Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 32

"Your reaction. For the newspaper. About Bert's body being recovered."

He looked to Helen and she violently shook her head. "No," he said. "It's.. it's been too much. We don't have anything to say."

I looked at my notebook with its blank page, and I said, "I guess, then, I should leave. Look... before I go, think I could b.u.m a smoke?"

Again, the shared look, and then Helen went out to the kitchen and came back, tossed a pack of Winstons on the coffee table. I looked up and said, "Oh, thanks anyway. I find I don't like those... Jack, do you think I could b.u.m some from you?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't smoke. Wish I could convince her to give it up."

"Yeah," she muttered, sitting down. "You wish."

I got up and said, "Well... I guess I won't waste your time. Thanks."

More quiet nods from the both of them, and then I left.

And I drove right to the police station.

In Detective Woods' office, she stood there while I lifted up my blouse, so she could gently take off the microphone and wire. "Did you get it?" I asked.

"Oh yes, we got it all right."

I said, "Still not sure what it meant for you."

"It meant we have him on tape, denying he smokes. We have you, saying you smelled fresh tobacco smoke in his truck the morning you went out. Which means it's highly likely Mrs. Houlihan accompanied him that morning. A nice little bit of information. And we also have this."

She went to her desk, picked up two photo printouts, taken on the deck of the Helen H. this past Friday. Among the dozens and dozens of photos I had taken were two of the open toolbox in the aft section of the boat. In the first photo, the open toolbox contained a long, heavy wrench. In the second photo taken after Bert went missing the wrench was gone. Something cool seemed to tickle at the back of my throat. I had started out on this particular quest as a journalist; I wasn't sure in h.e.l.l what I was ending up as.

"Nice catch on your part," she said, "noticing the missing wrench. And speaking of missing... Just so you know, a more thorough examination of Mister Comstock's body showed abrasions around his left s.h.i.+n. Like something had been tied there. Probably a length of rope and a weight of some sort."

I folded my arms, suppressed a s.h.i.+ver. "It was his wife, then. She was hidden up forward, and when Jack adjusted the engine speed, it was his signal to her to come out and whack Bert. Tie off an anchor line. Drop him and the wrench into the ocean. Go back into the boat. Sneak out when the people started climbing aboard after we docked. And her hubbie made sure I took an anti-motion sickness pill beforehand, so I'd doze off."

Diane went to her desk. "No real evidence yet... but we'll break her. Get here in here, talk to her long enough, she'll flip. I don't care how much she loves her man. If it's a choice between life in prison or flipping so that she'll testify against him..."

"Nice," I said, my voice low.

"Oh, yeah, a real nice pair." Diane looked up and smiled at me, the first real genuine smile the detective had ever given me. "It's Sunday night. I guess you're going to write one h.e.l.l of a story tomorrow."

I rubbed at my bare arms. "I... I don't know. I mean, I know I will... and if you told me a week ago, that I'd be doing a story about a homicide, I would have thought I had won the lottery. But now... it seems.. silly."

Diane said, her voice softer, "Rethinking a career in journalism?"

"Rethinking a lot of things."

Another smile. "Well, if you decide to go elsewhere, you might find a home here."

I stopped rubbing my arms. "As a cop?"

"Sure. We're hiring part-time officers for the rest of the summer season, and women always get a good look, because the department is short of them. You know how to talk to people, you know how to ask questions, and you've got a sharp mind. Not bad combination."

I stood for a moment, not saying anything, and Diane said, "Well?"

"I guess... I guess being outside of a jail cell, looking in, is better than being in, looking out."

She laughed. "Always is. Think about it. Give me a ring next week, I can set you up."

"All right, I will," I said, and there was something inside of me, right then and there, that made me know that my journalism professors would be mighty disappointed in me next week, and I found I didn't care that much.

The power of a single story, I guess. And what do you know, I had ended up with one, after all.

Brendan DuBois of New Hamps.h.i.+re is the award-winning author of sixteen novels and more than 135 short stories. He is also a one-time "Jeopardy!" game show champion. "Fatal Harbor," his latest novel, was published in May 2014.

His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous other magazines and anthologies including "The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century," published in 2000 by Houghton-Mifflin. Another one of his short stories appeared in "The Year's Best Science Fiction 22nd Annual Collection" (St. Martin's Griffin, 2005) edited by Gardner Dozois His short stories have twice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and have also earned him three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations from the Mystery Writers of America. Visit his website at www.BrendanDuBois.com.

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