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

  I heard Corey mumble something. I turned to see him fidgeting in his seat.

  He didn’t look happy.

  “Ha! Really?” Amanda blurted out. She began pacing back and forth while shaking her head. “OK … OK. Let’s roll with this. I’ll meet you a little ways down the path on this one and acknowledge the fact there are specific demographics, religions, and peoples who get shat upon more than others. So, yes, not treating people who are already being treated like garbage like garbage is a good thing. But, in terms of political correctness, that’s where it ends---for me, anyways.” Her words were followed by a subdued round of applause, for which she held a hand in the air toward the crowd and shook her head. “No, please, let me finish.”

  It was at this point Amanda turned away from the audience and gave a nod toward the back corner of the stage. A young woman appeared, carrying a stool in one hand and a bottled water in the other. Amanda mouthed what appeared to be a thank you to the girl as she placed the articles front and center at the edge of the stage.

  “Please give WTLK’s latest, greatest intern Kayla Brock some appreciation, ladies and gentleman,” to which the crowd obliged. “Kayla is an absolute joy. My nickname for her is ‘Shadow,’ because she’s always right there when I need her. Kayla’s a third year communications major, going to school down in Boston, yet she somehow manages to be at the station 25 hours a day. Kayla’s only been with us for three months now, but I don’t remember how we ever functioned without her.” Amanda opened the bottled water, took a few sips, then placed it on the stage and sat down on the stool. “All right … back to you, Steve. You brought Pandora’s Box, so I’m bringing the pain.” She looked out toward the back of the theatre. “And this is going to address your question in a bit more depth, too, Rebecca.”

  Corey stood up, excused himself, and attempted to make an exit without stepping all over the patron’s seated between him and the aisle.

  Amanda turned her head and noticed Corey’s movements. “Uh-oh, there goes my uber-talented producer, Corey Anders,” Amanda said. “Poor Corey hates these events. He can’t shelter me from all of the ‘Steve’s’ out there in an open forum like this one, so he gets a bit antsy.”

  I turned to see Corey’s response. Nothing. He kept right on going, up the aisle and out of the main hall.

  I felt Sarah’s hand on my forearm. “Is he OK?”

  “Beats me. But he’s a big boy,” I said. “He’ll figure it out.”

  “Steve,” Amanda said. “Let’s see just how sharp you are. Can you tell me when this whole PC mess began?”

  “Sure. That’s easy,” he said. “It flourished on college campuses, beginning in the nineties.”

  “So, just to be clear, your answer is the 1990’s?” Amanda asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “No, actually, that’s wrong, Steve,” Amanda said. “Who can help out our misinformed friend Steve, here? Anyone?” A garbled shouting of possible answers filled the air as she stood up and made her way to the left side of the stage. “I know I heard it over here,” she said as the room grew quiet.

  “World war one,” a man’s voice called out.

  “Please stand up,” Amanda said, pointing and nodding. “What’s your name, sir?”

  The man let go a bit of what sounded to be nervous laughter. “Uh … it’s Steve.”

  The hall erupted, Amanda’s laughter multiplying the effect. “No way,” she said. “That’s too funny. OK, Steeeeve. You can be Steve 2. Steve 2, tell our friend Steve 1 what you know. Briefly, please.”

  “Well … political correctness is a totalitarian ideology. A cultural Marxism, if you will.”

  “Bingo,” Amanda said while lightly clapping her free hand against her microphone. The audience followed suit and applauded. “Thank you, Steve 2. You may sit.” She crossed the stage as the audience calmed down. “Now. Steve 1,” she said, coming to a stop in front of our section. “I’m not going to get into a dissertation on the finer points of Marxism, here, this evening, as I don’t have any desire to put this fine audience to sleep. However, what Steve 2 is saying in a nutshell is this: political correctness is about power. Power and control. The destroyers of freedom. The destroyers of our great nation’s culture.”

  The audience began talking amongst themselves. Amanda paused briefly, then continued. “Cultural Marxism. We’ve seen it happen in other countries all around the world. Now it’s taking root here in America.”

  “I disagree,” Steve 1 said. “I’m free to say whatever I want, whenever I want. Like right now, for example.”

  “Steve 1, you may sit,” Amanda replied, prompting more laughter from the audience. “I’ll make my point then we can move on. In my previous vocation---way back, when I was fortunate enough to actually enjoy performing my comedic repertoire---my job was to make people laugh. Fact is, in doing so, sometimes people got their feelings hurt. But here’s the thing … they were just jokes. Words said in fun. Teasing. Nothing that left my mouth was ever said in earnest.”

  The guy in our row began waving his arms wildly again, becoming a distraction to the crowd.

  And to Amanda. So much so that I was tempted to say something to him.

  Amanda beat me to it.

  “Really, Herman?” she said, shaking her head. “Ladies, and gentlemen, please allow me to apologize for this … this sad excuse for a man. Little bugger is trying desperately to disrupt our time together here at The Music Hall.” She took a few steps across the stage, coming to a stop directly in front of the rude patron she seemed to know. “Now, Hermie. You know I’m never going to call on you, so please, hon, don’t bother wasting your precious energy.”

  Amanda looked out toward the back of the room and nodded, at which point several police officers came forward. “Mark my words,” the man shouted when he realized he was about to be shown the door. “This one’s going to cost you.”

  “Sure, sure,” she replied and gave him the brush-off sign with her free hand, then pointed as the police prepared to physically remove him from the premises.

  The crowd clapped and cheered.

  “Herod Erlichman, ladies, and gentleman. Herod, for those of you who don’t know him, is a columnist for a prominent Boston newspaper. I call him ‘Herman’ because I know it bugs him. Anyways, our annoying friend Herod is a huge proponent of political correctness. Now, you’d think a newspaper executive would be a fan of freedom of speech, debate, and common sense. But, noooo. In fact, just the other day, Herod wrote an op-ed piece suggesting the game of football is too violent. Dangerous, even. His suggestion? Pass a law making it illegal for any child under fourteen years of age to attend a professional or college game. A ban.”

  Many gasped at the revelation as they turned to watch the police make their way out of the hall with Herod in tow.

  “This kind of cockamamie nonsense kills me, folks,” Amanda said. “Truly. Oh, and did you hear about this little gem? A number of municipalities across our great country are now instructing their employees to refer to manholes as ‘utility holes,’ or ‘maintenance holes?’” She nodded. “Yup. You just can’t make this stuff up. Or how about this one? Last May, a certain high school in California sent a number of students home as a result of their inappropriate choices of clothing. Why? Because they were wearing t-shirts with American flags on them during the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo. Well … we just can’t have that.” The crowd began buzzing amongst themselves again while Amanda took a swig of water. “I’m not kidding, folks. Don’t take my word for it. Look it up when you get home.”

  “Amanda Enright for president,” a male’s voice called out from somewhere in the audience.

  More clapping and cheering. Amanda gave the crowd a huge smile and hung her head, waiting for calm to return. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But you’re very kind, sir. Anyways … what was my point? Ah, yes.” She paused to take another sip of water. “Political correctness … is killing society’s sense of humor, people. It’s a method of
suppression. Which eventually makes folks vindictive. It’s creating an environment in which people act like bullies when behind the glass of their cars, their computers, their homes. However, once they find themselves face-to-face with those they foolishly choose to poke and prod, these very same bullies become cowards. History has shown us that it never ends well. Suppression breeds pent-up aggression. Sooner or later, that pent-up aggression causes people to blow.”

  The crowd let go the loudest round of applause of the evening while Amanda began scanning the room again. She looked about ready to field another question from the audience when a male voice screamed, “Drop it!”

  We turned just in time to see a uniformed officer tackle a man in a bright t-shirt and dark ski mask, holding what appeared to be a long rifle.

  A number of people seated near the commotion shot up out of their chairs, attempting to back away deeper into their respective rows. Meanwhile, patrons closer to the exits decided to make a break for it.

  Sarah shook my arm and pointed toward the stage. Amanda, flanked by a police officer on one side and her assistant Kayla on the other, managed to leave the hall via a stage right exit.

  The crowd remained in a gray area somewhere between order and chaos as a voice came over the PA system. “Ladies, and gentleman. Please remain calm as you make your way to one of the six exits closest to you. The remainder of this evening’s show has been cancelled.”

  Chapter 3

  “What should we do?” Sarah asked as we made our way toward one of The Music Hall’s exits.

  “I should jump up on stage to make sure Amanda’s safe, but I’m afraid the cops might see me and react the wrong way.”

  “Yeah. Let’s not do that. How about I shoot her a text and ask where to meet up?”

  “Good call,” I said, “but I’ve got to believe the police will bring her directly to the station as a precaution.”

  Sarah pursed her lips as she composed the text message. “Right. Guess we’ll know shortly. What the heck became of Corey?”

  “No idea. My guess is he was in the wings when this went down. He might be with Amanda now.” I looked at my watch. 7:05 pm.

  Sarah’s phone chirped. “Well, that didn’t take long,” she said and took a moment to read the reply. “You were right on both counts, Carter. Amanda’s on her way down to the PD in a black and white. Corey and Kayla are together, headed down there in Corey’s car.”

  “Good. It’ll make our lives easier having all the players in one place.”

  “Can we try to move quickly?” Sarah asked. “I really have to pee.”

  I looked around at the mass exodus. “Moving quickly isn’t really an option at the moment.”

  I studied the faces of The Music Hall’s patrons as we all shuffled toward the exits, feeling sorry for those who looked truly frightened by the incident. Disruptions like this happened often in big cities, but tonight’s scare was a first for Bridgeport. Locals had been lulled into a false sense of security in the seacoast area due to its low crime rate and decent economy. For some, the events of the past half hour would likely signal the end of the innocence.

  “I’m astounded that all these people managed to keep their cool,” Sarah said.

  “We can thank the officer for that. He knew it would draw too much attention if he started shouting commands at the perp. The officer did what he had to in order to control the situation, and nothing more. Fortunately, it all worked out.”

  “Yeah. Pretty impressive.”

  We made it to the main lobby and Sarah hung her head. “Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  They’re not letting anyone use the bathrooms. The police are telling people to head directly out of the building.”

  “Sorry. I figured you knew that. It’s S.O.P.”

  “Huh?”

  “Standard operating procedure,” I said. “Their priority is evacuating the premises. Don’t worry, though. There’s a toilet in the parking garage, right near our car.”

  “Ew! Those toilets are so gross. I don’t think they’re cleaned more than once a month.”

  “Come on, Sarah. Let’s not exaggerate. You know it’s only four times a year.”

  “Stop,” she said, slapping me hard across the bicep. “Making me laugh is less than helpful at the moment. I really have to go.”

  “Sorry,” I said as we stepped out into the brisk night air. “The sub shop is still open. Pop in there. I’ll wait.”

  Sarah wasn’t kidding about her urgency, making a beeline toward the restaurant without uttering another word. I made my way across the pedestrian-packed street toward the shop’s entrance when I spotted our friend and colleague Detective James making his way toward The Music Hall.

  “Carter. How’d you manage to get caught up in this mess?” James asked.

  “We were in there when the deal went down.”

  “Sarah with you?” he asked.

  “She is.”

  “You two see anything?”

  “Nah. It was over before anyone knew what was happening. I didn’t recognize the officer who took the perp out, but the situation was handled well.”

  “So … what was this?” James asked. “Just a night out for you two?”

  “Not quite. Amanda Enright’s employer hired us to do some threat assessment work. Thought it would be helpful for us to see and hear what she did, first hand.”

  “Lucky you. You’re a big fan of hers, if I remember correctly.”

  “True,” I said. “Guess WTLK was right on the money with their decision to have us evaluate Enright’s logistics. There are some bad characters out there, ready to throw a wrench in her works.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s no lack of knuckleheads roaming around, intent on messing up other people’s livelihoods.”

  “Yep. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “Speaking of which,” he said, pointing toward The Music Hall. “Guess I’d better get to it. Be safe, Carter. And tell Sarah I said hello.”

  “You can tell her yourself. She’s coming up right behind you.”

  “Hello, Detective,” Sarah said while throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Guess it’s going to be a late night for all three of us.”

  “Hey, Sarah. Yeah, criminals never seem to rest. That said, I’ve got to get to it. Be careful out there, you two.”

  We continued on toward the parking garage when Sarah said, “I wish James had a good woman to go home to. I can’t imagine having to do his job, only to go home to an empty house at the end of a shift.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I feel that way every time I see James. He’s a good man. He deserves a good woman.”

  “In a perfect world, maybe,” I replied. “I don’t know any cops who have a decent home life. The work doesn’t seem to allow for it.”

  “That’s lousy. It’s a thankless job. Cops should be allowed a little peace.”

  “Just because they don’t have successful marriages doesn’t mean they’re not getting any,” I said, wearing a smirk.

  “Ugh,” she said, shaking her head. “You know darn well it’s not that kind of ‘piece’ I was referring to.” Sarah was only able to deprive me of her sparkling smile for a few seconds.

  “There it is,” I said. “I win.” I unlocked the car and opened the door for Sarah then jumped in and started the engine.

  “Heat, please,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Why is it so gosh darn cold already?”

  “You know New England. Summer one day, winter the next.”

  Sarah was quiet for a moment then asked, “What do you suppose we’re looking at with this imbecile the police took down during Amanda’s show? Think it was just another publicity stunt?”

  “Too soon to make a call like that. My gut’s got very little to go on. I’m not even sure the incident at the restaurant was staged. I know Corey seems to think it was WTLK’s brass trying to boost ratings. But, like I said before, the
re are a lot of sick, twisted people out there who crave attention. A shot at fame.”

  “I guess,” Sarah said. “Is it really worth doing when all you end up with is a rap sheet?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy. I figure some folks are willing to pay a high price for 15 minutes of fame, instead of feeling like they’re completely invisible.” I stopped to pay our parking fee then continued. “What makes no sense to people like us might make perfect sense to them.”

  “I know. And that’s what scares me. Not so much for me, but for Brian. I know he’s an adult now, but I still worry.”

  “That’s your job. That’s what moms do. My opinion? You don’t need to worry about the kid. You did a great job preparing him for life. He’s going to be fine.”

  We didn’t say much to one another for the rest of the short ride to the Bridgeport PD. Sarah usually got real introspective when she thought about her only child becoming a man.

  I pulled into the police department lot, parked next to Corey’s car, and we headed inside. I was eager to find out who the perpetrator was and what the police had learned about him. The officer on duty at the front desk was on the phone, but immediately recognized us and buzzed us through. We made our way toward the conference room we’d spent so much time in over the past year, only to find Amanda trembling, tears streaming down her mascara-streaked cheeks.

  Sarah stepped inside and placed her hand on Amanda’s shoulder.

  Corey rose as soon as he saw us. He nodded at me then motioned toward the hall.

  I turned heel and closed the door behind us.

  “Thanks for getting down here so quickly, Carter,” Corey said. “I … I’ve got to be straight with you. Once out of the public realm, Amanda’s not the person people see and hear during her programs. She’s fragile. And quite easily affected by strife.”

  “Wow, I’m a little surprised. I really had no idea,” I said as I looked through the glass, watching Sarah do her best to console our client.

  “Of course you didn’t. And that’s no one’s fault but mine. We do our best to keep that reality under wraps. It’s not what the public wants---or needs---to see. They crave feisty Amanda. Confrontational Amanda. If the masses knew the truth, our trusty ship would soon sail, leaving us with no careers.”