by D. A. Keeley
“No, probably not. But we can build a case. Kvido wanted to avenge his father’s death.”
“By blowing up the president?” Hammond said.
Peyton shrugged. “Everyone in this room has heard crazier plans. Last year, we had a drug smuggler tell us his priest told him to swim bags of pot across the river.”
Hewitt chuckled at the memory. “He said the priest told him to do it when he was across from him in the confessional. I thought the priest was going to have a stroke when we brought him in. Poor old guy.”
“A repentant pot dealer,” Hammond said. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
Stone leaned back in his chair. “So we’re saying that none of this has anything to do with Andela? Nothing to do with any group? This is just a kid with a screwed-up childhood who was looking for a way to get over it. That’s what you think this whole thing is about?”
Peyton looked at Stone, then at Hewitt and Hammond.
“Yes, that’s what I think,” she said. “And Sherry had been abused—verbally, physically, and, I’m fairly certain, sexually—by her father. She was a broken individual. It made her needy. Kvido saw that and manipulated her. She told me it was a coincidence that Kvido knew Simon Pink. That was no coincidence.”
“You think Simon was planted here by Kvido?” Hammond asked.
“Probably. I think he built the IEDs, and I think they paid Fred St. Pierre for the use of his cabin.”
“So why was Simon Pink shot?” Stone asked. “Regardless of whether Freddy did it or Sherry did it. What’s the motive to that killing?”
“Could be a lot of things,” Peyton said. “Maybe Fred Sr. never knew what they were using his cabin for and found out. Maybe Simon told Marie, and when the truth came out, they all had to go.”
“Or maybe,” Stone said, “Fred Sr. knew all along, and when Marie found out, she had to go, along with Simon Pink. And Fred couldn’t live with himself if he killed his wife, so he took his own life, too.”
“This is all hypothetical,” Hammond said. “Won’t do a thing for you.”
“We need to get Kvido in the box again,” Hewitt said.
Hammond shook his head discouragingly, “He’s very good. If we can’t tie the IEDs to him, he can walk all the way back to the Czech Republic and let Freddy take the rap.”
“Someone put the IEDs in the ground,” Hewitt said. “Pink was dead and Freddy was in custody when they were buried.”
Hammond nodded. “We’ll ask him. We should be able to keep him here for a while. He’s a suspect in a presidential assassination attempt.”
“When Stone and I interviewed Kvido,” Peyton said, “he called Simon Pink a ‘father figure,’ said Simon brought him into Andela. I’d love to hear how he injured his hand.”
“I bet Simon Pink taught him about IEDs,” Hammond said. “This all makes sense. Too bad it’s all circumstantial.”
Peyton was staring out the window, thinking. It was a sun-drenched Saturday. Tommy’s last day of school was in two days.
Stone said, “Can you get a warrant to search his room?”
“We did that already,” Hewitt said. “Found nothing.”
“Mike,” Peyton said, “I need a warrant to take a DNA swab from Kvido.”
“DNA? Are you trying to link him to the murder scene? There’s nothing left out there. Everything burned.”
“No,” she said. “I have an idea.”
Sunday night, the house was quiet. Tommy was in bed after a day spent with Peyton. They’d gone to a karate lesson then fished a brook in the afternoon.
Now Peyton was alone on the living room sofa with a glass of wine and her thoughts, which ran continually to Dr. Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall.
Stone Gibson had walked her through the Matt Kingston debriefing: Matt had been in the cabin for several days. He’d been taken by Sherry Wednesday night and escaped Friday. Matt had spent the bulk of his hours in captivity in a small bedroom at the back of the cabin. The window had been boarded up, and the door had been locked. Friday night, he found a box cutter in his room, used it to cut the duct tape binding his wrists, and escaped.
Peyton was drinking a glass of Casamatta. She leaned back on her living room sofa and thought about that: Matt Kingston had gone missing Wednesday night, but Peyton had seen Sherry Thursday at the Hampton Inn.
Had Matt been bound and left in that cabin while Sherry was in her hotel room? Why didn’t he see the box cutter before Friday night?
It didn’t feel right. Something wasn’t adding up. She picked up her cell phone.
When Stone Gibson answered, she said, “Sorry to bother you at home. I didn’t think of this when we were at the dojo.”
“You’re apologizing as if I lead an exciting life and you might be interrupting me.”
“I assumed you do and I was.”
“The Red Sox are down four in the bottom of the seventh, Peyton. I’ve been on my couch for two hours listening to them on the radio and reading.”
“Matt was abducted Wednesday night and taken immediately to the cabin, correct?”
“Yes, by Sherry.”
“And he never left the cabin, right?”
“Yes. What’s wrong? You sound skeptical.”
“I went to the Hampton Inn and spoke to Sherry on Thursday.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Who was with Matt Kingston while Sherry was at the Hampton Inn?”
Stone said, “He said he didn’t hear anyone else in the cabin.”
“You think they left him there alone?”
The line was quiet for a time; Stone was thinking.
“I wouldn’t do it that way,” he said.
“Why not kill him?”
“Because he’s a kid?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why then?”
“This whole thing feels wrong.”
“Peyton, what are you getting at?”
“I think someone relieved her at the cabin. How else would she be out there without a car?”
“Bezdek?”
“He went missing for a time. Hewitt and Hammond went to bring him in for questioning and he couldn’t be found. Then when I wanted to talk to him, he was happy to do it. It smells bad.”
Stone was quiet.
“And why not kill Matt Kingston?” she asked again. “He’s a liability, right?”
“Of course.”
“For what?”
“To point a finger,” Stone said.
“At whom?”
“The shooter in the Simon Pink murder.”
“Yeah, and who’s left? Freddy is locked up on First-Degree Murder charges, Simon Pink is dead, and then there’s Sherry.”
“You think she’s a fall guy?”
“It looks that way. If Kvido Bezdek was the one behind all this—paying Simon Pink to make bombs, convincing Sherry to shoot Simon, and paying Freddy, through Sherry, to burn the crime scene—Kvido would have lots of reasons to want Sherry out of the picture.”
“You’re saying Bezdek used Sherry.”
“If Sherry had come out of that cabin with me, and Matt Kingston is still alive, he could help us place her at the crime scene. Then she’d eventually be facing either murder or conspiracy charges. You see? Bezdek would want Matt Kingston alive—to testify against Sherry and Freddy because one would be going to jail for life and the other to jail for conspiracy, and Pink would be dead.”
“And Bezdek would be in the clear.”
“That’s the thing, Stone,” Peyton said. “As things stand, he still is.”
Forty-Six
“When we get inside,” Stone Gibson said, “I’d like the lead. The homicide is mine, after all.”
“I’m just here in an advisory role,” DA Stephanie DuBois said.
“And I have no pro
blem with you leading,” Peyton said.
It was Monday morning at 9:15, and they were outside a conference room in the Aroostook County Jail in Houlton.
“Does he know his sister is dead?” Peyton asked.
Stone nodded. “They told him yesterday, and they say he didn’t take it well.”
When they entered, Freddy, seated next to his attorney at a rectangular metal table, looked up. There were no coffee cups on the table this time, just Stone’s iPhone, the voice-recording app activated.
“I don’t got much to say to you fucking people.” Freddy looked at Peyton. “You were there, eh? And you let it happen.”
“Freddy,” Stone said, “we are all terribly sorry for your loss. And you should know that Agent Cote talked your sister out of killing herself. She also tried to get her to leave the cabin. She attempted to help her, and risked her life to do so.”
Freddy looked at Peyton, head tilted. “You did that?”
“Yeah.”
Shelley Wong, Freddy’s court-appointed attorney, had a legal pad out. She wasn’t even thirty, but had gone to Columbia. There were two other changes Peyton noted: Freddy no longer wore his soiled jeans and shirt—he wore an orange jumpsuit—and he was sporting a first-class shiner.
“Where’s Steve St. Louis?” Stephanie asked.
“Can’t afford him now. Sherry was paying for him.” He motioned toward Shelley Wong. “She’s smarter than him anyway.”
Karen Smythe had mentioned Shelley Wong to Peyton. Karen had told Peyton that Wong had an “adorable” baby and was married to a teacher. But this was neither the time nor place to mention their connection via a mutual friend.
“I wanted to stay in Garrett, eh?” Freddy said. “But they moved me here. You like my black eye?”
“Tough place?” Stone said.
“These guys are a bunch of assholes. Real criminals.”
“And you’re not?” Stone said.
Freddy looked at him. “I pled not guilty, didn’t I? I got sucker-punched in the face yesterday.”
“Well, county jail is better than state prison, believe me.”
“I’m working on having you moved back to Garrett,” Wong said, “until your trial.”
Freddy listened then turned to the threesome seated across from him. “See? She’s smart, eh?”
“Freddy,” Stone said, “I’d like to talk some more about the night Simon Pink was killed.”
“We been over that a hundred times.”
“I’d like you to tell me who was in the cabin.”
“I don’t know. I told you already. I set the fire early that morning. All that shit happened before I got there.”
“I think you’re a really good brother, Freddy,” Stone said.
“I don’t see the relevance,” Wong said. “Where are you going with that, detective?”
“It’s a tragedy, but Sherry is dead now, Freddy.”
“Again,” Wong said, “relevance?”
Stone stared at Freddy. Freddy wasn’t confused now. Peyton saw it in his steady eyes. Freddy St. Pierre Jr. was thinking.
He turned to Peyton. “My sister’s gone now, too? First my parents, now her. And you were there, eh?”
Peyton nodded. “Freddy, there wasn’t anything I could do. I talked her out of killing herself.”
“She wouldn’t do that, Peyton.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I know my sister. I thought you did, too, eh.”
“She thought she had reason to do it, Freddy.”
Freddy shook his head, growing frustrated. “What are you talking about?”
“I told her I knew the truth, Freddy.”
“What’s going on here?” Freddy said to Wong.
“Detective Gibson said he had something important to discuss. I’m certain these people will get to it soon.” Wong looked at Stone. “Won’t you?”
“I know the truth about what happened that night, Freddy,” Peyton said again.
They locked eyes, and Freddy turned away.
“You’re a good brother,” Stone said. “I have a lot of respect for you.”
Freddy cleared his throat. “I don’t know what these people are talking about,” he said to Wong.
Peyton said, “You’re a good brother, Freddy. But it’s over now.”
“My sister didn’t do nothing.”
“And you pled not guilty,” Stone said. “It’s time for you to look at the big picture. Simon Pink was there. Your sister was there. And you were, too, Freddy. Not later, as you keep saying, but in the cabin when Simon was shot. All four of us know that’s true.”
“This is speculation, detective,” Wong said.
“I’m trying to spare your client from serving life in prison, Shelley.”
“He set a fire. That doesn’t get anyone life.”
Stephanie cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her.
“Ms. Wong, we’re here to offer your client a chance to cooperate with us and tell us the truth. He doesn’t have to. I’m very confident that I can and will prove that your client admitted he was at the crime scene to set a fire to cover his tracks—to convince people that he wasn’t there when the shot was fired. But let’s look at the facts of the case that I have to work with: The fatal shot came from his gun. It happened on his land. In the cabin he built. And he knew the suspect had seduced his mother and was cheating on his father, a man he spent every day of his adult life with, which, as we both know, is a strong motive. We can play that game and probably get a conviction and send Mr. St. Pierre to Warren for life, if he would like. But the three of us on this side of the table want the truth not just a conviction.”
“What is she saying?” Freddy asked Wong, who said nothing for several moments.
Then, finally: “I think I need a few minutes with Mr. St. Pierre.”
FBI Agent Frank Hammond kept his word, allowing Peyton in on the interview with Kvido Bezdek. In fact, it seemed to Peyton, he’d allowed half the criminal-justice officials in Aroostook County in on it.
Peyton was beside Hammond and Mike Hewitt at the interview table in Garrett Station Monday at 2 p.m. State Trooper Stone Gibson, DA Stephanie DuBois, Agent Mitch Cosgrove, and Secret Service Agent Wally Rowe were in the back of the room.
“I appreciate you coming in,” Hammond said.
“I am happy to help,” Bezdek said in his thick Eastern bloc accent. He was all smiles, but he also had Len Landmark, the Portland-based attorney, with him.
“Welcome back to the area, counselor,” Hammond said to Land-
mark.
Landmark didn’t smile. “Let’s get to it, gentleman. My client misses his homeland. He’d like to get this resolved in an expedient manner.”
“We all would. I can assure you of that,” Hammond said. “Could you tell me about your relationship with Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall?”
“I worked for her as a researcher. But I must admit that our relationship changed over the years. I loved her. Her death will be something I can never get over. It’s why I am still here. I must attend her funeral.”
Peyton had her hands on her lap. Had they been on the table, she’d have been tempted to slap him.
“Tell us about your hand.”
“I injured it many years ago.”
Hammond waited.
Bezdek glanced at Landmark.
“What would you like to know, Frank?” Landmark said.
“What happened to his hand?”
“May I ask why you wish to know that?”
“Sure. I’m curious to see if it had any influence on this case.”
“If anything,” Landmark said, “seeing as it’s his right hand and he’s right-handed, it proves that he could not have shot Simon Pink.”
Hammond nodded. “I see. How were you i
njured?”
“My hand was burned in a fire.”
Hewitt opened a manila folder that lay before him on the table, took out a sheet of typescript, and pushed it toward Bezdek.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a classified report,” Hammond said. “Check out the second paragraph.”
Peyton looked at Landmark. It was clear by his expression that he now knew why he was there—they were going after his client. He leaned close to the paper and read it.
“You can’t prove it,” Landmark said.
“Not sure I want to.” Hammond pulled the paper back. “But it’s interesting that the CIA has known your client and Mr. Pink were together many years ago in Andela and that Mr. Pink introduced Mr. Bezdek to bomb-making.” Hammond looked at the sheet again. “A ‘training accident,’ huh? Jesus, what must have been going through your head when you first looked at your hand?”
“Want me to tell you?”
Bezdek’s voice had a different quality now. Still the thick accent. But the polished, polite tone was gone, replaced by anger.
Landmark caught the tone and said, “That won’t be necessary, Kvido. I’m still waiting for some degree of relevance, Agent Hammond. My client, after all, is grief-stricken but still managed to come here to cooperate in full because he wants to help.”
“Here’s the thing: revenge can come in many forms. But you need to be right-handed for most of them. Is that what you’re saying, Kvido?”
“I don’t follow you, agent.” Bezdek’s mouth was a tight slit now, his eyes narrowed. “And I’m tired of wasting my time.”
“I know what happened to your father. I’d like to think our government agencies have gotten better in the years since. But, like Mr. Landmark says, that’s not relevant. Your father was assassinated. I know that. And, hell, I might have even tried what you tried, had I been in your position.”
“Speculation, agent,” Landmark said. “My client hasn’t been charged, so I would appreciate you not speculating on what he ‘tried.’”
“I’m saying, given what happened to your father, given what became of your mother … You have my sympathy.”
“You know nothing about me or my mother.” Bezdek’s voice was a low, guttural growl. “Not one thing, agent.”