by Al Boudreau
I smiled. “Hello cars. Goodbye, Sixteen-Sixteen.”
Chapter 22
“Well, Carter, you were right,” James said as he spotted me following Sarah through the squad room, heading toward his desk.
“About what?”
“The Iacona kid. Broke down and cried like a baby when we had his parents come in. Parents see their kid in a cell right next to one containing drunks and two-bit losers, it tends to change the perspective of the entire family.”
Sarah gave James a fist bump. “Just what that disrespectful little son-of-a-gun needed. Bet it woke all three of them up.”
“I think it did,” James said. “Jay and Nelda Iacona had tears in their eyes, too. It was good.”
“You said on the phone you finally got Ryan to talk?”
“Yeah … well, not me, personally. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance once we sent our young female officer in there with him. She got the job done. He told her everything. Says here in her report that Turner promised Ryan Iacona cash in exchange for a little eavesdropping, filming the bogus ransom video, and helping Shauna Eastman to steal Jay Iacona’s computer files. The kid ultimately gave Turner everything he needed to pull off the Steele & Company heist, in exchange for sixty grand in cash—the exact amount the kid needed for the buy-in of the Sixteen-Sixteen round he got caught playing in.”
“Highly doubtful the million dollars will ever be found,” I said.
“True, but we did figure out where Turner’s been holed-up. From there we found his records for Sixteen-Sixteen and put together a list of every person involved,” James said. “Players, sponsors, bidders. Arrests are under way. This thing is way bigger than any of us imagined. Turner, and two partners, had rounds of this game happening on both coasts, with plans to branch out to the UK.”
“I’m sure Turner will be serving some hard time. Any idea what kind of punishment juvie is going to hand down to Iacona?” Sarah asked.
“Hard to say, but we’re recommending a scared straight experience for the kid. Maybe send him down to Walpole Penitentiary to get a taste of what going to prison and being a tough guy is really like. Guarantee he’ll think twice about stepping outside the law once he spends a few hours inside that living nightmare.”
“Nice,” I said. “One of the best programs ever implemented. Between the scared straight treatment and whatever his parents do, that kid’s going to wish he’d stuck to reading comic books and chewing bubble gum.”
Sarah shook her head. “Kids don’t do either of those things much anymore. You—”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to give me a hard time about getting old, too, are you?” I asked.
“Nah,” Sarah said. “According to what I’ve heard, you’ve had enough of that for one week.”
“I’ve had enough work for one week, too,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
James extended his hand. “As always, I just want to thank you both for your contribution to the department. Chief left on vacation earlier, but asked that I convey his appreciation, too.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Sarah said. “Where’s he headed?”
“Chief’s got a cabin in the woods somewhere in Vermont. No electricity, no cell service, and most importantly to him, no other people. Just his wife.”
“Can’t say I blame him for wanting to shut it all out,” I said. “Wonder if he has room for two more?”
“Are you kidding?” Sarah said. “The first thing you’d do once you got there is start talking shop. Admit it. You love this life.”
I stared at her, then laughed. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ah, never mind,” I said as I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and winked at James. “Safe to say you’re right again. Let’s head home and see if any new clients have called.”
The End
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Thank you for reading
The Carter Peterson Mystery Series, Volume 1.
We now invite you to read a sample chapter from Book 4 of
The Carter Peterson Mystery Series, entitled
More Heat Than Light.
Chapter 1, as well as a link to purchase the full novella, are included below.
More Heat Than Light
Chapter 1
“You must be pretty excited right now,” said Sarah Woods, my partner on a personal and professional level. “I can picture tomorrow’s newspaper headline: Local investigator, Carter Peterson, passes out during introduction to Amanda Enright, rising star of talk radio.”
I smiled and reached for the door handle of The Music Hall, a landmark 1878 Victorian theater located in the commercial center of Bridgeport, NH, the small city we called home. “It’s not like I’m a---oh, what do kids call them these days?” I asked as I held the door open for Sarah.
“I think the term you’re looking for is ‘fanboy,’” she said, patting me on the cheek as she passed. “And it is like that. You, Carter Peterson, are a total fanboy.”
I took off my leather jacket before pulling out the envelope containing the pair of tickets we’d been comped. The warm air inside the lobby felt good after standing in line on the street for forty-five minutes. It was only the third Sunday in September, but Mother Nature seemed motivated to kick New England’s chilly fall season into high gear a bit early. “How about that,” I said as I looked at our tickets. “Found a pair of complimentary drink vouchers in here, too. We should probably grab a couple beverages now, before we try to find our seats. This place is mobbed.”
“Yeah, I could go for a nice glass of wine,” Sarah said as she took the tickets out of my hand. “The less we have to fight this crowd, the better. Glad Amanda’s producer decided to give us these tickets last Thursday when he hired us. According to the sign on the box office, both shows sold-out within an hour of going on sale.”
“Yep. Corey Anders seems to know what he’s doing,” I said as we made our way toward the back of the concession area’s line. “I was impressed that he thought it would be helpful for us to see, first-hand, what we’re up against with our threat assessment duties. I get the sense this guy’s looking out for Amanda’s best interests. Steering the ship without stepping all over her creative freedom.”
“Listen to you, all up on the inner workings of Amanda’s career,” Sarah said, slapping my elbow. “Told ya you were a fanboy.”
“I won’t deny that I like her style. The ‘take no prisoners’ approach she uses during her discussions with callers seems to work well. No matter what topic a listener throws at her, she takes a stand then defends her particular viewpoint with logic.”
“If you say so,” Sarah said. “You listen to her radio show way more than I do.”
“By the way, the radio station’s general manager texted me ten minutes ago when you were in the lady’s room. Guess WTLK received more threats directed at Amanda while she was on stage performing her matinee show earlier this afternoon.”
“What kind of threats?” Sarah asked, looking concerned.
“He didn’t specify whether they were death threats or something other,” I said. “But, being that prior threats included bodily harm, I guess we can’t rule out that possibility. He did mention there was nothing related specifically to this particular show or venue, which puts my mind at ease a little.”
“Why do people have to be like that?” Sarah asked. “I realize Enright’s views are controversial, but to threaten to hurt or kill someone as a result of the words they say suggests some deep hatred.”
“Too early to form a theory,” I said. “Public figures open themselves up to criticism and backlash every single day. Nature of the beast. And this recent round of negative attention appears to be coming from multiple sources. Tough to figure out which ones to chalk up to loudmouths blowing off steam, and which to treat as credible threats, until we compile a decent collection of them. It’ll take some time to analyze the data.”
“According to the file Detective James showed me, the police investigation cleared Amanda. I read the whole thing twice. Said she had nothing to do with what happened at that restaurant. However, Corey did admit he has circumstantial evidence suggesting the brass at WTLK sent that guy in to the place while Amanda was dining, in order to make a scene.”
Sarah nodded. “But Corey doesn’t want to lose his job by pushing the issue. Which is probably why Bridgeport Police Department hasn’t jumped all over this latest round of intimidation. No evidence. No crime.”
“And I get it. The cops have enough to do without chasing down baseless threats.”
“Guess we should be thankful,” Sarah said. “That middle ground between perceived danger and actionable evidence is where we shine. And what better case could we get than a high-profile job right here in Bridgeport?”
“Can’t say I’m all that fired-up about the high-profile part,” I said, “but working close to home is pretty nice.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said. “And so is a free night out.”
“I take it you want a glass of white wine,” I said as we stepped up to the concession counter.
“Yes, Chardonnay, please,” Sarah said to the woman at the register.
“And a nut brown ale for me, please,” I said as Sarah gave the woman our vouchers. I tossed a couple bucks into the gratuity jar as our drinks were poured.
“Speaking of cops,” Sarah said as I handed over her wine, “there’s no lack of uniforms with badges here tonight.”
“No doubt. I remember Corey mentioning that The Music Hall pays the city a set fee per officer, per hour. The venue determines how many officers to have on duty, based on the specifics of any given event.”
“Guess the folks in charge here think there’s a possibility Amanda’s show might attract the wrong element,” Sarah replied as we made our way through the crowded foyer toward the theatre’s grand hall.
“Apparently, they chose the right level of police presence. No incidents inside the theatre during the matinee. One show down, one to go. What section are we in?” I asked.
Sarah looked at the tix. “Ooo, nice. Center section, seven rows back from the stage.” She grabbed my free hand and led me down the narrow aisle toward our row.
“Carter. Sarah. Hello,” a voice rang out from behind us.
I turned to see Amanda’s producer Corey Anders making his way down the aisle. He was wearing a tailored grey suit that complimented his short, but well-proportioned, 5’-4” frame. He was fit for being in his early fifties, but his bald head and thick eyeglasses made him look older. “Corey. Didn’t know you’d be down here in the trenches with us common folk,” I said.
“Oh, really? I could have sworn I’d mentioned we’d be sitting together this evening. I hope that’s all right,” Corey said, looking genuinely concerned.
“That’s great,” Sarah replied. “Who better to watch the show with than the man who’s responsible for making it happen?”
“Oh, you’re too kind, Sarah,” Corey said as his shoulders dropped. He reached out and took Sarah’s hand in both of his. “If only I had control over live productions like tonight’s program.”
“Sure you’re not just being modest?” I asked.
Corey let go of Sarah’s hand then reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “I wish I were, Carter. I literally sat here holding my breath for the entire hour and a half as the matinee unfolded. You see, I get to screen each of Amanda’s callers during her radio show at the station. Conversely, in a venue such as this, there’s no way to predict, filter, or control a single word that comes out of an audience member’s mouth. Here, I’m nothing more than a very nervous fish out of water.”
“Gosh, that never occurred to me,” Sarah said. “A live audience can ask any question, or make any comment they want.”
“Which is exactly why we try to avoid these shows like the plague,” Corey said. “Amanda is quite good at sizing up audience members and generally chooses who gets to speak very wisely. But her intuition isn’t foolproof.”
“How does the program work, logistically?” I asked.
“There are six Music Hall staff members equipped with live remote microphones,” Corey replied. “Three are positioned up front, the other three in the back. When Amanda selects an audience member to speak, the closest staff member approaches them and holds the mic.”
“Wow,” Sarah said. “Guess I can understand why you’d be a little apprehensive.”
Corey nodded. “I wish it were just a little. Unfortunately, the higher-ups at WTLK get to make these types of decisions. Based solely on generating a buzz. In order to draw more advertising dollars, I might add.”
I reached our seats first, and motioned for Sarah to get settled in before I sat. “How did the matinee go?” I asked Corey as he removed his jacket and sat down.
“Quite well, all things considered. Thank you for asking,” Corey said. “If this evening’s program runs as smoothly I’ll be over the moon.”
“What nationality is Anders?” Sarah asked Corey. I figured she was trying to help get his mind off his worries for a few minutes.
“My father’s side of the family comes from Scotland. They lived there exclusively right up until my grandfather came over to the states. And my mother’s family---named Roberts---I was able to trace back several centuries. They lived in many different locations across England.”
“Ah. Very nice,” Sarah replied. I hope you---“
The dimming of the house lights brought their discussion to a halt, a major round of applause suggesting the crowd was eager for the show to begin.
Corey leaned forward as the curtain began to rise, clasped his hands together then closed his eyes. “Possa questo spettacolo andare via senza intoppi,” he muttered before leaning back in his chair and staring straight ahead.
Sarah caught my eye and shot me a subtle expression that anyone else would surely have missed. It was her ‘well, that was different’ look. And she was right. Corey’s antics had me stumped.
I wasn’t about to ask.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the voice of the master of ceremonies cried out over the newly renovated theatre’s state-of-the-art sound system. “On behalf of The Music Hall, and Bridgeport’s fabulous radio station, WTLK, please join me in giving a warm welcome to our special guest, radio personality extraordinaire, Ms. Amanda Enright.”
Most patrons stood up as the room erupted in cheers, applause … and a couple very loud boos. Most everyone in the crowd pivoted left and right to search for the sources of negative feedback. It didn’t take long to figure out where the rude outbursts had come from. Before Amanda could speak, two young males, each standing in opposite corners beneath the balcony, began chanting “A-man-da In-cite” in unison, over and over.
Until they were escorted out of the theatre by a number of Bridgeport police officers, that is.
Amanda appeared unfazed by the bizarre, short-lived protest, waiting a moment for the din of the jabbering crowd to fade before saying, “Good evening, ladies, gentleman … and two attention starved half-wits.”
The crowd began clapping and cheering again, louder now than when she’d first been introduced. Amanda made her way across the entire length of the stage, pausing every so often to give everyone in the theatre an exaggerated curtsey. She wore black slacks and a dark grey blazer, which seemed to make her black-streaked blonde hair shimmer more brightly under the stage lights. Her solid 5’-9” frame, round face, and balanced features gave the thirty year old a commanding presence, heightened by the way she carried herself.
The crowd went from constant murmur to dead silence as she made her way back across the stage, stopping front and center, right at the leading edge. “Some of you may be unaware of this fact, but I began my career as a comedian.” She came across as confide
nt and strong as she held her hand like a visor over her eyes, panning back and forth across the theatre’s massive expanse. “I see some of you scratching your heads out there. Hmm. Comedian, you say? Huh.”
She surveyed the crowd a bit more then began pacing. “That’s right. Aaaand … I used to get hecklers---predominately guys---at my gigs most nights.” She stopped pacing and turned back toward the crowd. “You know what I used to do?”
People shouted out possible answers as Amanda stood and waited. “Nope,” she said after the guessing stopped. “None of those things. I’ll tell you what I did. I had them removed from the audience … and caged till I wrapped up my act. Then I ate them.”
The room lit up in raucous laughter, her producer Corey roaring loudest of all. “Oh, Amanda,” he said while gazing up at his associate on stage. “That’s a new one.”
I got the impression that, despite working closely with Amanda on a daily basis, Corey was as star-struck as any fan might be. Which I found interesting. And a little disturbing.
“Okay,” Amanda said. “This is how our time together is going to work. Our wonderful lighting director here at The Music Hall is going to bring the house lights up a bit, and my stage lighting down. That way I can see all of your lovely faces. Ah … there we go. Very nice. Now … those of you who have a question, comment, topic of discussion, or whatever’s on your mind. I’m going to have you raise your hands. This is the fun part---well, at least for me, anyways. That’s my name out there on the marquis. Which means I get to pick who speaks. Isn’t that great? Oh, the joys of being me. Okay, here we go. Let’s see some hands.”
… to be continued.
Like the first chapter? Order Book 4 of The Carter Peterson Mystery Series, entitled
More Heat Than Light
