by D. A. Keeley
“Not in the field,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“I saw a couple guys in kayaks paddling downriver.”
“Together or separately?”
“Two different kayaks, but they were together.”
“Did they stop?”
“No. But they were close to the river bank, heading east.”
The border was northwest of where they stood. The paddlers could have come from Canada.
“When they saw me, they shined a light in my face.” He paused and raised his brows. “Not unlike what you did.”
She ignored that. “They say anything?”
Another headshake.
“They have anything with them? Anything you saw?”
“No,” he said. “Well, actually, one guy wore a tall backpack.”
“What color?”
“Too dark to tell.”
“What shape was the pack?”
He looked at her.
“Anything to indicate its contents?” she said.
“No. Look, I need to get home.”
“What brought you here tonight, Jonathan?”
“I like to take walks, look at the stars.”
“Never knew you were interested in astronomy. You teaching that?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I thought you taught history and Spanish.”
“I do. It’s the social sciences department, Peyton.”
After manning hundreds of checkpoints in Texas and Arizona, she’d learned to spot a lie. Usually, a person’s mannerisms gave them away. Jonathan had yet to make eye contact, and his face was still a clenched fist. A reaction due to his time in lockup? Or was he hiding something?
“I’ve got a few more questions,” she said, “and it’s cold out here. Let’s go to the station, drink some coffee, talk there.”
“Fine. I have nothing to hide.”
“Peyton.” It was Jackman. “I heard the call.” He, too, had his gun drawn, pointing toward the ground. He looked at Hurley.
“This is Jonathan Hurley. He was out taking a walk and heard a loud bang. We were just talking. We’re headed back to the station to talk a little more.”
“I’ll need to get home fairly soon, Peyton.”
“You two know each other?”
“He’s my brother-in-law, Stan.”
Jackman’s brows rose and fell.
“I already told you everything I know,” Hurley said.
“Just a few more questions,” she said. “Or, if you want to wait, the state police will probably be taking over this investigation.”
She knew he’d probably end up sitting across from a state cop eventually but kept that to herself. Jackman was quiet. Behind her, two Border Patrol trucks and a state police cruiser approached the crime scene, headlights cutting the darkness. The night air was cold.
Jonathan Hurley looked at the vehicles. Then he sighed.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“Put the ex-con in a room with the cops. Watch them break him down. Once a convict, always a convict, right?”
“Can’t undo the past, Jonathan. Me or them?” she said.
“This is bullshit. I was taking a walk.”
“Me or them?”
He cursed under his breath. “You,” he said.
“ ‘Taking a walk’?” Patrol Agent in Charge Mike Hewitt said. “That’s his story?”
Peyton was seated across the breakroom table from Hewitt, having just briefed him on finding Jimenez shot and Jonathan Hurley nearby. Hewitt was scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad.
The breakroom was like the others she’d sat in over the years—the coffeepot had a permanent stain, sugar granules dotted the tabletop, and a stirring spoon was stuck to the table.
Still writing, Hewitt said, “Hurley told you he did time for dealing Oxy, so you thought he might have something to do with the would-be BC Bud shipment?”
“No and yes,” she said. “I was coming to that. There’s something you probably need to know, Mike. There might be a conflict of interest. Hurley’s my brother-in-law.”
“Your brother-in-law?”
“That’s right. He was caught near a high school with a huge amount of Oxy almost ten years ago. He did the course work for a Ph.D. and teaches history at the high school, but he wants to stay home and think great thoughts all day. He’s always trying to get my sister to support him.”
“How’d he end up here? We only have one university. Why not stay in Boston?”
“I don’t know. My sister said she wanted to be near my mother and I, but usually Jonathan calls all the shots.”
“So why did he pick Garrett, Maine?” Hewitt asked.
“Good question,” she said and sipped the Starbucks she’d ground and brewed herself. The rich aroma, like the scent of damp leaves, wafted between them. At this hour, the stationhouse was quiet. News of the shooting sent everyone to the scene. Only Peyton, Hewitt, and Jackman, at his desk typing a report, remained. Hurley waited in an interview room.
“Stan drove Hurley back here, right?” Hewitt said.
“No,” she said, “I did. Stan followed in his truck.”
“And you questioned Hurley at the scene?”
“Yeah. I think I know where this is going.”
Hewitt leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.
“He tripped the sensor, Mike. I planned to come back here to write up the report, since I found Miguel, but sector headquarters radioed. When I went to check it out, Hurley practically walked into me.”
Then all hell broke loose, she thought, or soon would: Would the Garrett school board let a man under suspicion of a shooting teach? How would Lois react if Elise’s “caretaker” became the focal point of the investigation? Elise had to tell Lois she was leaving Jonathan, and soon.
“At the very least,” Hewitt said, “Stan should have driven Hurley here.”
“I was thinking he might open up to me. I know how difficult this guy can be. I had him talking. And I collared him. I wanted to finish the job.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you might be too competitive?”
“You’re the first one to say might.”
“Usually, it’s an asset,” he said, “but think big picture here. Think courtroom, Peyton.”
“What are you saying? The prosecution will try to make it seem like I gave Jonathan the benefit of the doubt? That I might have been too easy on him because he’s married to my sister?”
“You wouldn’t ask those questions,” he said with supreme confidence, “if you didn’t know they were true.”
She’d faced two challenging situations and was batting .500: Yes, she’d made a mistake by driving Jonathan, a possible suspect, in for questioning. But she knew her response to Jimenez’s grave injury had made a difference—maybe not in the final outcome, but she’d bought him time.
Hewitt lifted his coffee mug and studied the stenciling on the side—Over 40 and Getting Better with Age. She watched him curiously. One moment ever critical, the next moment reading the joke on a mug. She’d never figure this guy out.
“And the defense will probably say your decision was an example of your level of incompetence,” he said, eyes never leaving the side of the mug.
This statement was the knockout punch on a night that had her on the ropes. The shooting of Miguel had once again caused her career and life as a single mother to clash—in the one place she thought it wouldn’t. And now her abilities were being questioned.
She reached for her coffee, saw her hand tremble, and didn’t lift the cup. She wouldn’t show Hewitt the result of his verbal blow. She cleared her throat.
His eyes met hers.
“With all due respect, sir”—she could feel her face flush, anger rising, and fought to keep the lid on the bottle—“I had just witnessed an agent bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound that I knew might kill him. I wanted to bri
ng the sonofabitch—or rather the suspect—in, regardless of his being a relative. I thought I owed Miguel that much.”
Hewitt sat looking at her. She saw the wheels turn behind his eyes. Had he been told off?
He shook his head. “Miguel isn’t dead, at least not yet.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ll question Hurley from here on out, Peyton. Thank you.”
“He thinks he’s talking to me, Mike. That’s why he agreed to come in.”
“You made a deal with him?”
“Not formally.”
“Then you can sit in, but I do the talking.”
“Fine. Anything new on Darrel Shaley and the others?”
“State DEA took them this afternoon. Shaley, the driver, is the one they’re going after. He says he did it for his sick wife.” Hewitt shrugged and finished the coffee. “That’s a first. ‘I did it for my sick wife.’ ” He snorted.
Peyton thought of Shaley and of what his future would hold. She thought of emotional detachment, of its importance. Then her mind replayed images of Jimenez, his blood like pools of ink in the moonlight.
The word incompetent burned.
TWENTY-THREE
THE ROOM WAS SET up very differently this time.
Unlike with Darrel Shaley, Jonathan Hurley had not attempted to assault an agent and thus wasn’t under arrest. Although an ex-
convict, at this point his participation in the questioning remained voluntary.
Hewitt and Peyton were side by side across the table from Hurley, a carafe of coffee, a small cardboard container of milk, a bowl of sugar, and Hurley’s paper cup between them.
“Mr. Hurley,” Hewitt said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I’m a model citizen.”
“Then you’re willing to help us, right?” Hewitt said.
Hurley shrugged, and Peyton saw him in a different light—the ex-con who’d survived a prison sentence: stoic, calm, impenetrable.
“What did you hear? Can you describe the sound?”
“Like a firecracker. I already told Peyton that.”
“I just want to make sure. Sometimes details become clearer with time.”
“Firecracker. I’ve never fired a weapon, only heard them on TV, so I don’t have that point of reference.”
“That’s fine. And what time was this?”
“Why isn’t Peyton asking questions?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. I know her.”
“I’m just trying to catch up here, just trying to get the lay of the land.”
“Bullshit.”
Peyton cleared her throat. “Jonathan,” she said, “explain what you were doing by the river tonight. That’s what we need to hear.”
“Meaning I’m a suspect? Who was shot anyway?”
Had she told him that? She tried to remember.
“I think I’ve answered this question three times now. I know it’s difficult to believe, given the population in this region, but I have a BA from Harvard. I enjoy looking at stars. That’s why I was out there.”
He leaned back in his seat and sipped coffee, a smug expression on his face.
“Harvard, huh?” Hewitt said. “And now you’re a high school teacher in Garrett, Maine.”
“For the time being,” Hurley said. Then his eyes darted to Peyton.
She waited. Had he just slipped?
“But not for long?” she asked.
“The university lifestyle is more contemplative. Intellect is appreciated there.”
“You want to teach at the local university?” Hewitt asked.
“Who knows?” Hurley said.
“Why did you move here?” Peyton said. “Why Garrett?”
“My wife loves her mother,” Hurley said, “and her sister. Although that might soon change at the rate this is going.”
Peyton didn’t take the bait.
Hewitt said, “You own any handguns or rifles, Mr. Hurley?”
“I just said I’ve never fired a weapon.”
“Owning and firing are two different things,” Hewitt said.
“Then, no, I do not own any guns.”
“Tell me about the kayakers,” Hewitt said.
“I told Peyton what I saw.”
“You can refer to her as Agent Cote. And I would like to hear it for myself.”
“Fine. They waved, then they fled.”
“They left in a rush?”
“One guy said something to the other, pointed at me, and they both looked over. I waved. They waved. Then they took off.”
“What were they wearing?” Hewitt asked.
“No idea. I didn’t have a flashlight.”
“But you saw them wave.”
“I think so.”
“Not sure?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me about the backpack,” Hewitt said.
“It was big. They were twenty, thirty yards away. And it was dark.”
“You have no idea what was in it?” Hewitt said. “Saw nothing protruding?”
“Too dark.”
“Was the backpack closed at the top?”
“Like I said”—Hurley shook his head—“too dark.”
Peyton watched her brother-in-law, studying him as she would any suspect, compiling data. Then she added it to what she already knew about him. Hewitt was making progress—Hurley was getting frustrated. She thought of what Elise had said of his temper. He was accustomed to dictating the outcomes of conversations, which was routine with Elise. He’d impressed her when she’d been nineteen and married her not long thereafter. And he won arguments at work, where his only adversaries were kids.
But Hewitt was no kid. And Hurley didn’t like it.
Hurley sipped his coffee noisily, then made a face. “Terrible stuff.”
“Keeps us awake,” Peyton said.
Hurley looked at her, raised his brows, and grinned. “Oh, you can speak, Agent Cote? I didn’t think you were allowed.”
“How long were you incarcerated, Jonathan?” Hewitt said.
Hurley looked at Peyton.
“You’re in the system, Mr. Hurley,” Hewitt said. “You must know that.”
“I do know it. And I did eighteen months of a five-year sentence in Florida.”
“State prison or county?”
“State.”
“Tough?” Hewitt sipped some coffee.
Peyton knew where he was leading Jonathan.
But so did the suspect. Hurley said, “Tough enough for me to know I don’t want to go back, if that’s where you’re going. So, believe me, I was just walking. Just taking a walk. That’s all.”
“We’re simply gathering information,” Hewitt said. “Do you take many walks at night?”
“Yes.”
“Always in that field?”
“No. It was my first time there.”
Peyton thought of something. “Where did you walk Sunday night?” She felt Hewitt’s eyes on her.
“Sunday?”
“Yeah. When we met for breakfast Monday morning, you had dirt on the sleeve of your leather jacket. You said you fell.”
“I did fall.”
“Where?” Hewitt asked.
The question seemed straightforward, yet it gave Hurley pause. He sat staring at Hewitt. Then his gaze swung to Peyton. He scowled at her and shook his head.
“Think about your sister, for God’s sake.”
“What about Elise?” she asked.
“We’d like to know other places where you walk at night. Maybe you’ve seen—”
“Look, I don’t know the road names around here,” Hurley said. “And I know how this works. Grab the closest ex-con anytime something goes down and break him, get a confession. This is the first time I’ve seen anything. And all I saw here was two kayakers.”
Hewitt cleared his throat. “Where were you Sunday night, Mr. Hurley?”
It was Hewitt’s first aggressive move, a demand.
Hurley turned to him, opened his mouth
, thought better of it, and casually set his coffee cup on the table. He looked at Peyton and smiled broadly.
“I think I’d like to talk to my lawyer.”
“You’ve cooperated fully until now,” Hewitt said.
“Correct.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I know what you’re doing.” Then Hurley gave an exaggerated stretch and yawned. “It’s late. I’m tired. And I know my rights. Are you charging me?”
Hewitt looked at Hurley through a long pause. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hurley.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“We’re just gathering information. It takes us a while. After all, we didn’t go to Harvard.” Hewitt stood. “You’re welcome to leave.”
Jonathan Hurley gave one final glare at his sister-in-law before leaving the room.
Then Peyton pulled a rubber glove from her belt, put it on with a loud snap, and gathered Jonathan’s empty coffee cup.
“Never hurts to have a DNA sample,” she said.
“You must have gone to Harvard, too,” Hewitt said.
She grinned but thought, Incompetence that, Boss.
“Stan will drive Hurley home,” Hewitt said to Peyton. “I want you to start a search warrant. Get soil samples from Hurley’s shoes and clothing from his home. Have them compared to the soil in Duff’s field.”
They were in Hewitt’s office. Something was different. It took Peyton a minute to put her finger on it. The walls were now bare. He’d taken down the framed pictures of him with his wife.
“Is it a conflict of interest,” she asked, “if I stay on this?”
“Because he’s your brother-in-law? Not yet. You’re the agent who’s been asked to stake out the area, and we have no one to spare. So there is really no getting around you being involved. As you said, something’s going on down there. First, the BC Bud tip. Then the baby. Now Miguel has been shot.” Hewitt shifted in his seat, repositioning his service weapon. “Hurley’s an ex-con, and we don’t have a lot of them running loose up here. Am I profiling? Hell yes, I am. But anyone in any branch of law enforcement would consider him a suspect. So, is it a conflict of interest? I won’t ask you to question your brother-in-law. Any defense attorney would eat us alive if we did that.”
She nodded.
He motioned to his computer. “Washington must be talking to my boss. I got an email asking for an update on border activity. Haven’t gotten one in close to a year.”
