Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  “What’s wrong?”

  The book, the sacrifices it spoke of—so simple, so sweet—seemed to highlight the world outside of this home and away from Tommy, in which she somehow coexisted: she had killed a man this week, a baby had died, a colleague lay in the ICU, another baby was missing, and a fast-moving river of lies flowed through it all.

  Thursday night dragged into Friday morning as Peyton rolled over and stared at the nightstand clock: 2:37 a.m. She blamed her inability to sleep on having worked the midnight shift the past two weeks.

  Kenny Radke’s funeral was only days away.

  Should she attend?

  In fourth grade, Radke had chased her on the playground. She remembered how Radke had worn only a hooded sweatshirt in February, how flurries had melted against the gray fabric, turning it navy blue, and how water had seeped through, leaving nine-year-old Radke shivering. One afternoon, on the bus ride home, Elise had lent Kenny her winter hat and mittens.

  Two decades later, Peyton had killed him.

  Days before his death, Radke, seated across from her, had scanned the diner’s interior. Who had he been looking for? Although she hadn’t worked in more than a day, to her knowledge, they had yet to ID the baby he’d driven across the border the night of the crash. What had made him desperate enough to shoot her?

  Two babies had been found—one alive, one dead. How had the dead infant ended up with Radke? Was he the father and had gone to Canada to see her? Had he abducted her? Or was he delivering her

  to someone in the US? And who was little Autumn, who was now missing?

  The Spanish woman in the diner had asked about the missing girl. Finding her might lead them to Autumn. And Jonathan Hurley, who had fled, had a young girlfriend who spoke Spanish.

  Maybe, if they could find the Spanish-speaking woman, they could find both Hurley and the missing baby.

  Jeremiah Reilly was a start. He spoke Spanish and fit the description of the man the Spanish-speaking “Jane Smith” allegedly met at the Tip of the Hat.

  And what was the connection between the men? How had Reilly met her brother-in-law, who apparently flew to London when he was supposed to be attending history conferences? She could see how they might have befriended one another: each fancied himself an academic elitist. The link between them had to be Morris Picard, Hurley’s department chair and Reilly’s friend.

  Her personal life offered few concrete answers as well. Tommy was rightfully angry that his father wasn’t in the picture. And Peter Dye’s kiss, after knowing him for more than twenty years, had finally arrived. So why had she reacted like a frightened eighth-grader?

  It was 2:54 a.m. now, and nothing made sense.

  At 7:45 a.m. Friday, Peyton dropped Tommy off at school. Fifteen minutes later, she sat in the living room of the home Elise and Jonathan Hurley had bought less than six months ago.

  The room was decorated in a way that made Peyton wonder if her sister had any input at all: bare walls, save for a framed poster of Cesar Chavez and a red, green, and white Mexican blanket that hung in the doorway separating the living room from the dining room. None of Elise’s hand-knitted quilts were on display. Neither were the antiques the sisters had collected shopping together on Peyton’s rare Saturdays off the last few months. This appeared to be Jonathan’s house and his alone.

  Now, according to Elise, who sat across a glass table from Peyton, holding Max, it was all hers.

  “He’s not coming back, if that’s why you’re here. He took everything that means anything to him.”

  Elise’s voice was flat, and she looked composed in khakis and a pale-blue blouse with the cuffs rolled once.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” Peyton said.

  “Mom said you needed to speak to me about work.”

  “She called?”

  “Yeah,” Elise said.

  “When I get confused, I write things down—names and events—and draw lines connecting them. This morning, I got out of bed at three and started doing that. I need to know about Alan McAfee.”

  “The lawyer from Boston looking into Jonathan’s termination?”

  Peyton nodded. “Tell me everything you can about him.”

  Elise bounced Max on her lap. Max wore a John Deere onesie with GOT DIRT? printed across the chest.

  “Jonathan met Alan at Boston Catholic Country Day. He was the father of one of Jonathan’s students. I didn’t know he was up here.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  Peyton thought about that, reached across the table, and tickled Max.

  “Want coffee?”

  Peyton said she did, and they went to the kitchen, where Elise put Max on the floor and poured Peyton a cup. Max crawled to a plastic car as Peyton opened the refrigerator and got Coffee-mate.

  “This student, in particular, enjoyed Jonathan’s classes,” Elise continued. “His father, Alan McAfee, donated money so the Government class could visit a Marxist library in Washington, D.C.”

  “So McAfee agrees with Jonathan’s politics?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Elise, Jonathan told a group of high school kids that Americans got what they deserved on nine-eleven.”

  “I guess I’ve been too busy to think about that,” Elise said. “I spent yesterday afternoon at the university.”

  “Why?”

  “Seeing if any of the twenty-four credits I earned at U-Maine, going on ten years ago now, will transfer.”

  “Going back to school?”

  “Going to need a degree,” Elise said.

  Peyton nodded, understanding. Based on his reliability record, Jonathan’s alimony payment would probably make Jeff’s look generous.

  “What are you smiling for?” Elise asked.

  Outside, sunlight formed a narrow band on the horizon, tingeing the clouds below the color of a plum. Aroostook County’s daybreak was often breathtaking.

  “Tell me why you’re smiling.”

  “Because my little sister is a very strong woman,” Peyton said.

  “I don’t feel strong. I feel desperate.”

  “Desperation breeds strength. Does McAfee have other clients in Aroostook County?”

  “No idea. Why?”

  “I saw him with Morris Picard.”

  “Well, that’s Jonathan’s boss. He’s probably getting statements from his current employer to use in the lawsuit against Boston Catholic.”

  Was McAfee eliciting positive evaluations of his client from Picard? Jerry Reilly, too, was an academic, and a history professor. Had he been asked to report on Jonathan’s abilities? If that theory was correct, why hadn’t Reilly mentioned it when they’d had a drink? And why had McAfee taken on the Kenny Radke shooting? Radke was a long way from any academic circle.

  She refilled her cup, poured in more Coffee-mate, and stirred a while. McAfee had been there the night she’d followed Tommy outside the ice-cream shop. The Boston attorney, Radke, and Timms had been heading in her direction before recognizing her and walking away.

  “McAfee have any connection to Tyler Timms?”

  “I don’t really know the guy,” Elise said. “Jonathan handled that stuff. Last I heard, Tyler Timms was in Iraq.”

  “He’s back.”

  Elise just nodded absently. One dead-end question led to another.

  There was one question Elise wouldn’t know the answer to, and Peyton wouldn’t ask: was the teenaged girl she was looking for the same one oddly named Jane Smith who’d appeared at the Tip of the Hat? And if so, who’d fathered the daughter that woman sought?

  Peyton looked at her sister and didn’t like the logical answer.

  It might have been a sister’s intuition, or maybe Peyton’s face gave it away, but Elise set her mug on the table and put the question to Peyton.

  “Is Jonathan the father of the baby in foster care, the one you found?”

  “We’ll see,” Peyton said, just as her cell phone vibrated against her leg.

  It was Mike He
witt. And she had a meeting to attend.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ASSISTANT US DISTRICT ATTORNEY Marcy Lambert met Peyton at the front door of the Aroostook County DA’s office in Houlton. No older than thirty, she’d gone to Columbia Law and looked the part: raven-black hair and tiny features that allowed her big brown eyes to steal the show. If the eyes didn’t do the trick, her red suit would. She wore a crisp white blouse beneath her red blazer with a red skirt that was a little too short for business but probably just right for dealing with dirtballs like Alan McAfee.

  Peyton followed Lambert to a conference room, where McAfee sat waiting. They took seats across from him at a long narrow table. A dark plastic tray held a pitcher of ice water, three glasses, and a carafe of coffee with sugar, cream, and a stack of foam cups.

  Up close, McAfee looked impressive. Gold cufflinks, a silk tie, show hankie, and a gray suit with a faint herringbone pattern. Behind black oval glasses, his eyes were the color of gas flames and danced with the same intensity. His face was clean-shaven. Peyton wondered if he had difficulty shaving over such pitted cheeks.

  He stood, rising above them. “Shall we begin?” Before Lambert could answer, he said, “Agent Cote, I have several questions regarding procedure.”

  Peyton didn’t like sitting while McAfee stood over them, but she couldn’t leap to her feet. Lambert had anticipated this meeting would be “relaxed, just hashing out a few details over coffee.” McAfee didn’t look relaxed. He looked in control of the whole affair.

  That bothered Peyton.

  “Which procedure?” she asked.

  “The procedure used to enter a locale where a suspect is injured and frightened.”

  Peyton looked at Lambert, who nodded encouragingly. She turned back to McAfee.

  “The only procedural issue here,” Peyton said, “is that your client has skipped town.”

  Marcy Lambert looked at Peyton then at McAfee, who stared at Peyton.

  “He’s married to my sister and left her with a year-old baby. Told her he was leaving with his girlfriend, a former student, a nineteen-year-old. Hurley’s a real class act. There’s a BOLO out for him.”

  McAfee never flinched, his poker face like an iron mask.

  “We’re not here to discuss my client,” he said to Lambert. “We’re here to discuss yours.” Then to Peyton: “Your career has been impressive, Agent Cote. But even the best law enforcement officers make mistakes.”

  “If I hadn’t gone in that van, someone else would have. And they’d be dead now.”

  McAfee had been consulting his yellow legal pad but paused, as if he’d anticipated one answer only to have Peyton give another.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Kenny Radke and I had known each other a long time. That gave him second thoughts about shooting me. He hesitated before he fired.”

  “Another agent wouldn’t have been so lucky,” Lambert said. “My client saved someone else and was shot herself. She’s a hero, for God’s sake.”

  “Save the PR bullshit for the TV reporters, Marcy. Agent Cote here made a mistake with Radke. I think her judgment was also skewed the night she apprehended Mr. Hurley, who was nowhere near the site at which the wounded agent was found, God help him. The Border Patrol and state police felt the need to get someone. My client happened to be in the area, so …” He spread his hands.

  “Bullshit,” Peyton said.

  McAfee grinned, pleased to have caused Peyton’s frustration, and walked to the carafe to freshen his coffee.

  “Peyton,” Lambert warned, “let Mr. McAfee fantasize all he wants. Everyone in this room knows what will and won’t hold up in court.”

  “No one fantasizes or speculates with my career,” Peyton said.

  “Alan,” Lambert said, “what is it, exactly, that you want?”

  “Just to chat. It’s called discovery, counselor.”

  Lambert looked at him like he’d offered to sell her a snow-covered lot in Antarctica. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Agent Cote.”

  McAfee smiled as if he had them on the ropes and knew it.

  Peyton was confused. Was she missing something? She watched him leave and turned back to Lambert. “What’s going on here?”

  “We have to cooperate, Peyton.”

  “Am I cleared?”

  “By me.”

  “What’s that mean? Have I been cleared by the state police, by the local cops, by the Border Patrol’s shooting-investigation team?”

  “Local and state police signed off on it. And since you’re clear with them, it’s just a matter of time until the Border Patrol clears you. Then you can resume work.”

  “How long?”

  “I can’t answer that.” Marcy Lambert spread her hands.

  Peyton thought of her conversation with Hewitt, of her feeling that someone at Garrett Station was dragging it out.

  “What we’re doing here,” Lambert continued, “is making sure McAfee doesn’t get slick and try to drag the Radke shooting to court separately or try to use it as a defense in any potential Jonathan Hurley case.”

  “If I’m cleared on the shooting, what can he do?”

  “He met with the Border Patrol investigators last night. He’s trying to get them to reconstruct the damned crime scene”—she realized her slip and shook her head—“that’s what he calls the Radke shooting scene, the crime scene.”

  “Is someone at Garrett Station calling the shooting bad?”

  “Why do you say that?” Marcy Lambert said.

  Peyton wasn’t going to point a finger at a fellow agent without hard evidence. If she did and was wrong, she’d be a leper at any station she worked at for the remainder of her career.

  “Look,” Lambert said, “I’ll do everything I can to end this quickly. If you want to consult me before answering any of his questions, just say so.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Lambert stood, walked to the door, and waved McAfee in.

  He retook his post standing across from them. “Tell me what happened the night Miguel Jimenez was shot, Agent Cote.”

  Cooperating was one thing; being interrogated was another. She knew how that worked. He wanted her to start at the beginning to see if anything failed to align with what was in her report.

  “It’s in the file. I’m sure you’ve read it.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “I found a colleague clinging to life,” she said, “which he is still doing. Then I found Jonathan Hurley nearby.”

  “How close to the scene is ‘nearby’?”

  She drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

  “How close to the scene do you consider ‘nearby’ to be, Agent Cote?”

  She exhaled and leaned back in her chair and said something under her breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘This is bullshit.’”

  “Peyton,” Lambert said, “please.”

  “No,” she said, “I’m not playing this game.”

  Lambert stood up and reached for her briefcase. “I think it’s time to go.”

  “Yes, it is,” Peyton said. She stood and started for the door.

  “Was a DNA sample taken unknowingly from my client, Agent Cote?” McAfee asked.

  Peyton had a hand on the doorknob, and Lambert was two steps behind. Both women stopped short and turned to McAfee.

  “What DNA sample?” Lambert asked.

  Peyton looked at him. Unknowingly? Was that why he’d brought her here?

  “Alan,” Lambert said, “to which DNA sample are you referring?”

  “The Border Patrol—not the state police, I might add—has requested a DNA test to match Mr. Hurley to the baby Agent Cote found.”

  Peyton had only asked Hewitt to order the DNA test on the coffee cup that morning, in her now-unofficial capacity.

  “You’re staying on top of our movements, aren’t you?” she said.

  “I get paid to look out for m
y clients.”

  “I’d bet my next paycheck you know precisely where Hurley is. When you found out we were running a DNA test, you must have asked Hurley about our interview, asked if he left cigarette butts or anything with saliva behind when he left the station.”

  McAfee shook his head sadly, as if looking at a young child who struggled to comprehend.

  “If he is charged,” she went on, “and we have a BOLO out on him, it puts you in a precarious spot, doesn’t it?”

  “Not at all, since I don’t know where he is. And since my client has an alibi for the evening agent Jimenez was shot.”

  “If the alibi is airtight, why are the three of us sitting here, counselor?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Alan,” Lambert said, “you asked for this meeting. My client can speak candidly, can’t she?”

  “Certainly. In fact, I get a clearer picture of her each time she speaks. For someone so concerned with speculation, she seems to do a good job of it herself.” He looked at Peyton. “I’d guess a lot of speculation occurred the night you found Jonathan Hurley walking. What else would you like to say? I’m all ears.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’d call it speculation. What you’re doing, though, might end up being called Abating or even Hindering an Investigation.”

  “Your boss told me Mr. Hurley hasn’t been charged. So there’s not much to discuss here. You asked for an interview with Mr. Hurley, despite his alibi and no weapon having been found. Being an upstanding member of society, he obliged. Then you took his coffee cup, went behind his back, and had DNA tests run.”

  “Who said anything about a coffee cup?” she asked.

  “Give it a rest, Peyton.”

  “You can refer to my client as Agent Cote,” Lambert said.

  “Certainly. Forgive me. But, before Agent Cote makes further accusations about me, we must remember that I’ve dealt with law enforcement officers like her before. Renegade types. So I knew to ask Mr. Hurley days ago if he’d drunk anything at the station.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. I think we both know who told you a DNA sample was being run. And on what. Let’s cut the bullshit. Where is Hurley? His wife, after all, would like to see him.”