Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  “So they’re taking this seriously,” she said.

  “An agent has been shot. That’s always taken seriously. But they want to know what’s going on with the baby and the Kenny Radke situation.”

  “Anything on the baby?”

  He shook his head.

  “Needle in a haystack?” she said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m feeling like she could be anywhere, like she is gone, with no voice to cry for help.”

  “It’s what makes baby trafficking so terrible,” he said.

  They were quiet a while.

  “Kenny Radke is on Washington’s radar?” Peyton said.

  Hewitt leaned back in his seat and grinned. “His fifteen minutes of fame.”

  She nodded.

  Hewitt looked at his desk clock—2:10 a.m.

  “Miguel was shot with a .300 Savage,” he said.

  “A hunting rifle?”

  “Odd choice, huh?”

  “I knew it wasn’t a shotgun or a pistol.” She wiped a clump of dirt from her pant leg. “Think he walked into some poachers?”

  “That’s possible. It’s hunting season. Maybe they mistook him for a game warden.”

  “Both wear green,” she said.

  “Would a poacher risk a murder-one rap? Miguel is still in critical condition. Want more coffee?”

  She nodded and Hewitt went to get it. He returned, and Peyton sipped hers.

  “You look like you’re taste-testing it for arsenic,” he said. “Just drink the stuff. Won’t kill you.”

  “It’s so bad that it actually might.”

  “Coffee snob.”

  “I know,” she said. “This whole scenario is nuts. Agents don’t get shot up here.”

  “Not exactly the Mexican border. Jimenez is the first agent ever shot here. And there’s a curveball in the shooting, one I’m keeping out of the media. There’s powder on Miguel.”

  “Residue?” she said. “You’re saying he was shot point-blank?”

  “With a deer rifle.” He nodded. “I don’t get it.”

  “I wish we had more probable cause against Hurley. His being a quarter mile from the victim thirty minutes after the shooting isn’t much.”

  Hewitt scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. “No way in hell we’re going to test Hurley for residue powder without more than what we have on him. He’d have to consent to a voluntary test. And he’s an ex-con, so that’s as likely as an eighty-degree day tomorrow.”

  The only other option was to call the US Attorney’s office for guidance. Then hope the attorney said to hold Hurley for the state police or whoever would run the investigation. She’d been doing this long enough to know no attorney would see enough probable cause to suggest they hold Hurley, draft a search warrant to test him for residue power, and then execute the warrant.

  Peyton shifted uncomfortably beneath her Kevlar vest. A bead of perspiration, like an ant, moved down her torso. Why would someone shoot a Border Patrol agent? And why use a hunting rifle to do it?

  Because Miguel had walked in on something.

  Kenny Radke’s BC Bud tip was looking more plausible.

  “What’s the state DEA doing with Radke?” she asked.

  Hewitt looked up from his legal pad. “They questioned him and let him go. Can’t charge him based on someone else’s statement.”

  “So Shaley goes down and Radke walks? I buy Shaley’s story, Mike.”

  Hewitt shrugged. Then anger and frustration flashed in his eyes. “Jimenez is twenty-six years old, a kid,” he said, “and he got shot on my Goddamn watch.”

  She sat staring at him. He turned away.

  There was another side to Mike Hewitt. She’d assumed there had to be—despite the missing photos, he had been married, after all—but now she’d seen it: Hewitt felt responsible for his agents. It explained, at least in part, why he’d been so upset by her earlier blunder.

  “Let me know the second the soil tests are back. I want to know if Hurley has been there before.”

  Peyton nodded. Getting soil samples analyzed by the state lab in a timely fashion was tough since Garrett Station was a couple hundred miles north of the lab.

  Hewitt stretched his legs and crossed them at his ankles. He stared at his polished boots. They shone brightly beneath ceiling lights.

  “Hurley knows more than he’s saying,” he said.

  “I agree.”

  “He ever say anything that might give you insight into anything helpful here?”

  “If he had,” she said, “I’d have reported it immediately. I wouldn’t have waited, Mike.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

  “With all due respect,” she said, “like hell you weren’t.”

  Hewitt cleared his throat again. “It’s been a long night, longer for you than me. You’re a good agent, Peyton. I know that. Driving Hurley alone was a poor decision, but it came after witnessing something few agents ever see.”

  She nodded.

  “But let’s get a few things straight right now,” he continued. “One, I brought you here because you’re talented. Know that I want you here. Two, I was only asking if Hurley said or did anything in the past that clicked with anything he said tonight. That’s all. I’m not out to get you.” He looked away, and his voice grew quiet. “But I know lawyers. I know what they can do to you in a courtroom.” He turned back to her. “And three, I’m your Goddamn supervisor, Agent Cote, so you will speak to me accordingly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She left the office feeling numb. She still had the search warrant to draft, yet back at her desk, images spun through her mind: Miguel’s smile, the sound of his laugh, then the pool of blood beneath him. Hewitt’s face as he spoke the word incompetence. Finally, she thought of her sister. How would Elise react to Hurley being questioned regarding the shooting of an agent? Elise could be loyal to a fault. If Hurley became the primary suspect, would she still leave him?

  “Peyton,” a voice said, “I heard you were with Miguel. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She turned to see Scott Smith standing behind her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE SUN WAS JUST coming up when Scott Smith held the door for Peyton and they entered Gary’s Diner for breakfast.

  “So, how are you doing?” Smith asked, as he sat down across from her.

  “I’m fine,” she said, but thought again about stereotypes, about how females are portrayed, and about never letting your guard down in a male-driven and militaristic profession.

  Smith had a cleft chin and the blue tint of a five-o’clock shadow. Both went well with his pale eyes. He and Hewitt were far and away the fittest male agents at Garrett Station.

  “We’re off duty, Peyton.”

  “What’s that mean?” she said.

  “I mean, Miguel is probably not going to make it. You found him, which must have been difficult, and you can vent to me. So ease up.”

  Peyton sat staring at Smith, then looked at the waitress, who had just appeared. The twenty-something said, “Hi, Scott. What can I get you?” in an unusually eager voice.

  He asked for coffee and ham, eggs, and hash browns.

  “And you?” the waitress said, looking at Peyton for the first time.

  She asked for decaf and a blueberry muffin.

  When the waitress had gone, Peyton said, “Boy, I’m a downer for her, huh?”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “She was practically panting when she took your order. I got ‘And you?’ ”

  “She wasn’t panting. I’ve just seen her around now and then. Tell me about tonight. I hear you have a suspect.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Who is he? Any evidence?”

  She had shrugged the questions away and was glad when the rude waitress reappeared with the coffees. She didn’t want to get into the Hurley situation, not here.

  “This coffee is much better than the station’s,” she
said.

  “I heard the shooter is an ex-con. Think he’s part of a trafficking ring?”

  “We’ll see,” she said and looked at her coffee.

  “Or he could be a terrorist.”

  “What makes you say that?” she said.

  “The guy shot a federal agent. Could be trying to make some political statement.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not it.”

  “You sure?” He stirred a sugar pack into his coffee.

  “Yeah, he’s my brother-in-law.”

  Smith was poised to stir, but put the spoon down.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “Correct.”

  “I’m sorry, Peyton. Jesus, that’s a terrible situation for you, all the way around. Finding Miguel would be bad enough. Now telling your sister …”

  “I’m sure he is doing that as we speak.”

  “He’s not being held?” Smith said.

  “No. Can’t.”

  “No evidence?”

  She shook her head.

  The waitress returned with the muffin and Smith’s meal.

  “That was quick,” he said.

  The waitress smiled. “Tom knows what people like. He has eggs ready to go.” She smiled again at Smith. “How have you been?” she asked.

  “Good,” he said. “Fine.”

  When the waitress was gone, Peyton said, “You know her, Scott?”

  He shook his head and stirred his coffee.

  “That’s quite a breakfast,” Peyton said. “You’re not as healthy as you seem.”

  “Do I seem healthy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What gives you that impression?” He smiled, a feigned attempt at modesty.

  “Broad shoulders and flat stomach,” she said. “Are you compliment hunting?”

  “Of course.”

  She raised her coffee cup. “Here’s to honesty.”

  He tapped her cup with his. “Coupled with arrogance—my two best qualities.”

  They shared a brief chuckle, and Peyton looked at him when the laughter faded. When was the last time she shared a laugh with a man?

  “I’m going to choose my words carefully because of what you did to that guy’s knee the other night,” Smith said, “but you don’t exactly look like a law-enforcement agent yourself. And I say that with the highest level of respect for your professional abilities.”

  “You chose your words well,” she said, smiling.

  “I mean it. You are drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “Um …” she said.

  “I’ve put my foot in my mouth now, haven’t I?”

  “I’m a little taken aback, but I am flattered.”

  “You have plans for today?”

  “Sleep, mostly. My son gets off the bus in the early afternoon.”

  “Can we have lunch sometime? I know you’re on mids right now.”

  She agreed. Smith paid the check.

  In the parking lot, he walked her to her Jeep. Before she closed the door, he said, “Peyton, what was the last thing Miguel said to you?”

  The question changed the tone of their time together, and Smith sensed he had done so.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I just need to know. He’s so young. I just …”

  “It was business, right until they took him away in the ambulance. He said something about the potato barn I found him near.”

  “Gutsy kid.”

  “Yes,” she said, closed the door, and drove away, thinking about the future lunch date and how she had both laughed and cringed during breakfast with Scott Smith.

  Peyton went to bed and slept until noon Wednesday, taking solace in the knowledge that as she gained seniority at Garrett Station she’d pull fewer mids.

  Showered and dressed, she descended the stairs to find Lois at the kitchen table.

  “Most people sleep till noon when they’re teens.” Lois smiled, poured Peyton a cup of coffee, and set it before her. “You do it in middle age.”

  “I’m far from middle age,” Peyton said.

  “I ground that yuppie coffee you keep in the freezer. Your sister has called for you three times since seven. I saw the morning news. That nice-looking young agent was shot?”

  Peyton sipped her coffee and nodded. “I found him. What did the news say?”

  “You found him? Dear God. That must have been—”

  “Yes. Tell me what the news said.”

  “He’s in Intensive Care.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Elise says you arrested Jonathan. Is that true?”

  “No one has been arrested, to my knowledge. Jonathan was questioned, but you know I really can’t discuss that.”

  Lois had brewed the coffee using her own system of measurements. Her kitchen calculations led to cheesecakes that fed small nations and half-cups of coffee that produced a level of instant alertness equivalent to sticking one’s finger in a socket.

  “I just feel badly for your sister. She says Jonathan takes walks three nights a week in Duff’s field. So the Border Patrol thinks he shot someone.”

  “Three times a week in Duff’s field?”

  Lois sipped her coffee. “I just feel terrible for Elise. She’s going through a hard time. Now this. She’s tried to do things the way they should be done, Peyton.”

  “Is that a criticism of me, Mother?”

  “No. I mean she’s been loyal to Jonathan. Always supported him. Even after he was fired in Boston. I’m sure those accusations bothered her. She had to have been so embarrassed, but she never said a thing. Imagine finding out your husband told a group of tenth-graders at a Catholic school that Muslims have a stronger faith than Catholics? Or that nine-eleven happened because Americans don’t respect other religions.”

  “Jonathan said that stuff?” Peyton set her cup down. Once a background check on Hurley was complete, her brother-in-law would face tough questions from officials who made the same mental leap Scott Smith had made in the diner—someone with an anti-US stance might have tried to make a statement by shooting a border agent. Her stomach burned, and she didn’t think it was the coffee.

  Lois sipped, then added more creamer, her spoon making a faint tinkling sound as she stirred.

  “I thought his contract wasn’t renewed because he wanted to teach alternative religions at the Catholic school.”

  “That’s what Elise told you?” Lois said.

  “Yes.”

  Lois shook her head. “She told me the truth, Peyton. They let him go because he was too controversial.”

  Why had Elise lied to her? She had hidden her sexual orientation from Peyton for years, and now this. Did Elise feel her own sister wouldn’t understand? Did she not trust her? Or had she been protecting her husband?

  “My point is,” Lois went on, “that Elise followed Jonathan all over—San Francisco, Mexico, Boston. Now he finds a job here, so your sister packs up and moves back. All to stick by her man.” Lois patted a wrinkle out of her blouse. “Now Jonathan’s name will be in the papers.”

  “I can’t help that, Mother.”

  “Don’t you at least sympathize with Elise?”

  “Of course, but I did my job.”

  “But you know Jonathan. Can’t you go down to the Border Patrol station, tell people he’d never shoot anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know that. And you don’t know that either. Jonathan served eighteen months in a state penitentiary.”

  Lois dropped her chin to her chest. “I know. I know. You’re right. It’s just that this is your sister, Peyton.”

  “This is my profession. It’s what I do.”

  Lois sighed. They sipped coffee, neither looking at the other.

  Lois broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I just … I just don’t want to see your sister hurt. And I know Jonathan doesn’t really dislike the US, despite what that principal in Boston said. It was probably just a joke, what he said in that class. I mean, he’s American
after all.”

  Peyton drank more coffee. It was strong, and she was awake now. But she didn’t think it was the coffee.

  Jonathan had told her he was looking at stars, but Elise said he took frequent walks. And the Boston information was troubling: a federal agent had been shot and a suspect had made anti-United States comments. Was Jonathan anti-US government as well?

  “I need to go to the office,” Peyton said, “and, Mom, I don’t think we should discuss Jonathan anymore when I’m home, okay? It puts me in a difficult situation.”

  “Are you saying I might have made it worse?”

  “I have to report information that might further the inves-

  tigation.”

  “The Boston story?”

  “Yes,” Peyton said. “All of that will probably come out during background checks anyway. But I have to tell my boss what I know.”

  “You’re not an agent when you’re home.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “Well, it should be. You should be able to get away from the job, Peyton.”

  Lois had never understood and probably never would.

  Peyton went to the coat closet, zipped her fleece, and opened the front door. She didn’t step outside.

  Standing before her was the man she least expected to see.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “I NEED TO TALK to you,” Jonathan Hurley told Peyton.

  She needed something else—to get to the station to let Hewitt know that Hurley’s wife, her own sister, contradicted Hurley’s claim that he’d never before walked in Duff’s field and to tell him about the alleged anti-US remarks. But she wasn’t going anywhere now.

  The subject in question had, inexplicably, come to her.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, stepping outside, closing the door behind her. The afternoon air was cold, crisp, and clean after years of dust in west Texas. “I’m headed to the station, Jonathan. Where’s Elise?”

  “Running. I have Max.”

  Peyton nodded. Running was Elise’s outlet, what she did when upset.

  Jonathan wore the same outfit he’d had on the night before—black, head to toe. Dark rings encircled his eyes, his hair was disheveled, and he had a five-o’clock shadow.

  “Peyton, please come sit in the car and talk.”