Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  Kindle edition Copyright 2014 by Brendan DuBois.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All Rights Reserved.

  PRIMARY STORM: The Special Edition

  A Lewis Cole Mystery

  By

  Brendan DuBois

  To Jeannette Pinette, Paul Pinette, and the memory of Roland Pinette

  Qui habitent dans les montages et dans mon coeur.

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to express his thanks and appreciation to his wife, Mona Pinette, for her sure touch as an editor’ to his St. Martin’s Press editor Ruth Cavin, and her assistant, Toni Plummer; and to his agent, Liza Dawson. Special thanks as well to the dedicated staff at both the Stratham-Newfields Veterinary Hospital of Newfields, New Hampshire, and the Harvest Hills Animal Shelter of Fryeburg, Maine. And thanks, too, to those members of the news media and political campaigns who bring a special sort of madness to my home state every four years.

  Forward

  Welcome to this, my sixth novel in my Lewis Cole mystery series, and in some way, the most personal. Often I’m asked what I have to do in terms of research to write a book, and while I’ve done considerable research in my other works, such is not the case here. For having lived in New Hampshire all my life, the research for PRIMARY STORM was just living here every four years, when the New Hampshire primary kicks in. The mention of the campaign signs, rallies, endless phone calls and mailboxes stuffed with campaign literature is not exaggerated one bit in this novel.

  It may not be fair, and may not make real sense, but I and so many others in my quirky home state take pride in hosting the first in the nation’s presidential primary. True, we’re not typical when it comes to demographics or income, but we take our responsibility very, very seriously. We listen to the candidates, we attend campaign rallies, and unlike the bigger states, we force them to answer our questions. There’s an old joke that says something to the effect of a reporter asking a resident if he intended to vote for a certain candidate. The answer: “I don’t know. I’ve only met him three or four times.”

  True, we’re spoiled. And we know it. And when I was a newspaper reporter during the 1984 primary, I knew just how spoiled we journalists were. Senator Alan Cranston is in town. Would you like a one-on-one conversation with him? Sure. Senator Gary Hart will be in town tomorrow morning. Would you like to have breakfast with him? Absolutely. Governor Reuben Askew would like to share some conversation time with you. Why not?

  In fact, the only candidate who didn’t approach me and my little newspaper at the time was Vice President Walter Mondale, who later got stomped hard when the votes were finally cast in the primary, being defeated by Senator Hart.

  Guess you should have stopped by, eh, Walter?

  Chapter One

  Two days before I was arrested for attempted murder, I was driving down the snow-covered collection of ruts that mark my driveway when I spotted the man standing outside my home on Tyler Beach, New Hampshire. To get to my driveway, one has to pass through the parking lot of the Lafayette House, a huge Victorian style hotel set on the opposite side of Atlantic Avenue, and past the odd collection of SUVs and luxury vehicles that belong to guests at the hotel. The past month or so had seen a rash of break-ins among the guests' parked vehicles, but I didn't see any broken glass as I drove through the lot, so maybe the forces of light were winning over the forces of darkness, or at least, the forces of vandalism.

  What I did eventually see was my unanticipated visitor. The man standing at the doorway did not seem to be a hotel guest; there was no apparent luggage in sight. He was in his early thirties, slim, wearing a dark gray heavy coat that reached mid-thigh, dark pants, and some sort of sensible winter shoe. He looked at me and I looked at him as I pulled into the unattached shed that served as a garage, right next to my home.

  I gathered up my mail --- retrieved a while ago from my PO box at the Tyler post office --- and got out of my Ford Explorer, knowing I would probably have to go back to town later in the day to take care of a forgotten errand at my local bank. Outside, the cold salt air felt refreshing, but I didn't like the look of the guy as I approached him. He had sharp hunter's eyes, and his black hair was cut close and trim, and looked perfect, like it had been trimmed by someone who charged three figures for a haircut. Up close, I could see that he was wearing a blue striped shirt and a red necktie underneath the long coat. There was a light snow falling from the gray sky.

  "Lewis Cole?" he asked.

  "That's right," I said. "What can I do for you?"

  He said, ''1' d like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

  Being the middle of January, it was cold, and I wondered how long my visitor had been waiting for me outside. "Sorry, I do mind."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, I'm sorry, I do mind. I don't know you, and I don't know why I should answer your questions."

  He nodded. "A good point. My apologies."

  He reached into his coat pocket, took out a thin leather wallet, and flipped it open. As I looked at his photo and the cardboard identification slip and the nice shiny badge, the man decided to be redundant and announce himself.

  "Mr. Cole, the name is Spenser Harris. And I'm an agent with the Secret Service, from the Boston office."

  I looked up to his sharp face. "All right," I said. "I guess I don't mind after all. Let's get inside."

  "Thanks."

  I unlocked the door, kicked the snow off my boots, and went inside. Before me was a closet and closed door that led to a small cellar, flanked by a stairway that aimed up to the second floor. To the left was the small living room and sliding glass doors for the rear deck. Next to the sliding glass doors was a tiny kitchen that had a nice view of the Atlantic Ocean. Most every room in my house was described as being small, which happens when one's house is more than a hundred years old and once was a lifeboat station that rescued mariners on their way in and out of Porter Harbor, just up the coast.

  I tossed the mail on the couch and followed it up by my coat, and looked over at my guest, standing there, slim and polite. I said, "Curious to know why the Secret Service is visiting here today."

  "Strictly routine," he said, offering me a smile that said the visit was anything but. He started unbuttoning his clean coat and said, "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Go right ahead."

  Any other guest I would have offered tea or coffee or some other liquid refreshment, but I didn't like the look of Agent Harris, and I didn't like the way he had barged in on my day, standing out there like that. He could have easily called me to make an appointment, away from my house, like at a coffee shop or something. Instead, he had stood outside in the cold January weather, knowing I'd be back soon. Which meant some sort of surveillance, which meant some sort of effort on the Secret Service's part, which meant this visit wasn't routine, no matter his cheery nature.

  From his coat he took out a small notebook, flipped it open with an experienced toss of the wrist, and said, "Mr. Cole, in just over a week, the New Hampshire primary will take place."

  "As a resident of New Hampshire, I don't think I need the reminder."

  "I'm sure," he said. "And part of our duties within the Secret Service is to do a threat assessment of the area whenever prominent candidates come by to make an appearance. For example, tomorrow Senator Jackson Hale will be stopping by the Tyler Conference Center."

  "So I've heard."

  "And my job is to interview those people who appear on our list of... well, people we're intereste
d in."

  This was becoming fascinating. I eyed him and said, "Are you telling me that the Secret Service considers me a threat?"

  "Not at all," he said, protesting just a bit too much. "It's just that we have a list of people who have come to our attention over the years. Most of the time, it's just cranks. Guys who tend to hate anything and everything. Guys who've been overheard at bars making threats against prominent candidates. There are also a couple of high school students on the list as well, who've written e-mails threatening to kill the president. Unfortunately for them, they're going to get visited every few years if they come within a certain distance of the president or a presidential candidate."

  "And how did I come to appear on your little list?"

  "Something about your background, Mr. Cole."

  "I'm sure," I said. "But I've been a resident of New Hampshire for a number of years. Why now?"

  He shrugged. "I gather that we've been tasked to be more wide-ranging and thorough in our reviews. Now, from the records I've reviewed, I see that you used to be with the Department of Defense. Correct?"

  "Yes."

  "You were a research analyst with a little-known intelligence interpretation group within the department."

  "Also correct."

  "Now," he said, shifting his weight on my couch, "this is where it gets a bit interesting. According to the records we've been able to review, you left this group under ... under questionable circumstances. And being with the Department of the Treasury, we were also able to ascertain that you receive a monthly compensation payment from a certain disbursement fund within the Department of Defense. It appears that for a number of years, even with your position as a columnist for Shoreline magazine, that you have received a healthy payment from the government."

  I looked at Agent Harris and wondered if I should boost the thermostat up a notch, for there was a wicked wind coming off the Atlantic, finding its way through some odd nooks and crannies by the sliding glass doors.

  I kept on looking at him.

  “Well?" he asked.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't hear your reply."

  "Oh," I said. "I'm equally sorry. I didn't hear a question."

  There was a tiny bit of a struggle on that composed face, and

  I wasn't sure if I had angered him or humored him, but he pressed on and said, "I guess I'm just asking you to confirm what I've just said."

  Well, there you go. Aloud I said, ''I'm sorry, when I left the employ of the Department of Defense, I signed a standard nondisclosure form. I have nothing to say."

  "Can you tell me why you left the Department of Defense, Mr. Cole?"

  "No, I cannot."

  "Can you tell me if your departure had anything to do with your mental state or capacity?"

  I was going to say something rude and sarcastic about that question, but thought better of it. Open that door, just a tiny bit, and Agent Harris could slip in and raise merry hell for the rest of the day, poking and probing. I was going to have none of that. So I said, "I'm sorry, I can't say anything more than what I just said."

  "Can you tell me if your experiences in the Department of Defense have left you angry? Bitter? Holding a grudge?"

  "Yes, yes, no," I said. "Clear enough for you?"

  "Not really."

  "But it'll have to do. I'm sorry."

  A flip of the page. "Do you have any opinions about Senator Hale?"

  I shrugged. "Last I checked, he's one of four candidates for his party's nomination. Having won the Iowa caucuses, he might be unbeatable if he were to win in New Hampshire."

  "Excuse me, Mr. Cole, but that's not an opinion. That's a news report."

  "Maybe so, but my opinions I keep to myself." A tiny bit of a smile.

  "Good for you then."

  "Are we almost done?"

  "Almost."

  "I believe that you are... let's say romantically involved with a member of Senator Hale's campaign staff. Correct?"

  "Partially correct," I said. "She's a volunteer. She's not a member of his paid staff. That I know of."

  "But you and a... Miss Annie Wynn have been together now for a few months. True?"

  "Also true, and none of your damn business."

  "Have you attended any of Senator Hale's political functions in the past?"

  "Nope."

  "Do you plan to attend the rally tomorrow?"

  "Depends," I said.

  "And what might that depend on?"

  I looked him squarely in the eye. "It depends on whether my attendance there will improve my chances of later wining, dining, and bedding his fair campaign aide."

  That brought a smile. He closed the notebook. "Very good, Mr. Cole."

  I walked him outside and by then, he had transformed himself from Chilly Secret Service Agent to Tired Guy with Lots of Work to Do. He said, "Sorry about being so inquisitive and such, but in these times, it's better to look at things more closely than have something slip by. There's a list and each name on that list has to be checked off by an agent who's juggling lots of cases. For every ninety-nine interviews like yours, we'll get one where a guy is sitting in his living room with a dozen dogs in the house, piles of pizza boxes on the floor, pictures of the candidate plastered on the walls, and an AK-47 across his lap."

  "Seen any AK-47s lately?"

  "It certainly isn't for lack of trying," he said. Outside he rebuttoned his coat, shivered. It was now dark. It got dark early in New Hampshire in January, a law of nature, but it didn't mean it was a law I particularly liked. The falling snow had stopped but no doubt it would return the next day, next week, and next month.

  Agent Harris said, "In these particular times, you really have to make the extra effort to nail everything down. One missed appointment, one follow-up you don't make... well, if that guy shows up with a bow and arrow at a campaign appearance, and it could have been prevented by you, it's a hell of a thing."

  "I can imagine."

  "Sure. The news coverage alone would send you to a field office in Nome... but on days like this, Nome seems a hell of a lot warmer."

  "Been here before?"

  "Sure. Primary season, four years ago. When all the candidates, news media, and assorted hangers-on and campaign staff bustle around your fair state, the Secret Service follows."

  "Sounds like the guy whose job at the circus is to follow the elephants with a broom and big shovel."

  That got a laugh from him as he turned to me and said, “Thanks again for your cooperation."

  "Not a problem. Are we done?"

  Even in the poor light coming from my house, I could make out the smile on his otherwise serious face. "Sure we're done. Just don't write any threatening letters with crayon and grocery bag paper, and we won't ever see you again."

  "It's a deal."

  One brief handshake later, he trudged up the hill to the parking lot, and I watched him until he was out of sight. I shivered from the cold, walked into the house, stamped off snow from my boots, and went inside, shaking my head at what had just happened. Poorly run job, if this was what passed as Secret Service agents nowadays.

  For I had a connection to the fair senator, a rather intimate connection, and I was surprised that the Secret Service agent hadn't called me on it.

  But surprises and the thought of surprises could wait. It was time for dinner, and a special guest. My planned trip to the bank would have to wait. I turned on the outside lights for my guest, and went to work.

  I went to the stove and began with the basic bachelor cooking technique, i.e., boiling water, and started two pots, one large, the other small. When they had boiled long enough and hard enough, I went into the refrigerator and took out a small paper bag, nestled within a plastic bag, secured earlier this day on a shopping expedition. I opened the bag and carefully reached in twice, pulling out two pound-and-a-half lobsters.

  Saying, "Sorry about that, guys," I tossed them into the water and put the cover on the larger pot. There was a fai
nt clatter and then silence.

  With the other, smaller pot boiling merrily along, I threw in some fettuccine noodles and set the timer. About ten minutes to go, which gave me time to microwave an Alfredo sauce I had made that morning, and to wash and tear some chunks of romaine lettuce. When the simple salads were complete, the lobsters were done and I pulled them out of the pot with a set of metal tongs.

  There was a sound at the door. I turned, one steaming red lobster held in my hand, water dripping on my kitchen floor.

  A redheaded woman came into the kitchen, wearing black slacks, small winter boots, and a heavy red cloth jacket, which she was shrugging out of as she came up to me. She dropped a leather purse and a soft black leather overnight bag on the floor. A quick kiss and Annie Wynn said, "Honey, I'm home."

  "That you are," I said. "Thanks for coming back on time."

  "You're welcome."

  "Hungry?" I asked.

  "Starved."

  "Good. Earn your keep, why don't you, and set the table." That earned me a swat on the rump, and she grabbed some silverware and dishware as I cracked open the lobster, washed the meat in the sink, and cut it up in small pieces. The fettuccine was done, which meant a trip to the strainer, and in a minute or two, we were at the bar side of the kitchen countertop, sharing the dinner, and a bottle of Australian pinot noir as well.

  "How's things with you?" I asked.

  "Great."

  "Really?"

  She shrugged. "Most of the people at Hale headquarters are eating two-day-old pizza. I, on the other hand, told my coworkers that I had a man waiting for me, a man waiting to cook me dinner. Be thankful I got out of Manchester in time."

  "Thankful I am. How goes the campaign?"

  "It goes," she said. "It goes. I've been doing a lot of phone work, trying to winnow out a list of campaign contributors here in the state that have yet to pull out their checkbooks or bank account for the good of the party."

  "Are you good at taking money away from citizens?"