Primary Storm (13 page)

"His body hadn't gone into rigor yet," Felix said. "Figure he's been dead only an hour or so. That sound right?"

"Yes, it does. I was out at the Lafayette House, getting my morning newspapers. I was out maybe fifteen, twenty minutes at the most."

"Any idea who did it?"

"Not a one."

We went over the drawbridge spanning the small harbor of Tyler Beach. Off to the right were the concrete buildings of the Falconer nuclear power plant, quietly producing power, with nary a protester in sight. We were in Falconer for about a minute or two, and then we were in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, in its northernmost community of Salisbury. For some reason I turned again and looked back at the body bag.

Felix said, "Any idea why this guy was killed on your front lawn?"

I turned back. The body bag hadn't moved a bit.

I said, "Have an idea or two. Main idea is ... well, I think whoever did it wanted me to take the fall for trying to kill Senator Hale. When that didn't stick, they wanted another try by dumping Spenser Harris's body in my front yard."

In Salisbury, Felix maneuvered the Pilot through its nearly empty streets. "For what reason? If they wanted you to get arrested for Harris's death, why not keep an eye on the place and make a phone call when you arrive?"

I folded my arms. "They were probably counting on my civic duty. A phone call to the cops, the arrival of the cops and the state police Major Crimes Unit, followed by another media circus, all just before the New Hampshire primary."

"Then why didn't you do your civic duty, Lewis?"

"What?"

Felix said, "You're one of the more civic guys I know. Any other guy found a body in his yard, the call would go to the cops. Especially since you have such a fine relationship with the local constabulary's lead detective. So why no call?"

I said, "You can probably figure it out."

Felix grinned. "Women. Aren't they something? If this dump was from opponents of Senator Hale, wanting to give him another bucketful of bad publicity just before the primary, then you didn't want to give them that publicity, did you? All for your girl Annie."

I sighed. "That's as good a guess as any."

"Works for me."

I turned to him. "I suppose if the Pomeroy campaign was up to something nefarious like this, you'd let me know."

Felix laughed. "From what I know of the Pomeroy campaign, Lewis, they couldn't spell 'nefarious,' never mind knowing what it means."

Now we were in an industrial part of Salisbury, near 1-95, and the buildings were one-story concrete and brick structures --- printing plants, small businesses --- and, there, just ahead, a barbwire enclosure, a self-storage business called, aptly enough, the Space Station.

The gate was open and Felix drove in and went down one of the open lanes to the right, flanked on both sides by one-story buildings with roll-up steel doors. At the end of the building on the right, the doors were big enough to let a vehicle pass through, Felix stopped the Pilot at the stall at the end of the lane. He got out, undid the combination lock at the side of the door, and rolled it up. He flicked on the interior lights for the now open storage unit and got back inside.

"Where did you get the Pilot?"

"A business associate. Let's leave it at that."

"Some business associate."

Felix slowly backed the Honda into the storage room. "Didn't think I could use my Mercedes. And I didn't want to use your Ford. And when we're done with the Pilot, it's going to get steam-cleaned and detailed. Just to be on the safe side, which is a side I love being on. Come on, we've still got work to do."

We both got out on the concrete floor of the storage room, and Felix went to the entrance and lowered the steel door. It was now quiet and it felt good to be inside with the door closed, away from any curious neighbors. I followed Felix as he went forward. There were storage lockers on both sides and, at the end, a large top-opening refrigerator. He propped open the cover to the refrigerator and said, "He'll fit."

"How come I get the feeling you've done this before?"

While there was humor in his voice, there was no humor in his expression. "Don't make me answer dangerous questions, Lewis. Deniability is a wonderful gift."

Back to the Pilot we went, and up went the rear hatch. Felix reached in said, "I want to open up the bag for a moment and examine our guest."

"I'm not going to stop you, so go right ahead."

The interior was roomy enough so that Felix knelt down and opened the bag up, the zipper sounding better here than at my house. He worked for a while, his hands busy inside the bag and the clothing of the dead man, and he looked at me, his face impassive. "Dead people are hard to work with. Frozen, not moving, resisting."

"Yeah, well, we've all got problems."

"At least we're doing better than your friend here."

"Not my friend."

"If you say so."

He worked for a couple of minutes more and said, "Lewis, he's been cleaned up. No driver's license, no money, not even a scrap of paper. Very professional."

I thought about a promise I had made the day before to the very real Secret Service agent Glen Reynolds. I had promised to let him know if I found out the man's true identity. So far, I hadn't, so at least that was a promise I could keep.

"Thanks for looking," I said. "Can we get this wrapped up?"

"Sure."

The zipper went shut and Felix came back out and started pulling at the body bag, and I followed suit. A few steps later, the body of Spenser Harris went into the refrigerator, and the lid shut down.

Felix looked at me. "You okay?"

"Sure am. Could use a drink, though."

He smiled. "Damn it, man, it's not even ten in the morning."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugged. "Not a damn thing. Let's go get those drinks."

We had a late breakfast at the Lafayette House, in the main dining room, with coffee and Belgian waffles and eggs Benedict and mimosas in tall, cold glasses and bacon and sausage. With each passing minute in the luxurious comfort of the hotel, I felt the tension slide away, like a solid block of ice exposed to the warm April sun. We were in a part of the dining room that had a fine view of Tyler Beach, the parking lot, and if you looked real hard, the top of the roof of my house. Another reason I felt good is that the parking lot had the standard collection of vehicles belonging to hotel guests and visitors. There were no police cruisers or television vans out there, looking to record Lewis Cole's next misadventure with the criminal justice system. Nothing at all. Quiet is a wonderful thing.

Felix said, "What now?"

"I find out who the hell's drawn a big bull's-eye on my back, that's what."

"Going to be hard to do, with your only link to them now resting comfortably in Salisbury."

"I'll think of something, I'm sure."

"And then what?"

Felix asked. "Make them stop?" "Sure. I'll appeal to their better nature. Or something." "Or something."

I took a swallow of my mimosa, enjoying the mixed sensation of orange juice and champagne in my mouth. "Ask you a question?"

"Ask away."

"Why store him in the refrigerator? Why not the ocean? Or the proverbial shallow grave?"

Felix thought for a moment and said, "You dump a body, you can never get it back. Keep it in a safe place, you need it for something down the road, no matter how nutty or off the wall, you can get it."

"What in hell do you think we might need that body for?"

"You never know."

I took one last swallow of the mimosa. "So. If this goes south on us, what kind of troubles are we looking at?"

''The usual and customary. Concealing evidence. Obstruction of justice. Illegal transport of a dead body. Hell, maybe even suspicion of income tax evasion when it's all said and done."

I toasted him with an empty glass before putting it down on the tablecloth. "At least we have the best in legal representation."

Felix said, "You know, the night I saved Raymond Drake from a one-way trip out to Boston Harbor was the second-best investment I've ever made."

"And what was the first-best investment you've ever made?"

Felix picked up the check, a nice surprise. "Some secrets should stay secrets, my friend. Let's go. I've got a Honda to clean up."

We walked outside to the main parking lot, and Felix said, “What's up for the rest of the day?"

I had to smile. "It's been a full day already. I think I'm going to take it a bit easy, but first I'm going back to the Lafayette House for a moment."

"What for?"

"Just to follow up on a hunch, that's all."

He held out his hand, and I gave it a firm shake. "Thanks. And thanks for the joke. It paid off."

"Sure," Felix said. "So. As a reminder: What's the difference between a friend and a true friend?"

And like clockwork, I answered, "A friend will help you move. A true friend will help you move bodies."

Felix laughed, slapped me on the shoulder. "Good job. Let's see if we can't keep this joke to ourselves for a while. You take care."

"You, too."

I stood in the parking lot and watched Felix drive out in his borrowed vehicle. No police vehicles followed him in pursuit. No helicopters descended with SWAT teams at the ready to intercept. Felix drove off, unimpeded.

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."