

"I was."

"And why were you there?"

"As a favor."

"For whom?"

I gave him points for grammatical precision and said, "A lady friend. Who works for the senator's campaign."

That brought a knowing nod from him. "Right. One Annie Wynn of Boston, Massachusetts. So. You have no particular political interest in the senator or his political positions."

"Not particularly."

That brought a smile. "If you're a New Hampshire resident who doesn't have much interest in politics, then you're one of the few I've met in my time here."