by D. A. Keeley
“Sure. That worked swell the first time. You said you could help me.”
“Kenny, you gave me a shitty tip. You’ve been busted twice for possession. I was helping you—by letting you help us. Think you won’t get busted again? You need all the brownie points you can earn. Did the man you saw talking on the phone at that poker game do this to you?”
“I don’t need no brownie points. I’m clean. And I did my time. I paid society.”
“Turning over a new leaf?”
He nodded. Beyond the closed door, wheels rolled on linoleum. She pulled the straight-backed chair to his bed and sat.
“Let me play a tape for you. See if it jogs your memory.”
He stared at the recorder.
“A guy came to where I work. Said he heard I could use a little money. Said he was doing me a favor, giving me a gift. That was the word he used, gift. Said all I had to do was drive.”
“Hey,” Radke interrupted, “what is this?”
“Just listen, Kenny.”
“No, I’ll do it. I have to. I can’t go away. I don’t know if my wife’s going to make it. Guy’s name is Kenny something. Tall, skinny. Just got out of the joint.”
“Last name?”
“Radcliff? Rad something.”
“Think. What was his last name?”
“Radke.”
She forwarded the tape.
“ … the dope?”
“They came, took my car for two hours, brought it back, and told me to pick up the others at Smitty’s. It’s a bar in Youngsville.”
“Where were you going?”
“Boston.”
She forwarded the tape again.
“Seen Radke since?”
“No.”
“You know who assaulted him?”
“Huh?”
She leaned forward and clicked off the recorder.
Radke’s eyes went from the recorder to her face.
“That’s your voice,” he said.
“Very good. Sorry about your dope.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is that guy? Why’d he say my name?”
“Come on, Kenny.”
He exhaled and cursed under his breath. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“I don’t know who the hell that is, no idea what he’s talking about. Never been to Smitty’s. This guy was going to take a fall, so he threw my name out there.”
“That happen often? Your name just gets tossed out there during drug confessions?”
He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“We’ve already got him. Five pounds of dope. He was driving the damn car and confessed. Why would he mention you? What would be the point?”
“No idea. The guy’s a loser, a criminal.”
“And you’re an Eagle Scout?”
“Hey, my life ain’t been easy. That’s the only reason I done time.”
“No one in Warren’s ever guilty, are they?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I told you: I want the truth. Let’s start with telling me who did this to you.”
He shrugged—and immediately flinched. “Never saw the asshole. Jumped me from behind.”
“Who’s the man in the suit you played cards with, Kenny? I want a name.”
“Don’t know him. Never got his name.”
“I get pissed when people lie to me,” she said. “What did the group from the poker game have to do with Darrel Shaley and the five pounds of dope?”
“Nothing. And I’m telling you the truth now.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Those guys at poker don’t have nothing to do with that.”
“But you do.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She leaned back in her seat. The legs of the chair scraped on the linoleum floor. Through the window, the sky was blue. Huge, low clouds drifted by like slow-moving carp in a pond. For the first time, Radke sounded sincere. She thought about that.
“Who is the man in the suit, Kenny?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“So you’re not going to cooperate, is that right?” She absently reached for her wedding band to twirl it. Hadn’t done that in years. Had spending time with Jeff led to that? Some kind of Freudian slip? “Two guys from Maine DEA are outside in the hall. I’m going to ask one more time. You’d better think real hard right now, and decide how badly you want to stay out of Warren.”
The little color there had been in his pale face drained. His head shook back and forth, denial an instinctive reaction for him.
“You don’t know what it’s like. You got a job. Life is easy for you, always has been. My old man was a drunk. They took me away from him.”
“I didn’t ask for your sob story, Kenny. I want to know exactly what you’re into.”
“We’re helping people,” he said weakly, then rolled over, his back to her once more.
“By smuggling BC Bud? It’s North America’s strongest pot, Kenny. That’s how you’re helping people?”
“Not that. That’s different.” He stared at the off-white wall behind her.
She’d heard him say he “liked helping people” one other time. “How are you helping people?”
“It’s my contribution to society. About the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
He sounded like he was reading a script someone had prepared.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “How are you helping people?”
“You wouldn’t understand. These people are desperate.”
“For BC Bud? You’re giving it to addicts?”
His eyes left the wall and refocused on her. He looked surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“Jesus Christ,” she said, exasperated. “Tell me about the BC Bud. Who are you getting it from? Who’s buying it in Boston? If you think you’re helping anyone, you’re crazy.”
“The compensation for a selfless act is often very little,” he said, as if by rote, “so I need something else.”
“Did you read that somewhere and liked the way it sounded? What are you telling me, the BC Bud trade is your sideline?”
“I’m telling you that you wouldn’t understand. You have a good home life, always have.”
“I’m not interested in your self-pity.”
“Am I being charged?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m done. Good luck.”
“Have it your way.”
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.
“These nice men are from the Maine DEA,” she said.
But when the door opened, it was agent Scott Smith who entered.
“Peyton, can I talk to you?”
She passed Henning and Bowden in the doorway.
“Who are those guys?” Smith said.
“Maine DEA. What is it?”
“It’s the baby. She’s gone.”
Peyton pulled out of the hospital parking lot with her flashers going and took Route 1 back to Garrett, pulling into the Gagnons’ driveway less than ten minutes later.
“Middle of the day,” Hewitt said, shaking his head, when Peyton joined him at the back of the house, where agents Miguel Jimenez, Stan Jackman, Scott Smith, and a host of local cops also stood looking down at an open ground-level window. Last night’s dusting of snow was proving helpful.
“Footprints in the snow indicate someone went from one basement window to the next until they found one that was unlocked,” State Trooper Leo Miller said.
“So they climbed into the basement,” Peyton said, “went upstairs, and took the baby. Where was Nancy?”
“In the office,” Smith said. “It’s on the first floor, at the far end of the hall. You can’t see the cellar door or the stairs leading to the second floor from there. The baby was upstairs, second floor.”
“So someone crept to the first floor, then to the second,” Hewitt said, “grabbed
the baby, retraced their steps, and left.”
“And the baby never cried?” Peyton said.
Miller looked at her. Scott Smith shrugged.
“Maybe it did cry,” Hewitt said, “and they covered her mouth.”
“That’s awful,” Peyton said.
“But likely,” Hewitt said. “There are two sets of footprints here.” He pointed.
“Think two people entered the house?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t do it that way,” Hewitt said. “Double the chance to disturb anyone in the house.”
Peyton looked at the windowsill. “Prints?”
Miller shrugged. “Crime-scene techs are on the way, but I doubt it.”
“This took some time,” Peyton said.
“Sure, but it’s the back of the house,” Miller said. “There’s a workbench in the basement. They used it to land on.”
“That’s a four-foot drop,” Peyton said. “Be pretty loud.”
“Nancy was in her office,” Hewitt said, “and music was playing in the living room. She went to the office to send some emails after lunch. The baby was alone for about a half-hour.”
Inside the house, Nancy Gagnon, seated in a living room chair, was inconsolable.
“I was going to set up the portable crib in the office, but I couldn’t do it alone. Tom said he’d help me when he got home, but he was late. So I put her in her crib and came downstairs. I was only away from her for thirty minutes, and now … ”
Her voice trailed off, her hands covered her face again, and the sobbing continued.
“What time will Tom be home?” Leo Miller asked.
“He said soon, when I called him,” Nancy said. “He got caught up at work.”
“What time did he leave the house this morning?” Jackman said.
“Five-thirty. I’ve taken foster kids for years. Nothing has ever happened before … I feel so terrible …”
“That’s early,” Jackman commented.
“Every day,” Nancy said.
Jackman shook his head. “What does he think of having a foster child in the house?”
“Oh, he loves it. We both do.”
Jackman nodded.
“What happened at work,” Hewitt asked, “to prevent him from coming home?”
Nancy looked at him. “Why?”
Hewitt skirted the question and comforted her. Then Peyton followed him to the kitchen. Two Garrett town cops were there. She could hear people walking upstairs, apparently examining the room from which the baby had been taken.
“You don’t like it, do you?” Peyton asked Hewitt.
“The husband staying at work?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t. And Leo Miller doesn’t like it either. He sent a car to get him.”
“The baby was alone for a half-hour,” she said. “That’s not long.”
“No,” Hewitt said. “It’s not.”
Peyton looked through the doorway into the living room. Nancy was still talking to Jackman.
The trip back to Garrett had her overtime schedule—and gas mileage—askew. She’d planned to head to the University of Maine at Reeds directly from the hospital, but she had gone back to Garrett and the Gagnon home, and was now heading back to Reeds.
Morris Picard had mentioned professor Jerry Reilly, and Reeds had a University of Maine branch.
She went over the Radke interview. How was Kenny Radke “helping people”? By smuggling BC Bud from Canada into Garrett, then to Boston? That was the guy’s “contribution to society”? And why would a positive home life prevent her from understanding? Radke’s stiff, rehearsed language bothered her as well. A day in a hospital bed provided time to come up with his story, but he’d adamantly claimed “and that’s the truth” after denying a connection between Shaley and the men at the poker game. Did that mean everything preceding the statement had been lies?
She didn’t have answers and wasn’t a mind-reader. So she focused on Route 1. Reeds, deemed “The Hub of Aroostook County,” lay twenty minutes south of Garrett with nine thousand residents. At the far end of one field, a black bear ate broccoli that had gone unharvested. It spotted her truck, turned, and ran into the forest. She knew it would stay close to the treeline and come back out after several minutes had passed with no traffic. In the distance, trails were cut from a dense pine forest. She recognized Bigrock Mountain, a ski facility. Her mind drifted again.
Elise was her best friend, and she’d hidden her secret until now.
Peyton was shocked to discover her sister was gay; there was no denying that. After all, she had a wallet photo of the two of them in prom dresses next to ex-husband Jeff and Pete Dye, respectively. And part of her felt guilty. Her best friend, her baby sister, had been unable to confide in her until it was too late, until Elise had married and mothered a child.
Maybe she was being too hard on herself. Surely society had more to do with Elise’s long-kept secret than Peyton’s performance as a sister.
One thing was certain: Elise had been there many a night for Peyton, through tearful phone conversations when Peyton had gone through her divorce. She’d be there for Elise because divorce—and the future—would be more difficult, more unforgiving, for Elise than it had been for Peyton. Peyton had been abandoned. People reacted sympathetically. Elise was leaving her husband, doing so for a reason a portion of the population wouldn’t accept.
Peyton respected her sister’s decision; it took guts. A recent newspaper article claimed a pill could “cure” the “affliction.” And before that, she’d heard homosexuality described as a lifestyle choice. Why would a sane person choose a lifestyle others frowned upon? Biological makeup still made the most sense to her.
She swung the Expedition past the Northeastern Hotel in Reeds, past the city’s recreation center, and turned right, entering the U-Maine at Reeds campus. She parked in front of the Dumont Building, hoping to finally learn who the man in the suit at the poker game was.
But, first, she had a phone call to make. It was 2:45. Tommy was home, and he answered immediately.
“Hi, Mom.”
She could hear the smile in his voice and smiled in response. “How’d you know it was me, Tommy gun?”
“Because you call every day when you can’t be here.”
“You understand that, huh?”
“Yeah. Gram told me you feel bad about it.”
She blew out a breath. “More than you know, kiddo. More than you know.”
“Does that mean I’m getting ice cream soon?” he said.
“You bet it does,” she said.
SEVENTEEN
IN HER FOREST-GREEN UNIFORM, Peyton moved through a sea of concert T-shirts, faded Red Sox caps, and Carhartt jackets. Several students stole discreet glances at her firearm. She paused before the office door with DR. JEREMIAH REILLY on the nameplate and knocked.
A frail voice called, “One moment, please.”
The sign on the door indicated that she’d come during office hours. Assuming she’d crashed an extra-help session, she moved several paces away to a glass-enclosed case containing books written by faculty.
Jeremiah Reilly’s name was on one dust jacket—Maine’s Frontier Standoff: A History of the Aroostook War. Ironically, she remembered reading about “the war without bloodshed,” a land dispute finally settled in 1843, in Morris Picard’s history class. On the heels of the Revolutionary War, the Maine–New Brunswick boundary had been unclear (some would argue that it still was), and when surveyors from the British Canadian providence of New Brunswick stumbled upon northern Maine’s booming logging industry, what was now Aroostook County became a hot commodity. The dispute boiled over when the Canadians arrested a Maine official near the indistinguishable wooded border. In retaliation, the US sent in troops. No shots were fired, but the legend of the story—and of the stubborn Maine pride it illustrated—lived on. To Peyton, it was just another US border tale.
She heard the office door open and turned from the bookcase. Two men walked out smiling, as i
f one had just told a joke. One man was maybe six-foot-four and moved with self-assurance. His pitted face had deep vertical lines. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, behind which peered tired, red-veined eyes. She pegged him for upper management—briefcase, unbuttoned cashmere topcoat, gray slacks with sharp front creases, and a silk tie lined with sailboats.
“What a Godforsaken area,” he said. “Twenty-seven degrees? What’s this place like in February?”
The other man, a redhead, chuckled. “You have no idea.” He had to reach up to clap the man on the back. “I’ve survived two winters thus far.” Peyton heard a trace of an English accent.
“Jerry, why would anyone live seven hours north of Boston?” The man with the pitted face set his briefcase down and pulled leather gloves from his pockets.
“Tenure-track jobs are difficult to find. This is my third year. I find out if I’m on track for tenure this spring. Were my directions adequate?”
“I know the way, but ‘Take I-95 to the end of the earth, turn left, and drive another hour’? You call those directions?”
Both men laughed. The man in the topcoat turned and saw Peyton for the first time. The smile left his face.
She smiled. “Don’t all the undergrads wear forest green?”
Topcoat didn’t smile back.
“May I help you?” the redhead asked.
She told him who she was. “Are you Professor Reilly?”
He nodded. A broad smile crossed his face. “I don’t know why you’re here, but your timing is perfect. We’re in the midst of our Border Patrol unit.”
“Border Patrol unit?”
“In one of my criminal justice courses.”
“Sounds interesting. I’d like to sit in.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“We could have a Q&A. How wonderful.”
Was it an English accent? Or did he simply sound English because he spoke so formally? He looked too young to be a professor—boyishly handsome with thick red hair; freckles that made him look younger than the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes indicated. As if to accentuate his profession, he wore a tweed sports jacket with elbow patches.
Topcoat cleared his throat. “Thanks again, Jerry.” He extended a hand. “You’re doing the right thing. This contribution will really help.”
When the men shook, Peyton narrowed her eyes at Topcoat. Kenny Radke’s description of “the man in the suit” had been vague—tall, brown hair—but was he the guy?