The Witch of Agnesi (10 page)

A long silence followed, so long in fact Bonnie was preparing herself to respond when Jesse continued.

“When I got outside the school that day, I knew I was in big trouble.”

He banged a fist against the side of his bald head. “Stupid, stupid—I shoved a teacher then cursed at her.”

Donna Poole’s thin lips formed into a smile. Maybe head-banging was normal in the Poole household. Different strokes for different folks.

Rolling back a year’s worth of memories, Bonnie couldn’t recall ever having heard Jesse string together this many words. The effect was startling. She had to admit, to her shame, she hadn’t thought the boy capable of true human articulation.

Great lemon-drop tears welled in Jesse’s eyes. His jaw tightened. “But you should have heard the things he said about my mama.” He bared his teeth.

For a moment Bonnie was sure he intended to growl. “He said more than just ‘Your mother would be real proud of you picking on a thirteen-year old’?”

Jesse’s eyes went wide, and in that moment Bonnie saw the same intelligence she’d seen in his mother’s eyes.

He blew out a derisive breath. “He said that, but first he said a lot more.” Jesse turned back to his mother. “Don’t make me tell what he said, Mama.”

Donna Poole inclined her head by way of agreement.

Bonnie felt like her brain was full of jigsaw pieces that simply didn’t fit together. “Help me out here. Friday I talked to Mister Davenport. He said you came to see him Thursday morning because you were already angry with Peyton.”

At the mention of Freddy Davenport’s name, Jesse’s fists unclenched, his breathing slowed. “That’s right. Me and Counselor Davenport, we got a deal. Whenever I think I’m gonna blow, I come see him. He keeps me out of trouble.”

Not that morning.

“From seeing Mister Davenport you ran into Peyton Newlin at the water fountain, and there begins the fight.”

Jesse now studied Bonnie warily as if she were trying to trick him. “I suppose.”

Bonnie had seen that look a thousand times and knew if she weren’t careful Jesse would clam up completely. She had leaned forward when she began questioning him. Now she eased herself back into the orange chair to give the boy space. “I’m not saying you’re lying, and Lord knows you had ample reason to clean Peyton Newlin’s clock.”

She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “What’s troubling me is that I can’t see when you and Peyton could have crossed paths before you went to see Counselor Davenport.”

At first Jesse didn’t seem to understand the question, then color rose out of his collar into his cheeks. “Me and Peyton didn’t actually talk before I went to the counselor.”

“Then how . . . ?” She squeezed Armen’s hand as the answer came to her.
How could you have been so
dense, Bonnie?
“Someone else told you.”

Jesse nodded.

Donna hissed like steam escaping an ancient locomotive. “Boy, how many times have I said that temper of yours would get you in trouble? Did you stop and think this person may have been lying?”

The outburst cost Donna. When she attempted to inhale, she gurgled as though she drew breath through a sopping wet dishrag. Great hacking coughs ripped from her throat. Blood sprayed from her nose and lips, speckling the bedspread.

“Mama!” Jesse shouted and pushed the call button again and again.

Armen raced to the door. “We need help in here,” he shouted down the hall.

“SHE DIED?” FRANKLIN CAME AROUND HIS BATTERED gray desk and leaned his rear end against his desk blotter. He hooked his thumbs into his pants’ pockets. “Remind me not to invite you to visit if I ever go in the hospital.”

“Not funny, youngster.” Bonnie felt guilty enough without Franklin making light of the situation. Maybe if she hadn’t gotten Donna so worked up about Thursday morning, the woman would still be alive. “First of all, it’s a hospice. People go there to die. The one doctor and Nurse Winslow didn’t try very hard to save Donna Poole. For that matter, I don’t think Donna herself tried very hard.”

You were wrong, Donna. Today was your day for a chariot ride.

Bonnie sat on one of three chairs arrayed in front of Franklin’s desk. Armen took up another. The third was unoccupied, but from the way Franklin kept eyeing it, he expected someone soon.

“How did Jesse take his mama’s death?” Franklin asked.

Franklin shrugged. “By now, he already knows. We had to inform him the truck was being taken in for evidence, had to give him a receipt. I’m surprised you weren’t there when it happened.”

She whistled. “Thank God I wasn’t.”

Armen squeezed her hand. “We left not long after they declared her dead. We probably passed the officers on their way in.”

Unsmiling, Franklin let his gaze linger overlong on Armen. He’d done the same thing when Bonnie introduced them. Armen, for his part, unblinkingly returned the gaze.

What is it with men and their proprietary issues?
She felt like clapping her hands between their faces before a pissing contest ensued. “What did you find out about old Ralphy boy?”

Franklin reluctantly turned toward Bonnie. “At first they weren’t going to tell me. Some business about base security, blah, blah, blah. I played the murder and kidnapping card, and they caved.”

He shot her a thumbs-up. “You were right.”

“What?” Armen said, then reddened, obviously embarrassed at his own outburst. “Colonel Newlin never reported?”

Franklin shook his head, a hint of smile playing on his lips. “Nope. He’s listed as AWOL.”

“Did they call his home?” Bonnie tried to imagine the dynamic of a phone call where one or more of the Newlins had to lie to the United States Air Force. She didn’t think Ralph had it in him.

“I didn’t ask, and they didn’t tell.” Franklin looked up as a heavyset man with tired eyes and an even more tired looking suit approached the desk.

He flopped down in the third seat without invitation.

“Bonnie Pinkwater,” Franklin said, “this is Sergeant Keene, the statehouse coordinator for Peyton Newlin’s Amber Alert.”

The big man swallowed Bonnie’s hand into his surprisingly soft and damp one. When it became evident Franklin had no intention of introducing Armen, Armen introduced himself.

“What do we know?” Keene sounded like a card-carrying member of the Cosa Nostra—clipped monosyllables, heavy East Coast accent. He tilted his chair precariously back, hands laced behind his head.

Regardless of his authenticity, the word “asshole” applied for citizenship in Bonnie’s frontal lobe.

While Franklin related his conversation with Peterson Air Base, Keene closed his eyes and nodded ever so slightly, just enough to show he hadn’t fallen asleep. He held up a meaty hand when Franklin waxed philosophical about Ralph Newlin’s reasons for going AWOL. He opened his eyes and brought the legs of his chair down to the floor. “We don’t know anything like that for sure. Stick with what we know, bubby.”

Franklin took the mild rebuke without comment. He turned toward Bonnie. “I invited Sergeant Keene here because he expressed interest when I told him about your phone call to the Newlins.”

“Before we get into that . . .” Keene removed a small tape recorder from his pocket. “Bonnie, is it?”

You damn well know what my name is, bubby.
She nodded.

Keene impatiently waved the small recorder toward where Franklin sat. When Franklin had removed himself back to the other side of the desk, Keene set the recorder on the edge close to Bonnie. Finger poised over the button, he asked, “Do you mind if I tape our interview?”

What would you do if I said yes?
“Go ahead.”

He depressed the record button and tiny wheels began to revolve. “I understand you went to see Jesse Newlin and his mother today. How did that go?”

“She died.”

Keene never batted an eye. “That’s unfortunate. Did she or Jesse say anything of interest before she passed on?”

You sir, are the Mother Theresa of law enforcement.
“She told me someone else had been driving Jesse’s truck the night I was attacked.”

Keene and Franklin exchanged brief, unreadable glances. “Do you believe her?”

Armen, who had been sandwiched between Keene and Bonnie got up. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

He laid a hand on Bonnie’s arm. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Franklin waggled a large mug toward Armen.

“There’s a squad room just before you get to the elevators. I’d love a cup.”

Armen stared hard at the mug and chuckled. “Sure thing, officer. I’ll bring you a scone if they have them.” He snatched the mug from Franklin’s hand. Waving backward over his shoulder, he made for the elevators.

“What’s his problem?” Franklin frowned at Armen’s retreating back.

I could ask you the same thing
. “I can’t imagine.”

Keene moved into Armen’s seat. The man smelled of garlic and cigarettes.

Bonnie found herself fascinated by a green something or other poking out between two front teeth.

“If we could get back to business, Missus Pink-water, do you believe Donna Poole?”

The question brought home a thought that had been percolating across Bonnie’s brain. How much did she trust the now deceased Donna Poole? And if she did, how much of that trust was based on the fact Donna had been dying of cancer? “I think I do.”

“Why?”

You odious man, you would ask the one question
I’ve got no real answer for.

She leaned back from him as far as she could. “Before we go round and round, could you tell me why my visit to Donna Poole is of interest?”
And why, in God’s
name, would they put you in charge of anything to do
with children?

Frowning, Keene shot Franklin another glance. Unlike its predecessor, this look was far from unreadable.
What was this civilian doing questioning police
procedure?
“Could we just stick to my questions?”

Bonnie tendered Keene the smile she reserved for children she wanted to throttle. “I know your thoughts are far above the thoughts of a non-combatant like myself, but let me offer a guess.”

She paused, enjoying the throb of a tiny blood vessel in Keene’s forehead. “If I’m incorrect, feel free to stop me at any time. We math teachers so hate to be incorrect.”

Keene’s face had become stone, all planes and angles. He grunted.

“If Jesse Poole can be eliminated as a possible suspect in Peyton Newlin’s disappearance, then the necessity for an Amber Alert becomes questionable. Maybe even a mistake in the first place.” She wanted to hurry on before Keene lost his temper in earnest, but she couldn’t resist prodding the man just a little.

“I mean, an important man like yourself shouldn’t be saddled with a simple runaway case.”

“Missus P,” Franklin cautioned.

“Let her rave on.” Keene once again tilted back his chair, but that pesky blood vessel just kept throbbing.

Bingo, you’re stuck on the flypaper, Sergeant
Keene. How do you like it?
“Except, it’s not that simple. Colonel Ralph Newlin and his family are important people. You can’t risk something happening to Peyton Newlin, even though every cop instinct in your body is telling you the boy was never snatched.”

“What do you know?” Keene annunciated each word through clenched teeth.

Bonnie raised both hands palms forward. “These are guesses, remember? But, to add one more guess to the string of sevens I seem to be rolling, if Jesse didn’t snatch Peyton—and I, like you, believe he didn’t—then Peyton Newlin walked away from the Interfaith Christian Academy of his own volition.”

Keene let his chair slam back down onto the tile floor, signaling it was his turn to talk.

Bonnie’s Imp of the Perverse urged her to cut him off before he could speak. She leaned forward until her mouth was just a few inches from the tape recorder. “I believed Donna Poole because not only did she convince me she was sincere, but also because Jesse wouldn’t have left his mother’s side unless someone led him away at gunpoint, maybe not even then. Certainly, not for the time it would have taken him to kidnap Peyton Newlin. It’s as simple as that.”

Keene drew in a great breath and released it in a sigh. “You’re right, Valsecci. She’s a mountain-sized pain in the poop chute, but she’s got
chutzpah
.”

Bonnie shot Franklin a major glare and returned her gaze to Keene. “I’ll take that as a compliment. So, where does this leave you guys?”

Even though Bonnie addressed the question to Keene, Franklin picked it up. “With a few unanswered questions, the main one being—What has Peyton Newlin been up to since Thursday night?”

With certainty Bonnie could see where Franklin, and from the look on his face, Keene were heading with this train of thought. “This isn’t about Thursday. You’re talking Friday morning and in particular early Friday morning up on Fulton Hill. Don’t tell me you members of the Jade Hill Brain Trust think Peyton killed Stephanie Templeton?”