Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  A quarter-mile ahead, her headlights illuminated a curious sight: a solitary figure approaching on foot. Peyton was now a mile-and-

  a-half from the port of entry. The woman looked cold and wet and lurched forward a few steps at a time, weaving from the pavement to the dirt shoulder. Then she stopped and hunched over as if in pain.

  Peyton accelerated. The woman looked up at the Jeep, then struggled on, weaving. One knee of her blue jeans was torn and soiled. Despite the cold night air, she wore only a faded, short-sleeved cotton shirt, soaked and stuck to her skin like wet tissue paper. There was a stain above the woman’s chest. Blood?

  Peyton pulled to the side, climbed out of the Jeep, headlights bathing the woman like spotlights on an actor.

  The smear near her collar was definitely red.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  Before the woman could respond, Peyton’s cell phone chimed. She unclipped it from her belt. “Cote here.”

  “Peyton, it’s Hewitt.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off the full-figured woman, who looked no older than twenty.

  “Thought you’d want to know,” Hewitt said, “Kenny Radke is at St. Mary’s Hospital. Somebody jumped him. Kicked the shit out of him pretty good this afternoon.”

  “Damn. He was looking around the diner the whole time I spoke to him this morning.”

  “You met with him again?”

  “I put him on the spot this morning about the bogus tip.”

  “At the diner?”

  “I knew he’d be there.”

  The woman stared at Peyton, head tilted. Was she trying to follow the phone conversation?

  “Get anything out of him?” Hewitt asked.

  “Some names. I’m looking into it.”

  “Don’t forget our talk. Anything there for DEA?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up over Radke. He’s a shit magnet. This probably had nothing to do with you.”

  She didn’t believe that, but she let it go. The woman hadn’t moved by the time she hung up.

  “Is that blood?” Peyton pointed.

  The woman jumped back as if frightened by Peyton’s finger.

  “It’s okay,” Peyton said. “Did someone do this to you?”

  The olive-skinned young woman bent over again. Peyton was certain she’d vomit. When she didn’t, Peyton waited in awkward silence for her to straighten. Finally, Peyton crouched to see her face.

  “Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Peyton said.

  The girl stood tall then, dark eyes opened wide as if surprised to see her. The girl had gone from terrified to astonished in a matter of seconds.

  Peyton tried for soothing. “Look, whatever you took isn’t agreeing with you. We’re going to get you some help. Tell me your name and where you’re from.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Hablas Español?” Peyton said. Like every agent, she spoke fluent Spanish upon graduating from the nineteen-week academy.

  The girl was silent, so, in Spanish, Peyton asked about the spot on her shirt.

  “No spot on my shirt,” the girl said in Spanish.

  “Why are you limping?” Peyton asked.

  “I twist my ankle. No drugs.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Where are you from?” Peyton asked.

  “Why?”

  “Let me call someone, get you a ride.”

  “You a cop?”

  Peyton said again, “Where do you live?”

  The woman didn’t answer, shuffling past Peyton, who turned to face her.

  “Downtown Garrett is over a mile away. It’s dark, and it feels like winter tonight. You don’t have a coat. Let me take you somewhere.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Then wait while I call someone and get you a ride.” She punched in Station from her contacts list.

  Stan Jackman answered.

  Peyton took two steps and turned away from the girl. “It’s Peyton. Got a situation here that may involve an illegal alien and possibly drugs.”

  “You off duty?”

  She heard a vehicle approaching from the north and turned to see a rusted Aerostar van.

  “That’s why I’m calling this in. I’ll wait for you. I’m out on Route One with a girl, nineteen or twenty. Spanish. Has what might be a bloodstain on her shirt. And she might be high.”

  “Fun stuff. Glad you thought of me.”

  “Wanted to start with the best,” Peyton said and glanced over her shoulder. The young woman had moved several steps farther away.

  “I’m too old for flattery,” Jackman said. “I’ll radio Bruce Steele. He’s in the field. When she gets here, I’ll check for immigration documents.”

  The van screeched to a halt twenty feet from Peyton.

  “What’s that?” Jackman asked.

  “Hold on,” Peyton said and waved the van to continue.

  It passed her, pulling up to the young woman. The side door opened. Someone reached out and grabbed the girl by the arm. The van started pulling away before she was fully inside.

  Peyton sprinted, but it was no use.

  A moment before the side door closed and the van was off, Peyton had made eye contact with the woman—and realized her expression was not fear but relief.

  But why the rush? In five seconds, the van rounded a corner and was out of sight.

  Had she witnessed an abduction or a rescue?

  “Tell me again how it went down,” Agent Scott Smith said.

  Peyton was still standing on the side of Route 1, but now she’d been joined by PAIC Mike Hewitt and Smith.

  “I was on the phone, the van showed up, and … ” She shrugged. “I tried to catch up in my Jeep. But the van had a head start, and there are just too many dirt roads around here.”

  “Somebody reached out and grabbed her?” Hewitt said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I called in a description of the girl. Stan Jackman’s putting out a BOLO. I’m on tonight. Maybe someone will see her.”

  It was still snowing with the forecast calling for significant accumulation. Smith removed his hat, shook the slush off, and replaced it.

  “I’m still confused,” he said. “Somebody pulled to the side of the road, and she got in?”

  Peyton said, “She was pulled in.”

  “You said she was glad to get away,” Smith said, “but it sounds like a kidnapping.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” Peyton said. “Her expression said I was the lesser of two evils.”

  Hewitt looked in both directions up and down Route 1. “We’re in a small valley here. How did the driver of the van know where she’d be? Did you get a look at the driver?”

  Peyton shook her head.

  Hewitt said, “You look cold, Peyton. You’re not dressed to be out in the snow for an hour and a half. Go home, get warm, and we’ll talk about this more when you start your shift.”

  Scott Smith took off his coat and draped it over Peyton’s shoulders.

  “Thanks, but you keep it,” she said. “You’ll be cold.”

  “No. I’m fine. I got one last question,” Smith said. “You said you were coming from Mo Picard’s house. What were you doing out there?”

  “You know him?” she said. Smith had only been in Garrett a couple months longer than Peyton.

  “No, why?” Smith said.

  “You called him Mo.”

  “That’s what you called him,” Smith said. “Isn’t that his name?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Anyway, I was asking him questions about some information I got today from Kenny Radke.”

  “About the baby?” Smith said.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Is she in DHHS custody? Is that an open file, Mike?”

  Hewitt looked at Peyton. Then he looked down and kicked slush off his boot. “Tell me about the Mo Picard interview.”

  “I caught him in a lie,” s
he said and told them what she’d learned.

  EIGHT

  AT GARRETT STATION, SHE gave Stan Jackman a detailed description of the woman, and Jackman ran the van’s license plate. After a quick change in the locker room, Peyton was in uniform and at her desk, running on all of four hours’ sleep. She hit Home on her cell phone. Her mother answered.

  “I got tied up,” she explained for the millionth time. “I’m at the office.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  She heard Lois sigh. “Lucky you have a supportive mother. Hey, Elise called for you tonight. She sounded …”

  “Upset?”

  “A little. How’d you know? What’s going on?”

  The front door opened, and a woman entered, followed by a state trooper. They passed her desk and went into Hewitt’s office.

  “I had breakfast with her. Something’s up with Jonathan and her.”

  “Okay, but, as you know,” her mother said, “I don’t meddle. I just worry. I know he paid his debt to society and all that stuff Elise says, but he’s still got crazy eyes.”

  “Don’t meddle? You? Mom, you ask me if I’m dating someone every morning.”

  “That’s just being curious, not meddling. Besides, you need a man. A woman can’t be alone forever.”

  “Look, Mom, can you make sure Tommy does his homework? He’s struggling in math.”

  “We already did it. He did a wonderful job. We’re going to bake cookies tonight.”

  “I know you had bridge tonight. I really appreciate this.”

  “That’s what mothers—and grandmothers—are for, sweetie. I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me, too.” Peyton smiled and listened as the receiver changed hands.

  “Mom?” Tommy said.

  “Hi, Tommy gun. Sorry I didn’t make it back to tuck you in.”

  “Mom, I’m not a baby.”

  “I know. Well, go to bed when Gram tells you. I’ll take you for ice cream tomorrow.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Peyton closed her cell phone and walked to Hewitt’s office. Only one metal folding chair, between the uniformed trooper and the woman, remained. She slipped between them. Hewitt sat in his high-backed leather chair across his desk from them.

  “Peyton, this is Lieutenant Leo Miller with the state police. Leo, Peyton Cote.”

  “We spoke on the phone earlier,” Miller said. He had a crew cut and intense green eyes, his severe gaze on Peyton. Not looking her over as much as appraising her. His appraisal wasn’t modest either. Not a she’s-out-of-my-league look. She’d been a woman in a male-dominated profession long enough to know he was guessing how difficult she’d be to get in the sack.

  She narrowed her eyes. He held her look momentarily before smiling as if he liked her spunk.

  “Peyton Cote,” Hewitt continued, “this is Susan Perry with Maine DHHS. Susan has been working on this since you found the baby.”

  Peyton turned to Perry, who smiled sadly. Had she followed the interaction between Peyton and Leo Miller?

  “Long day for you,” Peyton said.

  Perry waved that off. It had been a long day for Peyton, too. And it would only get longer. Ironically, she’d missed reading to her own son before bed to make a meeting to discuss someone else’s baby.

  Susan Perry leaned toward her oversized handbag on the floor between them, fumbling for something inside. Her head close to Peyton, she whispered, “Miller’s always fun to deal with.”

  Peyton smiled.

  “We ready to begin?” Hewitt asked.

  “Sure.” Perry retrieved a manila folder.

  Peyton noticed the other woman’s attire, a stark contrast to her own. No government-issued forest greens for her. And was she wearing Prada shoes? This woman was a social worker. Either Perry was a hell of a lot better on the Internet than Peyton, or social workers made much more than she thought.

  Peyton looked at her own black boots. The damn sacrifices a woman made to enter her chosen profession.

  “They’re not real,” Perry whispered, “but they look like Prada, don’t they?”

  “Caught me at a weak moment. Envious as hell.”

  “Am I missing something, ladies?” Hewitt asked.

  “Discussing shoes,” Peyton said.

  “Well, now that the important stuff’s out of the way, can we talk about the baby? Leo, you begin.”

  “I requested help from the Border Patrol because I need someone who can speak Spanish to translate.”

  Peyton shook her head. “When we spoke on the phone, you said that since the baby was found along the border we’d be in on the investigation.”

  Miller sipped his coffee and shrugged. “And translating.”

  Peyton looked at Hewitt, whose poker face offered nothing, then back to Miller. “I’m not working for you.”

  “This is a missing-persons case. Those fall to us.”

  Hewitt cleared his throat and adjusted a pin on his lapel. “Leo, all of us have a vested interest in this thing. DHHS has the baby, state police is tracking the parents, and the whole thing went down along the border, which is our domain.”

  “We handle missing-persons cases.”

  “Not if I say the infant might be an illegal alien and I get Washington involved. I don’t think you want this to go in that direction. If it does, you will have nothing to do but give parking tickets.”

  Miller said something under his breath.

  “What was that, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing.”

  Peyton had only been at Garrett Station four months, but that was long enough to know Miller had made a wise choice.

  “I realize this is a big case,” Hewitt continued, “but I spoke to the Troop F commander this morning. He knows where I stand on the issue and assured me you’d cooperate.”

  “I love it when he farms me out.”

  “I’ll be happy to keep that between you and me, Lieutenant.”

  Perry cleared her throat. “I’ll give my report,” she said and motioned to the desk photos of Hewitt and his petite, brunette wife. “You’re probably in a rush to get home.”

  Hewitt snorted at the comment, a low, ugly sound. A hushed tension descended upon the room in its wake.

  “The doctor who examined the baby believes she’s about three months old,” Perry said. “Bureau of Vital Statistics has nothing on the girl, which might give credence to your illegal-alien theory. Not all states footprint babies, so there’s no national database. Maine does footprint, though, and I went through the local hospitals’ birth records from the past year. Five hundred or so babies were born in Aroostook County, fifteen to parents with Hispanic last names. But none of that matters because none match our baby’s footprint.”

  Listening, Peyton looked absently at a photo of Hewitt and his wife on horseback. She’d only recently met Hewitt’s Arizona-born wife.

  Hewitt followed her gaze and picked up the desk photo. “Let’s start from the other end,” he said and shoved the picture in a desk drawer. “Peyton, how did the baby get to the border last night?”

  “Someone obviously left her. I think they wanted me to find her.”

  “Then we’re talking abandonment,” Hewitt said.

  “Dropping a baby in a field and fleeing,” Perry said, “suggests panic. Possibly a teenage mother realizing the responsibility facing her.”

  “I’d call that attempted murder,” Miller said.

  “Nothing about the scene gave me the impression of desperation,” Peyton said. “More like entirely calculated, like someone had watched me and timed the drop accordingly.”

  “Either well-timed or lucky as hell,” Hewitt said. “When we find the parents, we can ask them all the whys and hows. But to find them, we need to figure out who the baby is. The footprints don’t match, so she wasn’t born locally.”

  “If she’s Hispanic,” Peyton said, “as opposed to Italian or Native American, the parents or mother could have been working the har
vest.”

  “How many farms employ migrants?” Miller asked.

  “Most use machinery now,” Peyton said.

  “Can you look into which farms use migrant workers?” Hewitt said. Peyton nodded. Hewitt wrote that down on his pad. “We should have records of who was employed by each farm.”

  “In Maine,” Peyton said, “abandoning a child under age six is a class-C felony and can get you five years. Why would someone risk that instead of putting the baby up for adoption?”

  “Ironically, maternal instinct might very well have led to it,” Perry said. “The overwhelming sense of responsibility, the realization that as a teen you can’t live up to it all. It’s easy to be sardonic. I’ve seen mothers leave kids unattended for a week while they’re off looking for a fix. But let’s say Peyton’s right. After all, the baby wasn’t in the cold for long. So maybe this whole thing was set up. If someone planned for Peyton to find the baby, that indicates maternal instinct. Which might mean a caring mother gave up her baby. This is a sad, sad situation.”

  “Sure,” Hewitt said. “But let’s not rule out the other possibility. That someone dumped her to freeze to death.”

  Miller nodded. “I think we’re talking attempted murder. If someone really wanted the kid found, they’d have left her in the hospital lobby.”

  “If they wanted her dead,” Peyton said, “why leave her wrapped in a blanket? Why not throw her in the river? It doesn’t make sense. Someone wanted me to find that baby. I’m sure of it.”

  “This is all hypothetical,” Hewitt said. “We need to find out who the mother is.”

  “I’ll check into the migrants,” Peyton said.

  “Any word on the license plate?” Hewitt said.

  “Stan Jackman ran the plates on the van. It’s registered to someone in Youngsville, New Brunswick, who reported it stolen a month ago. Customs has no video or documentation of it entering from Canada today. They’ll keep going through past records, try to see when it entered the US. But it probably didn’t come through Customs.”

  “Of course not.” Hewitt shifted in his chair, adjusting the butt of his pistol. “It came across a field road.”

  “What license plate?” Miller looked from Peyton to Hewitt.

  Peyton told him what happened after she left the Picard home.