Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  “It’s a privilege to help,” Reilly was saying, “and don’t worry about the other things.”

  Peyton extended a hand to the man in the topcoat. “Peyton Cote. And you are?”

  He paused, looked at her hand, then shook, eyes flashing to Reilly. “I’ve got to be going, Jerry.” He gave a politician’s once-up-and-down shake and walked away.

  She turned her focus on Reilly. She’d get the tall man’s name from him.

  “The students sure dress better than I remember,” Peyton said. They were seated in Reilly’s office. “I never got your friend’s name.”

  “What brings you here, Agent Cote?” His formality seemed odd, given his Howdy Doody looks.

  “Call me Peyton.”

  “Really?” he said and smiled, as if she’d made some unarticulated offer. “Okay, Peyton.” He wore his red hair long for the criminal justice field but, she guessed, just right for academia.

  “I was serious about visiting your class. I majored in Public Administration, with a concentration in CJ, at U-Maine. We never formally covered the Border Patrol. I’d love to see what you’re doing.”

  “You haven’t come here because you heard about the class.”

  “No. I need to ask you a few questions, just routine stuff.”

  If he refused to talk, there was nothing she could do.

  “You’re out of luck but also in luck,” he said. “Follow me.”

  Peyton followed Professor Jeremiah Reilly to a classroom where she counted seventeen students seated around a long table, notebooks and pens at the ready. She followed him to the head of the table and took her seat, her back to a whiteboard. Reilly sat stiffly at the far end, opposite her.

  “I would like to introduce United States Border Patrol Agent Peyton Cote. She’s graciously accepted an invitation to speak to our class today. Mrs. Cote—”

  “Miz,” Peyton corrected.

  Reilly raised a brow, pleased at her amendment. “I should probably have called you Agent Cote anyway. Could you begin by telling the class about your past and how you got into the Border Patrol?”

  She had come here to interview him. Now she was giving a public lecture?

  “Oh, I’d rather just watch,” she said.

  “Well, I’d like to allow you to establish yourself in case anyone has questions.”

  “Okay. I grew up and went to high school here. I had to do a job shadow and chose to do a ‘border tour,’ a ride-along. And I loved it.” She briefly explained her University of Maine career.

  “And you were on the southern border?” Reilly asked. “Isn’t that the expectation?”

  “It’s a requirement. I served seven years in El Paso, Texas.”

  “Dr. Reilly, may I ask a question, eh?” asked a student no older than nineteen with a thick French accent.

  Reilly smiled encouragingly.

  “Did you work Operation Hold the Line?”

  Reilly was excited to see a student making a connection. “We covered that during our last unit, Agent Cote.”

  “Yeah, I worked Hold the Line. Now I work out of the Garrett Station.”

  “Weren’t you in the paper recently?” a girl asked. “You’re a BORSTAR agent, right?”

  Peyton nodded.

  “Fascinating,” Reilly said.

  Half the kids in the room nodded; the other half sat, heads down, writing. Taking notes or doodling?

  “Anyone have questions?” Reilly asked. “Agent Cote has taken time from her busy schedule. I hope we might utilize our time with her.”

  “Agent Cote …”

  Peyton looked at a pale kid with a crew cut who wore jeans and a green and white John Deere cap—a local.

  “We just read about this, but, in your opinion what’s the, like, mission of the Border Patrol?”

  “To stop contraband from entering the United States. The US Border Patrol began in the 1880s with a cowboy named Jeff Milton, who stopped illegal Chinese immigrants entering from Mexico. Then Milton was joined by seventy-four others. They protected border communities from Pancho Villa.” She’d read On The Line several times; all that reading was finally useful.

  Around the room, kids wrote what she said.

  “Cool. I’ve heard of that dude, Pancho Villa,” a kid to her right said, looking up from his notebook. “Way cool.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, the job can be way cool. A primary focus right now is protection.”

  “Can you elaborate?” Reilly asked.

  “Since nine-eleven we’ve become the last line of defense against terrorists entering the country.”

  “I see. And has the Border Patrol been successful in doing that?” Reilly asked.

  “Stopping terrorists?” She shrugged. “Depends on who you talk to. I think we have. Not perfect, but, given our numbers—we only have twenty thousand agents—I think so.”

  This guy’s name had simply come up as part of an investigation that, to date, had yielded zero evidence or even helpful information. Yet here she was wasting time in a guest-lecturer’s role. The irony was that she’d come to question Reilly. Instead, she was being grilled.

  “You don’t need a criminal justice degree, do you?” asked a clean-cut kid in a polo shirt and khakis.

  “No.” She turned to Reilly and smiled. “Sorry, professor.”

  He grinned and students smiled.

  “During the nineteen-week academy,” she went on, “you take a great deal of law. So it would probably help, but a college degree isn’t required.”

  “There an age limit?” This from the kid in the John Deere cap.

  “Eighteen. Our youngest agent in Garrett”—her mind ran to Jimenez—“is only twenty-six, but that’s rare. Agents start on the southern border and can transfer after gaining experience there.”

  “Is the job dangerous?” The blonde who asked the question couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

  “Yes. When the Border Patrol first started, there were lots of shootouts. Now, those things still happen, but mostly on the southern border. You’ll be sitting in your truck and two armored Humvees from the Mexican Army will come out of nowhere and chase you with AK-47s pointing at you for two miles.”

  “The Mexican Army attacks our US Border Patrol agents?” the girl said.

  “I can tell you that I was attacked three times by Mexican Army vehicles.”

  “Is that part of drug trafficking?” Reilly inquired.

  Of course it was, but Peyton didn’t reply. Such specifics dealt with intelligence reports. And intelligence was definitely not available for public consumption.

  “Agent Cote,” the young blonde, in a plaid skirt and a white sweater, said, “do you find that anyone up here has … ” She paused searching for the word. “ … nonconventional political beliefs?”

  “Such as?”

  “Like, you know, al-Qaeda, people like that.”

  “I can only discuss procedure with you.” Her voice was suddenly formal.

  “I’m curious, too,” Reilly said. “You said the US Border Patrol is the last line of defense. Could al-Qaeda be as far reaching as Garrett, Maine?”

  “The vast majority of terrorism pockets around the world are small financial enterprises contributing to the cause.”

  Reilly wanted more. “Financially?”

  “That’s really all I can say.”

  “What is your stance on immigration policies?” Reilly asked. “Specifically on the proposal of amnesty for millions of illegal aliens?”

  He looked like Opie from The Andy Griffith Show, but she felt like she was sitting across from CNN’s Nancy Grace.

  “That’s a political question. I’m prepared to talk procedure, not politics.”

  He pushed: “Doesn’t everyone have the right to make a better life for themselves? Isn’t that the American Dream?”

  “I get paid to keep contraband from entering the United States, professor. I see value in that and have since I began. I take pride in my job.” She looked around the room. The
kids were waiting. She took a deep breath. “A policy like that could be seen as devaluing the work and efforts of the Border Patrol and its agents, some of whom have been killed trying to prevent illegal immigration.”

  “But weren’t all Americans immigrants at one time?” Reilly said.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “I’m English, but I don’t see—”

  “I think we’re coming from two very different places here,” she said.

  “Meaning what? I can’t understand because I’m not American?”

  “No. You have an academic view, a theoretical one. My view is more practical. I have a job to do. And I do it.”

  “I guess you missed my point, agent. Did your great-grandparents come from a foreign land?”

  There was a challenge in his voice now. She wasn’t about to back down.

  “I didn’t miss your point. Apparently, you missed mine. The bottom line, for me, is that abstract theory—pardon my French, professor—is bullshit.”

  All of the students were looking at them now.

  “My job is a practical one. I maintain vigilant watch, every shift, over the northern border. And I try to stop anything that shouldn’t enter from doing so. That can be drugs, weapons, or people. The political aspects of what I do are dealt with by other people and are of little concern to me.”

  Reilly shook his head. “Don’t you think there’s more to it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that Americans should be more aware of what’s happening around the world, so they can better understand other societies? I mean, isn’t that why nine-eleven really happened?”

  “Now I’m missing your point.”

  “I’m saying that your answer is so black-and-white, so ethnocentric, that it seems to play into my theory.”

  “And what exactly is that?”

  “That if the government leaders of this nation, and Americans in general, better understood other cultures, perhaps nine-eleven would never have happened.”

  “Professor Reilly, personally, I believe nine-eleven happened because a religious leader took a peaceful religion and perverted it to fit his needs. Professionally, part of my job is to see that terrorists don’t enter our nation in my sector. And that keeps me plenty busy. I don’t have time for theorizing or politics.”

  He didn’t speak. The room fell quiet.

  “If you don’t like how our government operates,” she said, “take it up with your representatives.”

  He passed on the chance to comment. “That’s enough for today,” he said.

  Peyton watched the kids file out. Some looked like they were fleeing.

  When the students had gone, Reilly extended his hand. “Didn’t mean to agitate you. This is a land-locked student body. Many have never been outside Maine. I teach Global Studies as well and try to get them to think more universally.”

  “I need to ask you some questions,” she said. “May we go back to your office now?”

  EIGHTEEN

  “YES, I DO KNOW Morris Picard,” Reilly said.

  “How?”

  They were back in Reilly’s office. He was behind a small metal desk; she’d taken the wooden chair across from him. She’d been at the university more than two hours and needed to get back to the Gagnon home or the stationhouse to catch up with the abandoned-and-now-missing-baby investigation. Her cell phone indicated that she had missed calls from Hewitt, Scott Smith, and Jeff.

  “Need to return a call?” Reilly said.

  “It can wait. You were telling me how you know Morris Picard.”

  “Was I?”

  She smiled.

  “This is a small university,” he said. “There are only two history professors, or, rather specialists. A lot of people here teach introductory classes, but only two of us specialize in history. And therefore it’s difficult to find stimulating intellectual conversation in this region.”

  “Really?”

  “I forgot you’re from here,” he said. “No offense.”

  She didn’t dignify it with a response.

  “So I meet with Mo once in a while to talk history. Why do you ask?”

  The office was no bigger than a walk-in closet. Atop a metal filing cabinet sat a Mr. Coffee, its red light on. The bitter smell of burnt coffee permeated the room. Books lined the walls, bindings jutting randomly like rows of crooked teeth. The building had been built in the 1940s. The off-white plaster walls were cracked, the hardwood floor scarred.

  “Did you play poker with Mr. Picard last Tuesday at Mann’s Garage?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She repeated the question.

  His eyes left hers to glance at his desk blotter. Looking at something or avoiding her eyes? He fiddled with the collar of his starched shirt. “I usually wear a bow tie. What do you think of bow ties?”

  Wanting to move this along, she played the card that she knew would get him talking. “May I see your work visa?”

  “My work visa?”

  “Yes. You said you’re British.”

  “It’s at home. I can assure you it is up-to-date.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “London.”

  “Year?”

  “Nineteen seventy.”

  “Still have family there?”

  “No. I was an orphan. I don’t have fond memories of England. I left as soon as I could. Now why are you here, agent?”

  “Tell me about Mann’s Garage, last Tuesday night.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, I played cards the other night. What’s wrong with that?”

  “The man you spoke to in the hall, what’s his name?”

  “Why?”

  “I think I know him,” she lied.

  “Unlikely. He’s from Boston.”

  “A visiting professor?”

  “No, he’s a lawyer. I don’t see what any of this has to do with anything.”

  “Who else was at the poker game?”

  “Just Morris and me.”

  “A two-person card game?”

  “Maybe another guy. I don’t really remember.”

  “Kenny Radke?”

  “Who?”

  “Works for the Garrett Public Works Department,” she said. “I know he was there.”

  “Then I guess he was.”

  “Who is the lawyer from Boston?”

  “He wasn’t there.” Reilly swung his feet up onto a desk drawer. He wore L.L.Bean gumboots.

  “Who else was?”

  “That’s it.”

  She leaned back and looked at him. “The name Darrel Shaley ring a bell?”

  “Who’s that? Really, Peyton … may I still call you Peyton?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really, Peyton, I was thinking we could discuss other things, like maybe having dinner sometime. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Would you like to go to—”

  “I’m told a man in a suit played cards with you. Who was that?”

  “I don’t remember anyone wearing a suit.”

  “What did you wear?”

  “Jeans and a button-down.”

  “You have a good memory,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Seems strange you can’t remember exactly who played.”

  “Me, Kenny Radke, Mo, and Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan Hurley?”

  “Yes. He teaches with Morris. Know him?”

  She only nodded. Was her soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law entering the investigation a conflict of interest?

  “Maybe Jonathan was in a suit,” Reilly said. “I can’t really re-

  member.”

  She’d never known Jonathan to wear even a tie, let alone a suit. But this was progress. She’d gotten another name.

  Now there were six: Kenny Radke, Jerry Reilly, Tyler Timms, Jonathan Hurley, Morris Picard, and the man in the suit.

  After fifteen minutes, she’d learned nothing else. As she left, Reil
ly asked her out again.

  “Okay. Let’s meet for coffee,” she said. “I’ll buy.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll call you,” she said.

  “Thanks for joining me,” Scott Smith said. “I know it’s early.”

  “Thanks for calling,” Peyton said. “I missed lunch, and I have appointments lined up this evening. I won’t make it home for dinner. Be lucky if I make it back to read a story to Tommy before he goes to bed.”

  They were at Gary’s Diner in Garrett at 4:30 p.m. The trip to the stationhouse had been short-lived. Hewitt had told her to do a follow-up interview with Nancy Gagnon, and she had another interview regarding the baby already scheduled for this evening. The overtime hours were mounting, which both was and wasn’t a blessing: she needed the extra income for a down payment on a house, but Tommy was spending more time with his grandmother than he was his real mother.

  A waitress passed the booth carrying a tray with two servings of poutine, French fries covered with gravy and cheese.

  “Yikes,” Smith said. “I love that stuff, but it kills me.”

  “Poutine has probably killed fifty percent of the region. My father used to eat it at least twice a week. No wonder he had a heart attack, God rest his soul.”

  “You look like you don’t touch the stuff.”

  “Thank you. But I am tempted. They smell great.”

  “I haven’t been on a date in so long,” Smith said, “I forgot how it works. And the messy divorce didn’t help my confidence any.”

  “You seem pretty confident to me,” she said. “Besides, how messy could it have been? You don’t have kids.”

  “You don’t know my ex-wife. She fought to take my motorcycle—and she got it—just to sell the thing.”

  “Nice.”

  “You looked pretty upset this morning at the Gagnon home,” he said.

  “The little girl beat the odds once. I just wonder if she can do it again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I found her the first time. Was she supposed to have frozen to death? Or had someone left her for me? Either way, she was lucky I was there. I wasn’t there to help her the second time.”

  Peyton worked on her chef’s salad; Smith ate part of his burger. “Who was first on the scene?” she said.