Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (36 page)

“No. But he told me the plane tickets to England were
about something else
—his words. And I got the first name of Hurley’s girlfriend: Celia.”

“That’s more believable than Jane Smith.”

“She and Hurley have been flying to England together,” she said. Peyton glanced over her shoulder. Tommy was staring at the floor. Linda Cyr was bouncing Max on her lap as Elise sat by, her face blank.

She turned back to Hewitt. “The thing is, threatening a Border Patrol agent’s kid and sister is awfully serious. Timms took a big chance by doing that.”

“He’s not a thinker,” Hewitt said. “We all know that.”

“I think there’s more to it. I mean, why is Tyler Timms interfering in someone else’s marriage? Because he’s concerned for my brother-in-law’s happiness? No way.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know, but I think Jonathan has the answers to a lot of our questions. It was his baby I found, and he was in the area. He might very well have left her there to die.”

“Would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Miguel Jimenez might’ve walked into him,” Hewitt said.

“Lots of mights and maybes.”

Afternoon sunlight entered the office in a slanted bronze panel.

“You need to fill out a report,” he said, “so do I.”

She looked at him. “Is yours an incident report or disciplinary report?”

“My report will indicate that in the course of investigating the shooting of an agent, you had your family threatened by Mr. Timms. In your attempt to protect yourself and your family, you were forced to injure Mr. Timms.”

“That’s what happened,” she said.

“You’re a good agent, Peyton. I know that.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’m pulling you off night shift. I want you at your sister’s at night. Stan Jackman can stay with her during the day. You can relieve him after work.”

“Thanks. I take the threat seriously.”

“You should. Someone is facing Attempted Murder charges on the shooting of a federal agent, and Endangering the Welfare of a Child. We’re going to keep the heat on Timms. Miller is at the hospital questioning him now. We’ll send a couple agents to his house to ask some questions tomorrow.”

“Am I on routine patrol?”

“Yeah, and I want you to keep looking into the missing baby.”

“With Bruce, Pam, and Scott?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Peyton said to Scott Smith, when he slid into the booth across from her. She’d gone home, checked on Elise, Max, and Tommy, all of whom were at Lois’s for dinner. Stan Jackman was there as well.

“Not a problem,” Scott Smith said and glanced around the room.

The dinner crowd had descended upon Gary’s Diner.

When she had called and asked him to join her, he’d sounded enthusiastic.

“Back on duty?” He lifted his ice water, his eyes focused on the glass, and sipped.

“Yeah. It’s a big relief. Been going stir-crazy sitting at home.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Not much,” she said.

“Heard you got into a fight at LeeRoy’s. What were you doing at that shithole in the first place? That place is dangerous, Peyton.”

“Where did you hear about that?”

“Where did I hear about it? It was all over the radio transmissions. Hewitt even responded.”

“You know Tyler Timms?”

“I interviewed him twice about Autumn. He’s an asshole.”

“I dislocated his elbow.”

“Lucky you.”

“He threatened my son.”

“Why?”

She’d asked him here to feel him out, to see what he was doing about the missing baby. She couldn’t get the image of Smith leaving Morris Picard’s home with an envelope out of her mind.

“Good question,” she said. “Have you interviewed Morris Picard?”

“Yeah. I can’t get a read on him. What do you think of him?” His eyes were on hers now.

Was he turning the questions back onto her intentionally?

“I’ve known him a long time,” she said. “I knew him years ago when he took in foster kids, saw how he treated them. He and his wife were pillars of the community.”

“He hit me up for a donation to his charity when I went to his house,” Smith said.

“What’s the charity?”

“Some orphanage in England. The guy is persuasive as hell. I actually left with an information packet. We got one tip on Autumn—someone called from the Midwest—but it didn’t pan out.”

“An information packet?”

“Yeah,” he said, “an envelope full of information and an application to donate money.”

Their meals arrived, and she ate her vegetable beef soup silently for a few moments, thinking of the envelope and Smith’s explanation.

“I think you, Bruce, Pam, and I need to sit down, exchange up-
dates.”

“I agree,” he said. “Come in tomorrow morning. I’ll set it up.”

“I owe someone an apology,” she said. “Sorry to eat and run.”

FORTY
-
THREE

“
I
ASKED YOU HERE
for two reasons,” Peyton said and held out a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. “Is regular with cream and sugar okay?”

“That’s how I take it,” Jeremiah Reilly said. “Thank you.”

They were seated on a bench beneath a streetlamp at the Reeds Public Park. The evening air was cold. She wasn’t in uniform and wore a fleece jacket, her .40 clipped to her belt. Around them, kids playing on the equipment seemed unaffected by the temperature.

Reilly sat looking at the kids. “Loud, aren’t they?” he said.

“You don’t have kids, do you?”

He shook his head. “Tommy makes friends easily.”

She nodded. They watched Tommy playing tag with a boy wearing a Reeds soccer shirt.

“Have any nieces, nephews?” she asked.

“That’s a good question.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know much about my family,” he said. “But I worked at an orphanage during graduate school. I like kids, and I know how important having parents can be.”

“An orphanage? I thought grad students typically have terrible jobs. Working in an orphanage sounds rewarding.”

“Not easy, but, yeah, very rewarding. I was an orphan there myself, so it was a chance to give back.”

“There’s a saying: A man’s character can be judged by what he gives back.”

“I’ve not heard that quote”—he smiled—“but I like it.”

Tommy was climbing the playscape now.

“I want to apologize for leading you on to get you to talk to me the other day,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted, but I think you’re saying you have no romantic interest in me.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He shook his head, disappointed.

“I do need to ask you a question, though,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“The first time I went to your office, Alan McAfee was coming out. He said, ‘Thank you for the contribution.’ You told him you were glad to help. What was that about?”

He looked into the distance above the trees lining the park. The ski trails at Bigrock in Mars Hill were lit and looked like brown crevasses cut from the dense forest of autumnal yellows, reds, and oranges. In the coming weeks, Tommy would have to wear a bright orange vest atop his jacket when playing outside after school. Deer season was upon them.

“Jerry?” she said.

His right hand went to his face. He rubbed his cheek and blew out a long, slow breath. “Damn it,” he said.

“What was McAfee talking about? What ‘contribution’ did you make? And to what?”

“I, ah …” He leaned forward, arms on thighs, staring down at the dormant grass between his loafers. His head shook back and forth. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Peyton.”

“Jerry, I’m not an idiot. And neither are you. Help yourself out by helping me right now.”

“That’s my problem. Ever read
Notes From the Underground
?”

“No.”

“There’s a great line in the book claiming that it’s better to have only average intelligence. That people with average intelligence are happier.”

She didn’t know where he was going with this, but he was still talking.

“And we all know you’re smart,” he said.

“Who? Who knows that? What did you give to McAfee?”

He shook his head.

“At the bar, you said you know my brother-in-law, Jonathan Hurley. And I’ve seen you with Morris Picard. McAfee’s from Boston. What are you all doing with him?”

The fall air carried the scent of damp leaves, a rich pungent odor. His hands were clasped and still in his lap, but his eyes were narrow brown pinpoints.

“Peyton, listen to me: Let all of this go. We’re helping people.”

“Kenny Radke told me that, and he’s dead now. What are you doing? Why were Jonathan and Celia flying to England?”

He stood up.

“Listen to Tyler, Peyton. They mean what they say. I don’t like it—I told you how I feel about kids—but I know they’re serious.”

“You know about the threats.”

“I don’t like it.”

She tried to stall him. “But you came here anyway? You’re not like them, Jerry.”

“Shit,” he said and took off his glasses. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Goddamn it!”

“I think you bit off more than you can chew, and you’re starting to realize that, Jerry. Talk to me. Who is Celia?”

“Let it go. You won’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She didn’t stop him when he left. Instead, she took out her cell phone and dialed Hewitt. She told him about the conversation.

“Reilly’s from England,” Hewitt said, “and Timms said that’s where Hurley and the girl were flying. Reilly say why?”

“No.”

“You have Reilly in your car?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t have my cuffs, and I thought letting him think about this might work in our favor. He’s in over his head, and he knows it.”

“Think he’ll turn on the others?”

“I think he just might,” she said.

“We’ll bring him in tonight,” Hewitt said.

It was nearly 11 p.m. Saturday night. Peyton was at her desk typing when Hewitt came out of his office.

“Thought I said you weren’t working nights,” Hewitt said.

“I’m not,” she said. “Just typing up the Jerry Reilly interview. Stan was playing cards with Elise and Tommy at her house last time I checked in.”

“I have Scott Smith bringing Reilly in. Should be here within the hour.”

Her cell phone vibrated.

“Peyton Cote.”

“Peyton, it’s Elise. When are you getting here?”

“What do you mean? We already discussed this. I’m still at the office.”

“Something’s wrong,” Elise said.

“What do you mean? Where’s Stan?”

Her eyes ran to Hewitt, who sensed something amiss.

“The station called, and Stan said he had to leave, that there was an emergency at the border. He said you were on your way. That was twenty minutes ago.”

She looked at Hewitt, covered the receiver, and said, “Someone tell Stan to leave Elise?”

“No, why?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What is it?” Hewitt said.

“Peyton, I think someone’s upstairs. Max and Tommy are both sleeping up—”

She didn’t hear the rest of it, only Hewitt’s footfalls as he followed her out the door.

FORTY
-
FOUR

P
EYTON STOOD AT THE
foot of the stairs next to Elise and Hewitt. The carpeted stairwell was in the center of the house, illuminated by a single overhead light. The wind was kicking up, and the lattice frames shook.

“When you hung up on me,” Elise said to Peyton, “I knew you were on the way, so I ran upstairs. I didn’t see anyone. I called 911 when Mike called back and told me to do it. A state trooper was here in two minutes.”

Hewitt looked at Peyton. “Leo Miller happened to be just down the road interviewing a burglary victim.”

Peyton considered that.

“Pam Morrison is in the kitchen drinking coffee,” he continued. “Says she got here about ten minutes after Miller. She said they did a room-by-room sweep of the house and when they gave it the all-clear, Miller went back to his interview.”

“I really think someone was in this house. You both probably think I’m paranoid.”

“No one thinks that,” Hewitt said.

Peyton was quiet, unable to get Jerry Reilly’s words—
Listen to Tyler, Peyton. They mean what they say
—out of her head.

“I know I heard something up there,” Elise said, her voice drifting off as if trying to convince herself.

Morrison came to the foot of the stairs. “Mike, I’ll check outside again.”

“Good,” Hewitt said. “We’re looking for anything.”

“Got it,” she said, and left.

Hewitt, Peyton, and Elise climbed the stairs. The master bedroom was at the top on the right, Max’s room was to the left, and the office was straight ahead.

“Both boys are asleep in Max’s room,” Elise said. “The sound came from there.”

“What did you hear?” Peyton said.

“Footsteps. But not the boys’. Much heavier. Too loud to be either boy.”

“You’re sure they weren’t jumping off the bed, playing around?” Hewitt said.

“Max is too young, in a crib, and Tommy was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“I know he was tired,” Peyton said. “He was up late looking at a house, and he had a long day. He’s old enough to sense something is going on. I think the stress tired him out.”

“After we take a look around,” Hewitt said, “I’d like to move the kids out of there and dust the whole room.”

Peyton entered first. Max lay asleep in his crib wearing navy blue Red Sox zip-up PJs, complete with footies; Tommy was on the cot beside him, sleeping in his Patriots jersey with Tom Brady’s number 12 on the back. The room’s walls were sky-blue. A mobile turned slowly above Max, softly chiming. The tune was vaguely familiar to Peyton, like the wind-up music boxes Lois had displayed throughout their old farmhouse.

Elise pointed to the mobile suspended above the crib. “Someone was in here,” she said. “Someone wound the mobile.”

“You’re sure?” Peyton said.

“That song reminds me of Dad, and it makes me sad, so I never play it. Jonathan is the only one who winds that for Max. I’m almost certain Jonathan was here—”