Primary Storm Page 10

  I turned and went back into the Lafayette House.

  Chapter Eight

  Into the gift shop I went, and Stephanie was waiting on a couple that spoke English with a heavy German accent, and I wondered what would bring someone from Europe to my little corner of New Hampshire in the middle of winter. When they left I went up to Stephanie and she raised an eyebrow at my approach.

  "Drop your newspapers in the ocean already?"

  "Nope. Not yet. German tourists?"

  "I wish. Belong to some German television network. Here for our quadrennial circus. If you think local news media are goddamn divas, try those from Europe. Who the hell ever heard of copies of Der Spiegel ending up in a gift shop like this? Jesus ... So. What's up?"

  "Wondering if I could ask you a question."

  "Sure."

  "Who's the manager nowadays?"

  "Paul Jeter."

  "What's he like?"

  "Truthfully?"

  "Yeah. Truthfully."

  She smiled. "Truthfully, he's a prick."

  "Please, Stephanie, don't sugarcoat it."

  "Well, that's how it is. Don't know any way around it. Used to be, under the old management, how this shop was run was mostly my business. If I made a nice little profit each month and there were no complaints from the customers, then I was doing all right and I could be left alone. Now ... don't get me going. Some days, I think that man counts the number of toilet sheets in each stall just to keep track for tracking's sake and nothing else."

  "Think I could talk to him?"

  "Sure," she said. "For a prick he's open to seeing people. But, Lewis ... don't confuse being seen with being helped."

  I thanked her and went to the main desk at the lobby, asked a perky female clerk if I could see Paul Jeter, and in a few minutes, I was ushered into his office, on the same floor and with a stunning view of the side parking lot and assorted Dumpsters. I guess hotel management wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Jeter was about my age, heavyset, wearing a dark gray suit, white shirt, and dark gray tie. He had the look in his eyes of the kind of guy who couldn't walk past a mirror without checking his appearance. I passed over my business card, identifying me as a columnist for Shoreline, and he passed the card back.

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Cole?"

  "I was hoping for a favor from a neighbor."

  "A neighbor?"

  "Yes, I live across the street. At the old lifeboat station."

  His eyebrow lifted just a bit. "Ah, yes, the writer. The one we allow to use our parking lot as an entry to his house."

  "That's right."

  "And what kind of favor would you like? Free towels? Free hotel room? Gift certificate to the restaurant?"

  So far, Stephanie had been dead on in her description. Not that I had doubted her. I was just being hopeful.

  "Nothing like that. I've heard that the past month or so, there's been a series of break-ins among guest cars across the way."

  He seemed to take that in for a moment, and said, "If one has a large number of cars, there will always be some incidents of vandalism or theft. That's just normal. Why do you ask? Do you know anything about who might be breaking in?"

  "No, I don't."

  'Well ... no offense, what do you know then, Mr. Cole?"

  "I've heard that the hotel might have set up a camera surveillance system in the parking lot. To see who might be doing the break-ins."

  Jeter shifted just a bit in his seat, enough to make the leather creak. His already chilly mood cooled even more. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. And what's the favor?"

  It was my turn to be a bit cool. "The favor is ... somebody came to my house this morning. I'd like to know who it was."

  "Did the person break in? Commit some other offense?"

  "He didn't break in. But in a manner of speaking, yes, he did commit an offense." Well, that was certainly one way of putting it.

  He folded his hands across his chest. "Then I suggest you contact the police. If they are interested in what kind of surveillance system the Lafayette House mayor may not have, then I'll have my lawyer talk to them."

  I leaned forward a bit "You see, that's where the thought of doing a favor comes in. I don't want to involve the police."

  "No police. I see. But you'd rather involve the hotel in whatever you're trying to prove involving your visitor this morning. Thereby opening up the Lafayette House to certain legal liabilities. And I don't see why we should do that."

  "All I want to do is look at the surveillance tape from this morning. That's all."

  There was the shortest shake of the head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, I'm forced to decline. While, of course, neither confirming nor denying that such a surveillance system exists."

  "I see. So much for being neighborly."

  The cool factor seemed to be enhanced by another ten degree drop in temperature.

  "Neighborly is allowing you to continue using the Lafayette House parking lot as a gateway to your driveway. Not being neighborly would be putting up a concrete berm at that end of our lot. Catch the difference?"

  It was time to leave, so I stood up and said, "Difference caught."

  In the lobby of the Lafayette House, I was ambushed by a guy with a familiar face. Chuck Bittner of the Tucker Grayson for President campaign stood in front of me and said, "Mr. Cole. Please. Just five minutes. That's all I ask."

  I wasn't in the mood but I was also tired of being stalked by him, and with the primary just a few days out, defusing him now might save me some aggravation later on.

  If I was lucky, but Lady Luck seemed to have been taking a vacation lately.

  "Five minutes," I said. "Three hundred seconds. Make them count."

  We sat in a secluded corner of the lobby, in nice, comfortable chairs, and he leaned across a glass-topped coffee table and said, "You're a New Hampshire resident, so I won't insult you by asking if you know anything about General Grayson and his career. We've been publicizing his career very heavily these past few months."

  "Career United States Army, former head of NATO, roving ambassador to the Mideast and Southeast Asia, or wherever else the current administration believes a firestorm can be snuffed out by his charming presence."

  "Very good." He suddenly smiled, which I found disquieting for some reason. "There are those who hate your little state, hate the fact that it has such impact every four years. Every four years, the same arguments. Your state is too rural. Your state is too white. Your state is too rich. So forth and so on. But you know what? Your state takes its presidential primary role seriously. That's what I love. Retail politics, right on the ground. Candidates forced to think on their feet in living rooms and town halls, to answer questions from real voters. Quite refreshing. Suppose we gave the first-in-the-nation primary to Michigan or Ohio or California. What then?"

  I said, "Might give us a break from all the attention and accompanying nonsense. Like dozens of phone calls every day, mailboxes filled with flyers. That sort of thing. Though I'd imagine the restaurant and hotel owners might complain."

  "Maybe so," he said. "But a campaign that would start anywhere else but New Hampshire wouldn't be a true campaign, a true way of sorting out the best candidate possible by going to the people. It would be an airport tarmac and television studio campaign, that's what. And the only way the average voter would meet a candidate, or vice versa, would be through a television screen."

  I said, "You're using up your precious three hundred seconds, Mr. Bittner."

  He nodded. "I'm former U.S. Navy. Tend to get into briefing mode, and it takes me away from the point sometimes. So let me tell you this. You're an educated voter. You're a resident of this state. You have an important background."

  "What kind of background?"

  He looked about the lobby and lowered his voice. "Your time in the Pentagon. In the Department of Defense. In a little research group that you and your fellow people called the Marginal Issues Section. Researching and analyzing issues that fell through the crack
s from the bigger boys in national intelligence."

  I said not a word. The bastard had gotten places so very few had ever done. He seemed to note the look on my face and said, "You, more than many others, know what kind of president we need for this country, Mr. Cole. Someone who won't rely on paper treaties, won't rely on world organizations, won't rely on the supposed good nature of our adversaries. We need somebody with sharp elbows, who doesn't mind trusting as long as it's matched with verifying, and who's had experience making life-and-death decisions. In short, this country needs General Grayson."

  I cleared my throat. "So far, it seems the majority of voters in Iowa and probably New Hampshire would disagree with that assessment."

  "Perhaps, but that assessment can change. The right words from you, a former research analyst with the Department of Defense, who has, shall we say, an intimate familiarity with the senator and his campaign, could go a long way to taking the steam out of the Senator Hale campaign. And boost General Grayson's chances of making a respectable showing."

  Out in the lobby there was a flare of light, and I looked over, saw a well-known television correspondent from one of the major networks doing a stand-up. He was wearing a suit coat, tie, and dirty blue jeans and wet boots. But who cared? The camera would only capture his serious tone and nature from the waist up.

  I turned back to my inquisitor. "You seem to forget that a few days ago, I was the leading suspect in the attempted assassination of Senator Hale. Anything else I might say would probably be seen as the ravings of someone with a grudge against the senator."

  A chilly smile. "So what? It means publicity, bad publicity for the senator, and a chance for you to contribute something to this country again."

  Suddenly I stood up, my legs trembling, and I pulled up my coat and shirt to reveal a scar on the side of my abdomen. "I have five others like this on my body, and the chances of more appearing in the future, thanks to something that happened to me while in service of my country. I've already done my part. Don't ask me again. You and your general will have to do it on your own."

  I stalked out, with Bittner calling after me, "We can still make a fuss, Cole, with or without you! It's your choice!"

  I went out of the Lafayette House, fists clenched, trying to forget Bittner and trying to focus on my original intent in revisiting the damn place.

  I stopped for a moment, looked up at the elaborate design of the building, a Victorian appearance from the times of the grand hotels at the turn of the twentieth century. I examined the windows, turrets, and moldings, looking for some telltale sign of some sort of recording device, and then I gave up. Surveillance cameras were no longer the big, bulky units that looked like they came from a 1960s science fiction movie. They could now be the size of one's thumb --- or even smaller --- and there were so many different places to hide them, up there in that elaborate building design.

  Of course, allowing for the fact that they even existed, a particular fact that the hotel's manager was in no rush to confirm.

  My hands went back into my coat pockets. The wind was coming up from the ocean at a stiff clip, and I walked away from the lobby entrance, across the bare pavement of Atlantic Avenue, and made my way through the parking lot again. As a joke, I counted the number of bumper stickers on the cars at rest in the lot. There were two for Senator Jackson Hale, five for Senator Nash Pomeroy, and one for General Tucker Grayson.

  There was none for Congressman Clive Wallace. Most of the good congressman's voters and supporters didn't have the financial means to spend a night at the Lafayette House, which didn't mean much, since neither did 1.

  At home I hesitated outside my front door. There was a disturbance in the snow where Spenser Harris had rested, and where Felix and I had worked to get him bundled up and out of here. I went up to the stone foundation and the dark gray clapboards of my house. They were clean of any blood spatter, brain tissue, bone fragments, and clumps of hair. The mess had all been in the snow where he had lain, and Felix had taken care of that. A nice small gift. I stood up, breathed in hard. I guess I should have been thankful for small favors, but my thankfulness quotient was pretty damn low.

  I went inside, glad to be inside and away from my front lawn. The day dragged by and as it got dark, I was thinking of dinner ---- which usually meant rummaging through the pantry and the freezer to see what was available --- when the phone rang. I almost ignored the damn ringing, for it would probably mean a poll, yet another inquiring reporter, or the charming Chuck Bittner from the Tucker Grayson campaign.

  I went to the phone and picked it up. Damn, it wasn't time yet to cower here.

  "Hello."

  "Good evening, sir," came a familiar female voice. "Was wondering if you had time for a brief survey."

  "Sure," I said, sitting down on the couch. "Yes, yes, no, yes, and briefs."

  Annie laughed. "Just what I was looking for. How are you doing?"

  Hell of a question, considering what had gone on that morning, and I told her the truth. Or at least part of it.

  "I'm doing fine. And you?"

  "Great. Look ... I was hoping I could combine my two passions tonight. Interested?"

  I looked out the window, into the darkness. "Go on. You've definitely got my interest."

  She took a breath. "Before I get into that I just want to say I ... I felt bad, the way our last talk went. I ... I just want to go on with you, my dear one, all right? Just go on, don't bitch and moan about the past or whatever you did or didn't do with the senator's wife back in college. So I want to focus my attention on two passions, you and this damn campaign, and I've come up with a way to balance both."

  "Quite a job. Maybe I should call the campaign manager, give him a glowing review. If that'd help."

  "Hah. Who knows. All right, here's the deal. Senator Hale is holding a private reception, up in Wallis, with some of his money people tonight. Free food, free booze. You and I get a chance to eat something nice, maybe chat and grope each other in a deserted corner ... and you get to see the senator up close. Lewis ... I'm working so hard to help him become the next president. It's important to me ... and I want you to see why."

  I cleared my throat. "The news media will make this a horrible circus, you know. The senator's alleged assassin, perhaps coming back for another round. Have you thought about that?"

  She laughed. "Of course, silly. Which is why this reception is going to work. It's media free, and I've already cleared it with the higher-ups. Your name will be on the list. What do you say? Dinner, drinks, a talk with the next president of the United States, and if you're really, really lucky, I'll come back to your place for some constituent outreach. Just show me you care by staying away from his damn wife."

  I looked out the window again, at the rise of land that went up to Atlantic Avenue and blocked the view of the Lafayette House. I couldn't see the hotel but I could see the glow of light that represented its presence, in all its high-priced glory. I wanted to be up there tonight, doing illegal things, but important things, to see if the damn place had what I needed to find out why and how Harris had ended up dead in my front yard.

  I needed to be up there tonight. Had to. The phone receiver was still in my hand. But there were other needs as well.

  "Sure, I'll be there," I said. "I'd love to."

  Chapter Nine

  Which is how two hours later, freshly showered and dressed in clothing that included one of my three neckties, I found myself driving up to one of the mansions that are scattered along the shores of Wallis, two towns north of Tyler Beach. While Tyler Beach is all cottages and condos and hotels and restaurants and nightclubs and T-shirt and souvenir stores, its sister town to the north ---- called in a burst of imagination some decades ago North Tyler --- is like a junior partner, with a couple of state parks, some cottages, no hotels, and few stores and restaurants.

  And to the north yet again, in some sort of example of declining sprawl and increased property values, was the town of Wallis. Along this parti
cular stretch that I drove, the home values started in the low millions and worked their way up with each passing mile, and the homes were set back a way from the rocky shores, with long driveways flanked by stone and metal gates.

  In other words, it's about a fifteen-minute drive from a booth that sells fried dough to Massachusetts tourists to a home whose owners had probably never touched a piece of fried dough in their lives. Sometimes quite a shock to the system to those who, for the first time, drive the coastal route along my fair state.

  I turned into a driveway that was reached by going through an open gate supported by two stone columns, each with a brass numeral 7 set in the stone. On either side of the gates were Wallis police officers, providing crowd and traffic control, and a small knot of reporters and supporters from the Hale campaign and the other campaigns as well, waving signs and banners at one another. I was processed forward and about fifty feet up into the driveway, I ran into a more formal checkpoint. Smart work. That way, traffic wasn't backed up on Atlantic Avenue from the arriving guests, such as we were.

  The checkpoint was manned by a uniformed Wallis cop ---no doubt on paid detail --- and a Hale campaign rep, a young man who checked my name on the clipboard. There were portable lights set up on a pole and a kerosene heater at their feet.

  "Cole, Lewis Cole," he said, shivering a bit in the cold, holding a clipboard in one gloved hand, holding a small flashlight in the other. "Yep, you're on the list."

  "Thanks."

  "Hey ---- quick question, if you don't mind. You're not the Cole who was arrested a few days ago, are you?"

  I decided the truth wasn't in my favor. "Nope. That was my evil twin."

  "Oh." I guess the guy wanted to ask me more questions, but headlights were appearing behind me, so I kept on driving.

  Up ahead, the driveway curved to the left and I parked among a host of other high-powered, high-priced SUVs to the side of an expansive two-story brick home with black shutters and a white-columned entrance. One vehicle was parked right near the door, a black Jaguar XJ8 with vanity plates: WHTKER. Based on the parking lot population, I guessed the topic tonight wouldn't be alternate energy sources or our never-ending reliance on Middle East oil. Outside it was bitterly cold. Inside, I was glad to be someplace where the cold didn't make my nostrils seize up, and I dumped my winter parka on a long counter in a foyer that was serving as a coat check.