More Heat Than Light: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 4 Read online

  More Heat Than Light

  Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 4

  by

  Al Boudreau

  Copyright 2016

  Query Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved

  More Heat Than Light is a work of fiction.

  Names, places, and events are either products of the author’s

  imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

  events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  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 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 WTLK’s general manager 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. Lee Sands seems to know what he’s doing,” I said as we made our way toward the back of the line for the concession stand. “I was impressed he thought it would be helpful for us to see, first-hand, what we’re up against with our threat assessment responsibilities. I get the sense he’s looking out for Amanda’s best interests. Making good business decisions 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. That ‘take no prisoners’ attitude she has when it comes to dealing with callers seems to work real well. No matter what topic a listener throws at her, she takes a stand then defends her viewpoint with logic.”

  “If you say so. You listen to her radio show way more than I do.”

  “By the way, Lee texted me ten minutes ago while you were on the phone. The station received another threat directed at Amanda while she was on stage performing her matinee show this afternoon.”

  “What kind of threat?” Sarah asked, looking concerned.

  “Lee didn’t specify whether the caller threatened bodily harm or something else,” I said. “But, being that prior threats included ending her life, I guess we can’t rule out that possibility. Lee did mention that the caller said nothing about The Music Hall or tonight’s show, 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 pretty 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. We’ll have a clearer picture once we’re able to compile a decent collection of them, but it’ll take some time to analyze the data.”

  “It doesn’t help that a bunch of social media trolls insist that the last scandal Amanda was involved in was nothing more than a publicity stunt.”

  “According to the file Detective James showed me, the police conducted a thorough investigation and cleared Amanda. I read the whole thing twice. Said she had nothing to do with what happened at that restaurant. However, Amanda’s producer Corey Anders thinks the brass at WTLK sent that protester into the restaurant while Amanda was dining, specifically to make a scene.”

  Sarah nodded. “But Corey didn’t want to lose his job by pushing the issue. Can’t say I blame the Bridgeport Police for their reluctance to jump all over this latest round of threats, either. No evidence. No crime.”

  “The cops have enough to do without chasing down baseless threats,” I said as we moved a few steps closer to getting our drinks.

  “Guess we should be thankful. That middle ground between perceived danger and actionable evidence is where we shine. It’s kind of nice to have landed a high-profile job right here in Bridgeport?”

  “I’m not all that fired-up about the high-profile part, but working close to home is pretty sweet.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said. “So is this free night out.”

  “You want a glass of red?” I asked as we stepped up to the concession counter.

  “Yes, pinot noir, please,” Sarah said to the woman at the register.

  “Nut brown ale, please,” I said as Sarah gave the woman our vouchers. I tossed a couple bucks into the gratuity jar as our drinks were being poured.

  “Speaking of cops,” Sarah said as I grabbed her wine glass, “there’s no lack of uniforms with badges here tonight.”

  “That’s for sure. 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.

  “Well … they must have chosen the right level of police presence, because there were no problems 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 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 during the matinee. 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 why we try to avoid these shows like the plague,” Corey said. “Amanda is quite good at sizing up audience members and generally chooses wisely, in terms of who gets to speak. 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 only a little. Unfortunately, the higher-ups at WTLK make these decisions, based solely on generating a buzz---in order to draw more advertising dollars, I might add.”

  We reached our seats and I motioned for Sarah to get settled in before I sat. “How do you feel the matinee played, overall, now that it’s said and done?” I asked Corey as he removed his jacket and took his seat.

  “Quite well, all things considered. Thank you for asking, Carter. 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 came from Scotland. They lived there, exclusively, right up until my grandfather came over to the states. And my mother’s family---surname of Roberts---I was able to trace back over several centuries. They appear to have lived in different locations all across England.”

  “Ah. Very nice,” Sarah replied. “I hope you---”

  The dimming of the house lights brought our 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, and 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. Heads 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 “Aman-da In-cite” in unison, over and over.

  Until they were escorted out of the theatre by a number of Bridgeport police officers.

  Amanda appeared unfazed by the bizarre, short-lived protest, waiting 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 been introduced. Amanda made her way across the entire length of the stage, pausing every so often to give each section 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 at the leading edge. “Some of you may be unaware of this fact, but I began my career as a comedian,” she announced, coming across confident and strong. She held her hand over her eyes like a visor, 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 comedy 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 until 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.

  “OK,” 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, whatever. Anything that’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, you see. Which means I get to pick who speaks. Isn’t that great? Oh, the joys of being me. OK, here we go. Let’s see some hands.”

  Chapter 2

  Corey Anders’s head pivoted around like an owl’s as he scanned the audience, looking as surprised as I was about how many hands were held high throughout the hall.

  “Way in the back,” Amanda Enright said as she pointed out her first choice. “The woman with the fabulous hat.”

  One of the staff members in the back scurried down the aisle, wireless microphone in hand, intent on letting the woman be heard. “Good evening, Ms. Enright,” the woman began. “I’ll start by saying my husband and I absolutely love your radio show.”

  “Thank you so much. Oh, by the way---and this goes for all of you---call me Amanda. This is no formal affair. We’re going to get down and dirty tonight.” The crowd let go a laugh track-like roar, coupled with applause. Amanda raised both her hands in the air and urged the crowd to
cut the ruckus short. “What’s your name, please, and what’s your question?”

  I turned to watch the now standing woman’s hat nod back and forth. “My name is Rebecca, and my question is this: what made you decide to change careers at such an early point in your life?”

  “Necessity,” Amanda replied without a hint of hesitation. “You listen to my radio program, so it’s likely you’ve heard me lament the intensification of the horrendous PC culture that now grips our country. As a comedian I found it to be extremely divisive. People in America are slowly, but surely, losing their sense of humor due to the stigma cast by this insidious undertone of political correctness. Not everyone has succumbed, mind you, but more folks seem to fall victim to it every single day. As a result, my efforts to make people laugh began making me sad. That’s what prompted the change. Bye-bye, sadness. Hello, talk radio. Thank you for your question, Rebecca.”

  Hands shot into the air like cannon fodder before the subtle echo of Amanda’s words had decayed. I heard Corey let go a huge sigh. Their franchise had survived the first question of the evening. I studied Amanda as she scanned the room. Her eyes kept landing on a middle-aged man seated in the same row we were in, his arms waving as if he were trying to flag down a passing rescue chopper.

  “Yes, sir,” Amanda said, diverting her attention from the animated patron and toward an individual seated somewhere behind us. “Yes … the gentleman with the glasses and black button-down shirt.”

  Ten seconds for the staff to reach him then he spoke. “Good evening, Amanda. Steve, here. I, too, enjoy your program, but … well, I have to say I don’t agree with you on this one---at all, in fact. Seems to me political correctness is simply about being nice to people. Tolerance is part of what makes our country great. Respecting your fellow man. Melting pot, and all that jazz. That said, I don’t get it. I mean, I don’t understand how being kind to one another can be construed as divisive. To be clear, my question is this: why are you so down on people being politically correct?”