Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (32 page)

“Me? How would I know, eh?” He said in his thick French accent.

For a split second, she recalled sitting through an iambic pentameter lecture at U-Maine thinking Shakespeare wasn’t so difficult, the stress falling upon the second syllable as it did when people like Timms spoke:
How WOULD i KNOW, eh?

His eyes had returned to the Dakota’s engine.

“A baby is dead, Tyler.”

He looked up quickly, anger flashing in his eyes. “Don’t give me that shit,” Timms said. “So is Kenny. You people, eh, you’ve got no one to blame for either of those deaths but yourselves.”

“Who was the baby?”

“Peyton, I can’t help you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t look up. He lifted a wrench from a cloth he’d lain over the corner of the engine, examined it, and wiped it with a rag.

“What was Kenny doing in Youngsville, New Brunswick?”

He shrugged.

“Okay, Tyler, let’s try a different approach. Where were
you
when Kenny was running the border?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. If you two were so tight, and you’re so upset that I had to shoot him, tell me where you were that night.”

“Home,” he said.

“Alone?”

“Hey listen, I’m a Christian. My conscience is clear. I don’t have to answer that.”

“Fine. I’ll have the state troopers here in twenty minutes to bring you in and ask you that same question.”

“You can’t do that.”

“No? Maine DEA was investigating Kenny at the time of his death. Everyone in this town has seen you and Kenny Radke together. Don’t think the state cops can convince a judge that you need to be questioned?”

She’d skipped some of the legal aspects, but Timms wasn’t a heavy-duty thinker. He looked concerned, so she didn’t let up.

“What were you two doing with Alan McAfee?” she said.

“Who?”

“Got to do better than that, Tyler. I saw the three of you outside the ice-cream parlor on Main Street. You all saw me. You turned and headed the other way. What were you doing?”

His eyes narrowed. Then he looked her up and down, his expression growing confident as if remembering something.

“I heard you were suspended, eh. Bet you can’t even ask me those questions.”

“You got that wrong, Tyler. But now I know you’re still in contact with McAfee.”

He put the wrench down, careful to align it with his other tools the way she’d seen dentists line up picks and drills. He picked up the largest wrench, held it loosely between his thumb and forefinger, and twirled it slowly in a circle. His eyes locked on hers. Then he stopped twirling the wrench and tapped it gently against his palm.

A threat?

He had fifty pounds on her. But her leg, fueled by all of her hundred and twenty pounds, would generate more power than his arm. Army Coat could attest to that. Still, the wrench was eighteen inches long. She took a half-step back and inhaled slowly. If the bastard came at her, she’d blow out his knee.

“I’m not in contact with McAfee,” he said. It wasn’t much, and it had taken him a long time to come up with it.

She’d wait him out.

He shifted from side to side, uncomfortable in the silence. Would he start rambling?

It seemed odd that Tom Mann would hire Tyler Timms. On appearance alone, they couldn’t be more different—blue-eyed Timms was lithe with a shaved scalp reminiscent of a Skin Head. Had the military background been enough to get him the job?

“Look, eh, I only met Al McAfee that one time. He was Kenny’s friend. We were going for ice cream.”

“A baby is dead, Tyler. Get tied to that and you’ll be in Warren for life.”

“Tied to what, eh? Kenny crashed. What’s that got to do with me?”

“You tell me.”

“Why are you here?” he said.

“What exactly is your relationship with
Al
McAfee, as you call him?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then paused, realizing he’d given something away. “I told you. I only met him that once, when I was with Kenny.”

“Fine. Then what’s McAfee’s relationship to Kenny?”

“He’s his lawyer,” Timms said.

“You’re telling me Kenny Radke could afford a Boston lawyer? I don’t think so. McAfee wasn’t the guy who defended Kenny right into Warren for Possession a couple years back. I know that much. And what’s Kenny need a lawyer for now?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tyler, what were you and Kenny doing with McAfee the day I saw you?”

“Ice cream,” he said and looked away.

She waited.

Finally, his gaze swung back. He didn’t look angry, and he didn’t look scared. He looked frustrated.

“Look, Peyton, go sit by the side of some dirt road and stare at the woods like the other agents, all right? That’s the best thing you can do.”

“That a warning?”

“That’s advice.”

“Tyler,” Mann called from across the garage, “get back to work.”

She didn’t argue with Mann. Didn’t say good-bye either. Simply walked out. She hated unfinished puzzles. At least now some pieces were beginning to align.

Peyton felt uncomfortable walking into Garrett Station. The bullpen was nearly empty. She sat at the desk she shared with Jimenez and booted up the desktop computer to check her email, administrative leave be damned.

Pam Morrison, the station’s other female agent, worked on the computer at the next desk.

“How are you?” she asked Peyton.

“I’m okay.”

“Tommy doing well?”

“He is. It’s good to be here, near his grandmother and even his father.”

“Sounds painful to say that,” Morrison said and grinned. “I’ve run into him before. Pretty confident guy.”

“He’s something all right.”

“I respect you for moving here for Tommy,” Morrison said. “You’re a good parent. Not many people would do that.”

“Sure they would.”

“You’d be surprised. I taught pre-K. Only job worse might have been the school counselor. Kid comes in on Monday with a black eye, I try to cheer him up all week, send him home on Friday, and he comes in the next Monday with another black eye.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s frustrating. The bad parents get kids, and the good ones who can’t have kids of their own get forgotten.”

“Well, my ex, Jeff, isn’t a good one.”

“I mean in general.”

Peyton looked at the computer. It was still loading. “Any word on Autumn?” she said.

“It’s not good,” Morrison said. “Bruce and I have been working this night and day.”

“Scott Smith, too?”

“Now and then. Haven’t seen him much. He seems to be chasing something else. Maybe Hewitt has him working on something different.”

Hewitt? If Scott Smith had something to do with dragging the Radke shooting investigation out, what could Hewitt have to do with that?

“We had one bite on a BOLO,” Morrison said, “but that was in Montana, and it didn’t pan out.”

“Montana?”

“I told you. We don’t have a thing. And I’m not hopeful, Peyton.”

“You think she’s gone?” Peyton said.

“I think there’s nothing but interstate and woods between us and Bangor. You make it three hours to Bangor and you can go any-
where.”

Peyton nodded. Bangor had an international jetport. It didn’t bode well for locating Hurley either.

“The Canadian Border Patrol says they have reports that European babies are ending up in the Midwest.”

“European? Not Middle Eastern, Mexican, or South American?”

“No. It might be a new trafficking venue. FBI might get brought in. There’s a lot going on. I’ll bring you up to speed. When were you cleared?”

“Haven’t been.”

“Oh. Jesus, Peyton, you’re putting me in a bad spot here.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I have enough problems without aiding you in whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything, Pam. You okay?”

The computer sounded like tiny men were inside grinding away at something as it loaded. In El Paso, the computers had been up to date, illustrating governmental priorities: the southern border got every-
thing.

“It’s been a shitty day,” Pam Morrison said. “My divorce was finalized, after a three-year separation.”

“Sorry. Want to talk about it?”

“Not much to talk about. We moved here, tried to have kids, I couldn’t, and we couldn’t adopt, so he left me.”

“Why couldn’t you adopt?”

“How much do you know about that system?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t want to get into it. Anyway, to top things off, I didn’t qualify today. Second time in three years. I missed on my final three rounds.”

“Sorry,” Peyton said. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

There wasn’t anything else for Peyton to say. Failure meant humiliating tutorial sessions with peers or superiors. Stan Jackman had come close to failing, and it had terrified him. Continued failure could lead to dismissal.

Pam Morrison nodded and left the bullpen.

White-haired receptionist Linda Cyr smiled broadly and waved Peyton over. The email still hadn’t finished loading. To hell with it. She shut down the machine and went to Linda’s desk.

“Don’t take any crap from whoever won’t let you work,” Linda said.

It made Peyton smile. Linda Cyr had to be pushing seventy. If an
Andy Griffith Show
remake was ever in the works, Linda Cyr would surely be cast as Aunt Bee. She may not look it, but she was tough as a scorpion, and her loyalty to the station’s females was unwavering.

“Hewitt in?” Peyton asked.

“Yes. No one’s with him. You can go on in. I’ll warn you, though.” She motioned Peyton to come closer; she did. “His wife said she couldn’t take it here anymore, went back to Arizona yesterday. He’s not happy.”

She moved nervously toward Hewitt’s office. The door was open, but she knocked anyway.

“Mike, got a minute?”

The back of his leather swivel chair faced her. A stack of resumes lay on his desk. A cardboard box with photos that once lined his desk lay on the floor. His chair swiveled and he was facing her. His forest-green uniform looked as it always did, starched and pressed, yet he no longer looked like a Navy SEAL. He looked exhausted.

“Firing me?” she said and pointed at the resumes.

“Not yet. We had a resignation.”

“Who?”

“People are allowed confidentiality, Peyton. They’ll announce it when they’re ready.”

“Fine. Get us a good replacement.”

“That’s the plan. What’s up? You haven’t been officially cleared yet.”

“Are the DNA results in on the missing baby?” she said.

“Yeah. They might not help us find her, unless we find Hurley.”

“Why?” she said.

“Because the DNA results from his coffee cup are in, too.”

“You’re kidding. I’ve waited nine months for the State lab before.”

He shrugged. “The guy might have shot a federal agent and he’s fled. And the baby was a Jane Doe. Those cases get priority.”

“
Was
a Jane Doe?”

“That’s right. Your little girl isn’t a Jane Doe anymore. She has a father, and, thanks to the coffee cup you took, we know who he is. Tell your sister I’m sorry.”

What did it all mean? The infant she’d found wrapped in a tattered blanket on a cold autumn night was the daughter of her sister’s unfaithful husband. On the night a fellow agent was shot, she’d found that same philanderer near the site at which the baby had been discovered.

Had Jonathan Hurley been the one who’d abandoned the baby?

Had he shot Miguel Jimenez?

Hurley was the infant girl’s father. Was the nineteen-year-old he’d run off with the mother?

“Peyton, you okay?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve got to see my sister.”

“She called here looking for you. I didn’t tell her about the baby. She was upset about her car.”

“What happened to her car?” Peyton asked.

“You don’t know?”

“No,” she said.

The answer made her cringe.

THIRTY
-
NINE

P
EYTON PULLED INTO HER
sister’s dirt driveway at 6:10 Friday evening, parked her Wrangler beside Elise’s silver Camry, and got out beneath the driveway’s spotlight. The driver’s side of the Camry had been spray painted, like the prank of an adolescent graffiti artist: DYKE
SINNER in jagged red capitals.

But this was no prank, and rage like a hot balloon, rose in the back of Peyton’s throat.

The front door of the house opened, and Elise walked out. “Cute, isn’t it?”

Dark rings were beneath Elise’s eyes, her mouth pinched in a tight frown. She didn’t look like a soccer mom this day. She wore baggy jeans and a navy blue windbreaker with
U-Maine Reeds Owls
across the front.

“You look exhausted,” Peyton said. She felt bad knowing she came bearing additional bad news: Elise’s husband had sired a child by another woman. “Jonathan is a bigger coward than I thought,” she said.

Elise shook her head. “There’s no way to prove it was him.”

“You’re not serious. Who else knows you’re gay? Just Mom.”

Then she thought of Alan McAfee, of what he’d said during their so-called discovery session.

“Even if he didn’t do it himself,” she said, “Jonathan is behind this, Elise, and you know it.”

The sky was gray, and a light dusting of snow fell. Somewhere a crow cawed. In the field across the road, a large moose moved leisurely, like a minivan teetering on four fence posts. Maine’s annual moose season amounted to little more than three thousand people walking up to the moose of his or her choice and simply squeezing the trigger. This thousand-pound animal ate peacefully, oblivious to its likely impending fate. Breath steamed from its silver-dollar nostrils.

“I hate having snow on the ground before Halloween,” Elise said. “It’s depressing.”

“Happens up here.” Peyton put her arm around her sister.

“I’m okay,” Elise said. “I haven’t heard from or seen him since he left.”

“Yes, you have.” Peyton pointed to the car. “This changes things. I thought he was walking out, never to be seen again. Apparently that’s not the case.”

“He did call me a sinner on his way out the door,” Elise said.