Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  When he reached for her, she moved quickly, avoiding his hand.

  “Now we’re even,” she said. “Now we can start over.”

  He looked at her, assessing. “You finally forgive me?”

  “Now I do,” she lied. “Come with me. We have something to do.”

  He would be useful to her for one more night.

  9:30 p.m., Tip of the Hat

  Mitch Cosgrove had told her Ted Donovan’s credit card statements indicated frequent trips to the Tip of the Hat, and Peyton had missed dinner anyway. So, after stopping by her home to change and to kiss both her son and her mother, she entered Garrett’s most popular restaurant-bar.

  She slid onto a barstool and, as she always did anytime she entered the Tip of the Hat, flashed back to her summers during college: Elise, Peyton, and a host of others, would gather here after a day of shitty college-kid summer work to play pool, eat pizza, and drink pitchers of draft beer. That group had included Pete Dye, her now-ex-boyfriend, who taught US History at the high school by day and made mortgage payments by tending bar at night. Pete was approaching now, flashing his ridiculously cute surfer smile.

  “Haven’t seen you here in ages.”

  “Been busy,” she said. “How are you?”

  “With someone,” he said.

  “That wasn’t what I asked, Pete, but I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks. I started dating her about a month after we ended.”

  “That’s great. Can I have a turkey burger and a Molson?”

  “Sure,” he moved off, called out the food order, took a bottle of Molson from the cooler, and returned. “Glass?”

  She shook her head.

  “I heard you’re with a state cop.”

  “It’s busy for a Wednesday, huh?” she said.

  “Playing coy?”

  “Playing discreet,” she said.

  Nearly every booth was filled; four couples were spread around the bar. Some inhabitants she recognized immediately. Some she’d gone to school with, others she’d seen and registered peripherally—people whose faces were familiar. She was good at remembering faces; most agents she knew were.

  “Here you go.”

  She turned back to Peter, and he slid the turkey burger to her. It had lettuce and tomato slices.

  “That was quick,” she said.

  “They’re popular. Jimmy has them ready.”

  “The sign in the window says, Burgers made fresh,” she said.

  Pete shook his head. “You never change.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’re ultra-cynical.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I’m an optimist.”

  “Want ketchup?”

  “No, I’m good. You ever see Ted Donovan in here?”

  “Teddy? Sure, three, four nights a week,” Pete said. “Becky”—he pointed—“usually waits on him. She’s patient enough to do it. He sits by himself and plays on his computer for a couple hours. Never tips.”

  Peyton saw Becky cross the room and return to the bar. Pete moved to her, leaned close, and whispered something. Becky looked at him, then at Peyton. She came down the bar.

  “Hi, Becky.”

  “Don’t I know you? You went to Garrett High.”

  Peyton nodded. “About a hundred years ago.”

  “Didn’t we all? You played basketball.”

  “I did,” Peyton said and reached in her purse. “I was the short one running for her life. I’m here on business and pleasure tonight.” She slid a business card to Becky. “Do you know Ted Donovan?”

  Becky read the business card. “US Border Patrol?”

  Peyton nodded.

  Becky smiled. “Teddy? Sure. I wait on him several nights a week. He comes in and drinks three or four beers, eats peanuts. Never orders a meal. Gets so wrapped up in whatever he’s doing on his computer. Last week, I made him eat a burger. I paid for it. The guy’s sort of pathetic. Just stares at that computer like my ten-year-old on his phone.”

  “Nice of you to feed him. You must really care about him.” Was this a mistake? If Becky cared that much about Ted Donovan, there was nothing preventing her from calling to say a Border Patrol agent had been asking questions about him.

  “Care might be too strong a word. We don’t actually talk. He plays on his laptop and says weird shit once in a while.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  Becky looked around.

  “Some place we can go?” Peyton said.

  “I’m on the clock.”

  Instinctively, Peyton said, “This won’t take long.” In truth, she had no idea how long it would take.

  They were in the back office. The desk had framed photos of a man Peyton recognized as Tip of the Hat owner Bill Schute with a silver-haired woman (Schute’s wife) and three little girls (Schute’s granddaughters). Becky sat in Schute’s swivel chair. A newspaper article from the Star Herald was framed and hung on the wall behind his chair. The headline read Schute Family Buys Tip of The Hat.

  “Tell me about ‘weird,’” Peyton said again.

  “He quotes Dostoyevsky and weirdos like that once in a while.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “I don’t remember the exact quotes.”

  “In general?”

  “Something about extraordinary men overstep boundaries because they can.”

  “Because they can?”

  “Yeah. That’s the gist.”

  Peyton shrugged. Not much she could do with that. But she’d remember the line, search it later. See if anything interesting turned up. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “What are you looking for?” Becky said. “Is Ted in trouble?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

  “I’m interested in him as part of something I’m looking into. That’s really it.”

  Becky shrugged. “I tell him he could’ve been one of those guys you see on the network nightly news shows. He likes that.”

  “Ever say why he gave it up?”

  “Not really. I asked. He says he’s happier working at Ford than he was at WAGM. I don’t believe him.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure. Just the way he says it. He just goes back to looking at art on his laptop.”

  “Art?” Peyton said.

  “Yeah. He looks at art the whole time he’s here.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “He looks at a lot of pictures,” Becky said, “but there is one I’ve noticed him looking at a couple times.”

  Peyton was sitting up straight. “Can you describe it?”

  10:35 p.m., Drummond Lane

  The car ride home wasn’t talkative, but it wasn’t silent either: his mother cried, and his father swore under his breath.

  And Michael wasn’t about to start a conversation. The big cop had turned off the generator, which meant the insulated shack wasn’t being heated. The Explorer’s external thermometer read forty-three. That wasn’t great—far from the constant seventy degrees of Uncle Ted’s apartment—but it was above freezing, and the air was dry. He wondered if he’d be alone long enough to get back to the shack in the coming days. He also wondered about Ted, about what his father had said in the conference room. Ted knew it was gone.

  His father pulled the Explorer into the driveway next to his mother’s Escape. Uncle Ted’s old F-150 pickup was there.

  All three climbed out of the Explorer.

  “It’s late,” Bohana said. “Let’s all try to get some rest. I’ll set up a meeting with the guidance counselor in the morning.”

  “Mom, why would you do that?”

  “Michael,” his father said, “the University of Maine is a big school. They’ll find out about this.”
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  “Your name will be in the police section of the Goddamned Star Herald within two days,” his mother said.

  His father nodded. “It’s much better to get out in front of it.”

  “What’s that mean, Get out in front of it?”

  “It will probably mean”—his father sighed and blew out a long breath—“you writing a letter to the director of the Art History program explaining what you were doing.”

  “We need to see what the judge says,” Bohana said. “Maybe the judge will dismiss the whole thing.”

  Michael opened the front door and entered through the mud room into the kitchen. Uncle Ted and Dariya Vann were seated at the kitchen table, neither man speaking. Four beer bottles and a deck of cards were on the table between them.

  “Dariya,” Bohana said, “did you see Aleksei?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “That’s all?”

  “He was going to math team,” Dariya said.

  “He joined the math team?” Bohana said. “That’s excellent.”

  “Where were you?” Ted asked.

  Steven shook his head.

  “Don’t want to talk about it?” Ted said.

  “Correct,” Michael’s father said. “What have you guys been doing? Catching up?”

  “More like discussing problems,” Dariya said.

  Ted and Steven locked eyes.

  “Remember what I mentioned at work?” Ted asked.

  Steven nodded. “Michael, your uncle thinks someone was in his apartment. You didn’t go up there, did you?”

  “I don’t have a key,” Michael said, not answering the question, but not lying either.

  Steven nodded, then turned to Ted. “Still no luck finding whatever you lost?”

  “No luck,” Ted said, looking at Michael as he spoke.

  Michael felt a twinge at the back of his neck. Uncle Ted’s eyes never left him. The conversation overheard in the driveway told Michael the two men planned to move it soon. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “I’m going upstairs,” he said.

  “Want to stay, play cards with your uncle and me?” Dariya said.

  Michael turned to him, saw a desperation in Dariya’s eyes that frightened him.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  Ted’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at it absently at first, then he pulled the phone closer and read. He slid the phone to Dariya, who read, shrugged, and nodded.

  Both men stood.

  “Where are you going?” Bohana asked.

  “Out,” Ted said.

  The house was sixty-two degrees and he felt cold. Michael didn’t go to bed. In the dark, he stood near the window, looking out at the night.

  And thinking.

  Why did Dariya and Uncle Ted want him to stay up with them? Did they know he’d taken it? They did know it. He could see it in his uncle’s eyes. What had they wanted to say?

  He felt suddenly cold, as if a draft had entered through the window frame.

  Oh, God, what had he done?

  If Uncle Ted had waited more than twenty-five years to cash in, there was too much at stake to let his nephew stand in the way. Based on the conversation he’d overheard, the number was thirty million dollars.

  His father either genuinely knew nothing about it, or was a great actor.

  What was he going to do? The night before, he still hadn’t known. He couldn’t turn his uncle in. It wasn’t that he wanted to protect his uncle so much as he needed to protect his mother and father. They’d housed the item—and its thief—for half a century. Could they possibly be considered innocent? Would anyone believe them? He wasn’t even sure he did, entirely. But he would protect them. And it was more than innocence and guilt. It was the item itself and its creator. Who had the right to own it? If Uncle Ted and Dariya moved it, it would be lost again.

  As soon as possible, he’d return to the shack, get it, and leave it somewhere where it would be found by the right people. And no one would know where it had been these past twenty-five years.

  The question was how to avoid Uncle Ted and Dariya until then.

  11 p.m., Tip of the Hat

  Marfa had a bad feeling.

  She didn’t like the look on the American’s face. He looked scared, like he was in over his head and he knew it. And the little Ukrainian looked angry. About what, she had no idea.

  They were at the Tip of the Hat shortly before closing time Wednesday. Pyotr sat next to her, sipping draft beer and glancing menacingly at Dariya. He asked about the little man’s accent.

  “I’m from Donetsk,” Dariya said.

  “What’s your name?” Pyotr asked.

  Dariya shook his head.

  “I’m Ivan and this is my wife Sonya,” Pyotr said.

  “Can we all speak English, please?” Ted said.

  Marfa liked that. She could speak both languages but didn’t want the two men across from her to know it—not yet.

  Pyotr ignored him and continued in Russian. “Your town has been at the center of a lot of the fighting.”

  “Yes,” Dariya said. “A lot of fighting. You’re from St. Petersburg?”

  Pyotr confirmed that.

  A waitress appeared. “Hey, Teddy. Who are your friends?”

  “Just relatives,” Ted said.

  No one at the table spoke.

  “Another round?” Becky said.

  “Four vodkas,” Ted said.

  “No.” Marfa shook her head. “I hate vodka.”

  “Great accent,” Becky said.

  “Rum and Coke,” Marfa said, “and another round of beer.”

  Becky nodded and moved toward the bar.

  “You’re both from St. Petersburg,” Dariya said.

  “No need to know where we’re from,” Marfa said in Russian, “and we’re not here to talk politics.”

  “English, please,” Ted said.

  “It’s not politics.” Dariya stared at Marfa, still speaking Russian. “It’s my life. The fighting almost killed my wife. She needs medical care.”

  “Once Ukraine falls,” Pyotr said, “Putin will take care of you all.”

  Dariya grabbed a water glass and tossed its contents in his face.

  Pyotr was on his feet. Dariya followed suit, coming up to the younger man’s shoulder.

  “What the hell was that?” Ted said. “What did he say?”

  “Hey!” Pete Dye called from behind the bar. “Hey, Ted, what’s going on over there?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s okay, Pete.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Pyotr looked at the bartender and sat down.

  “Enough,” Marfa said. “We’re here to talk about the transaction.”

  “What about Germany?” Dariya said, retaking his chair. “That was the plan.”

  “I have the money now. Let’s make the exchange here. It’s easier for you. Much easier.”

  Dariya looked at Ted and translated.

  “What?” Ted said. Then to Marfa, “Are you moving it yourself ?”

  “I have a private plane on standby. Where we’re going is none of your business. Nor is it any of your concern. I can wire the money once you’ve completed your delivery.”

  Dariya looked at Ted.

  “I don’t like changing plans,” Ted said.

  Again, Marfa had a bad feeling.

  “How long will it take for the money to go through?” Ted said.

  Marfa shook her head. “No more than twenty-four hours. Once I know you have it and can deliver it, I’ll start the transfer.”

  “We’re going to proceed very slowly, very carefully,” Dariya said. He was speaking to Marfa but looking at Pyotr.

  “I understand,” Marfa said.

  “We’
ll pick a public place to show you it. When we see the money in the account, we will meet to give it to you.”

  Marfa looked at him. “I don’t like that. That leaves you holding both it and the money for a period of time.”

  Ted shook his head. “I’ve had the fucking thing for twenty-five years. I want to be rid of it.”

  Marfa looked at him. She thought he was on the level, but she still didn’t like it.

  Dariya didn’t like Pyotr. He was like all the others Putin had in his back pocket. She probably was too. But she was smart—and sexy, if Dariya was being honest.

  Dariya turned from Pyotr to Marfa. “You’ll hear from us. We have your text number.” He nodded for Ted to follow.

  Ted stood.

  “I thought you might have a celebratory drink with my husband and me,” Marfa said.

  “We’ll celebrate when I have the money and can help my wife,” Dariya said, then to Pyotr in Russian, “And when Putin is defeated.”

  Dariya and Ted walked out.

  eleven

  Thursday, March 13, 6:15 a.m., Garrett Station

  Peyton was at her desk beside Stan Jackman when Hewitt entered.

  “What time did you two get here?” Hewitt asked.

  “Christ,” Jackman said, “Peyton never left. She called me in around eleven.”

  “Eleven p.m.?” Hewitt said. “You woke him up?”

  “It’s okay,” Jackman said. “Worth it. Besides, I know how you love to pay overtime.”

  “Overtime gives me heartburn. And you both know that.”

  Across the bullpen, Agent Bruce Steele chuckled. Steele was the station’s K-9 agent; his German Shepherd, Poncho, lay at his feet. “They started out being very serious. Then things got giggly around two in the morning. Then they were giving each other high fives around five a.m. Made my night shift more interesting anyway.”

  Hewitt tossed his coat onto a chair and moved to Peyton’s desk. “You two worked all night?”

  She nodded, leaned back, and sipped her coffee. “Fresh pot,” she said. “I brought Starbucks from home and brewed it myself. I’ll sacrifice one cup, if you’re interested.”

  “Peyton, what’s going on?”

  “We need to search Ted Donovan’s house and look at his computer.”

  “Ted Donovan?”

  “That’s right,” she said.