Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  “You didn’t want to talk last night.”

  “No. Not in a police station. Not with others listening. I didn’t want to talk in a situation like that. Who would?”

  “Someone with nothing to hide.”

  “For God’s sake, Peyton, you know I couldn’t shoot anyone. And I told you, I know how these things go. Grab the nearest ex-con and break him down. No thanks. And think of Elise.”

  She was. She’d met this man almost a decade earlier. Elise had been a freshman at the University of Maine when Peyton was a senior. Jonathan had been a graduate student earning his master’s and teaching a section of US History. Elise, a conscientious eighteen-year-old pupil who listened intently and sat in the front row, had been smitten.

  Peyton looked at Jonathan’s dark eyes, vividly remembering her protest of Elise’s relationship. “He’s your teacher,” she’d said, “and almost ten years older than you.” Elise, like all eighteen-year-olds—even herself, Peyton had to admit—had known everything back then and hadn’t stood for her older sister’s interference. “He’s a professional, for God’s sake, Peyton,” Elise had fired back. “And we’re both adults. The man is brilliant.”

  During the ensuing years, Peyton had listened to Elise call him that over and again. Was he brilliant? She looked at him now—his face pale, hair greasy and matted like a homeless man’s. It certainly wouldn’t have been brilliant to shoot a federal agent. Could he have done that?

  Elise had gotten an A in his class and subsequently joined his world religions reading group to discuss texts including the Qur’an. Had he made the statements Lois alleged?

  “Was Max baptized?” she asked. She hadn’t been invited to the ceremony, if he had been.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “What’s your religion, Jonathan?”

  “I don’t have one. Why are you asking? Look, I couldn’t shoot anyone. I’ve never hurt a living thing.”

  In the distance, she heard the whine of a chainsaw. Someone was cutting wood in preparation for winter. Given the price of heating oil, wood- and pellet-burning stove sales were booming.

  “A fellow agent is fighting for his life. You were found near the crime scene. When we questioned you, you became uncooperative and ended the discussion. You must see how that looks.”

  “I cooperated fully.”

  “Until the questions got specific. Look, Jonathan, I can’t be having this conversation. Not here.”

  “Peyton, you probably know about the problems your sister and I are having. I thought a second child would fix things, but she doesn’t want any part of it.”

  “She told me you mentioned adoption,” Peyton said.

  “Yes.”

  “Not having a second of your own?”

  “We’ve done that. Besides,” he said, “I don’t see the difference. And, if I may speak frankly, your sister is frigid and getting more so. If I need to take walks at night to blow off a little steam, it should be understandable.”

  “Define blow off a little steam.”

  “Seriously? You don’t honestly think I shot that agent because I’m sexually frustrated. Listen, Max is in the car.”

  “Do you own a rifle?” Peyton said. She looked at the silver Camry. The car was running, Max sleeping peacefully in his carseat.

  “I know you’ve never liked me, Peyton. Maybe that’s what this is about.”

  “Think I’m out to get you?”

  “I know you don’t like me,” he repeated, “because of my history. I wasn’t dealing Oxy. I’ve told you that.”

  “Fine. If you want to talk, follow me back to the station.”

  She stepped around him and started toward her Wrangler.

  “I can’t tell you why I was in that field yesterday. Okay? That’s the truth. But I need you to know I didn’t shoot anyone. I’m just trying to help people. I want my involvement in the shooting to be over. I did not do it.”

  She had stopped walking and now moved closer. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who are you helping?” she said. Kenny Radke had also said he was helping people.

  “I need to go,” he said.

  Sunlight glistened off a line of perspiration on his forehead. It was thirty-three degrees, and the forecast called for flurries.

  “You can’t hide something and expect to be cleared,” she said.

  “My being there was unrelated to the shooting.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Confidentially?”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Fine, but you’ve got to give me something to substantiate that, and for reasons of conflict of interest, you have to explain it to my supervisor.”

  He never looked up. The toe of his dirty right shoe moved back and forth on a stone as if crushing a cigarette.

  “What were you doing there, Jonathan?”

  Had it been related to the shipment Kenny Radke had heard about?

  “You peddling dope?”

  His eyes widened. “Jesus Christ, no. See? This is exactly what I knew would happen.”

  “You lived in Mexico for a year,” she said. “Given your record, it’s not inconceivable that you could have made some connections.”

  “I wasn’t selling Oxy when I went down. And I’m not selling anything now. I knew it. I knew this would happen. And that’s a racially motivated assumption. You think all Mexicans are involved in the drug trade, and my being there means I am too.”

  “You can play the race card all you want, but you drive a new truck, and my sister told me what you paid for your house.”

  “She did, huh?”

  “And your school’s other history teacher works in a diner to make ends meet. On top of that, we know dope is coming across the border. Deductive reasoning and suspicion is different than assumption, Jonathan.”

  “My credentials exceed Peter Dye’s, so I earn more. Simple as that.”

  “An agent was shot last night. You were there. You won’t talk about it. That makes you a suspect. I say it’s as simple as that.”

  He shook his head and looked skyward. A thin cloud cover was rolling in. Sunlight streaked it violet.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  “Why’d you come here, if you had no intention of talking to me?”

  “It’s got to be off the record.”

  “No promises.”

  “What if I can tell you something that proves I didn’t shoot anyone?”

  “The time to do that was last night. I’m sure someone has been running background checks on you all morning. If you had an alibi, by not stating it, you forced investigators to look into you.”

  “No. I can’t have that.”

  She waited.

  “It will make your sister even more frigid, but I do have an alibi for last night.” He shifted back and forth like a man whose feet ached. “Can’t you just let this go?”

  “This is my job.”

  “I spent an hour in my car,” he said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Peyton, can’t you—”

  “That road runs all the way to the river. Were you waiting for something to come to shore?”

  “Something? No. I was parked down that dirt road. Just past the overlook on Smythe Road. That’s what you want to know, right? I was in my car with someone.”

  So this was why he had not been forthcoming. It had all been about a woman.

  “You cheated on my sister. Goddamn you, Jonathan. Who is she?”

  “You won’t understand, Peyton. But she can vouch for me. Afterward—”

  “Good God, Jonathan.”

  “—she left. I wanted to walk some more before driving home. I needed to think.”

  “About cheating on my little sister?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like for me. I love Elise, but it’s like she has no interest in sex, in me, at all anymore.”<
br />
  “Ever think what it’s like for her? This isn’t the first time you’ve cheated, Jonathan. So cut the self-pity bullshit.”

  Reel it in, she thought. This isn’t about Elise. This was a shooting investigating, which may soon become a murder investigation.

  Through the Camry’s partially opened window, they heard Max cry.

  “Come with me. Make a formal statement.”

  “That I was with someone? I’m a respected teacher in this town.”

  “Self-evaluations don’t carry much weight.”

  “That’s not funny, Peyton. I can assure you that I am respected.”

  “Follow me,” she said and walked to her Jeep.

  She left him standing on the front steps. He didn’t follow.

  When Peyton entered Garrett Station, she saw Hewitt holding forth in the breakroom and entered. Hewitt was updating agents, who flared out around him in a semi-circle, on Miguel Jimenez’s condition. The scene looked like a vigil. Some agents were in uniform, others wearing civilian attire, all listening intently.

  “I’ve never been in a meeting like this,” Scott Smith whispered, when Peyton slid in next to him.

  “Only worked with one other agent who was shot,” she whispered back.

  “Did he make it?”

  “Yeah, just barely hit him.”

  “This is different,” Smith said.

  Peyton nodded.

  “This is something that’s never occurred in the Houlton Sector before,” Hewitt was saying. “If Miguel wasn’t so young, strong, and in such good shape, the doctor says he wouldn’t have been found alive.”

  Peyton wiped her palms against her jeans. State Trooper Leo Miller was there. Stan Jackman stood across from Miller. Jackman wore a faded Red Sox cap, jeans, and a New England Patriots fleece and held a Tim Hortons paper cup. His fingernails were longish and tinged an unhealthy yellow—the hands of a smoker. Peyton imagined Jackman had gone home after the shooting and chain-smoked until dawn.

  “Jimenez is a tough kid,” Hewitt said, “and, Peyton …”

  Her gaze swung to him.

  “ … you did the right thing, making bandages to slow the bleeding. The doctor said that gave him a chance.”

  She’d had extensive field-medic preparation as part of her BORSTAR training. Several agents commended her; Jackman looked over and nodded.

  “The next twenty-four hours,” Hewitt said, “are critical.”

  No one spoke. She noticed that no one made eye contact either. Every agent knew danger existed, but knowing that and facing it were two different things. In El Paso, when the agent had been shot and survived, jokes ensued. His locker was covered with condoms. Jokes were necessary. Agents couldn’t allow themselves to dwell on the shooting. To do so was to admit that it could happen to you.

  “There’s something else you need to know,” Hewitt said, “and this is coming from Washington. Intelligence out of Arizona has a Mexican cartel placing a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bounty on any US Customs and Border Protection agent. Anyone who shoots an agent—not necessarily kills them—gets the money. The Jimenez shooting might be in response to that. So we’re on High Alert.”

  Peyton knew the drug trade was far-reaching. Could Miguel’s shooting really have been related to a pissed-off drug lord some three thousand miles away?

  “Everyone wears Kevlar at all times until I say otherwise. Be safe. We should have more intel soon. Any other questions?” Hewitt paused, looked around. “Then that’s it. Leo, come with me.”

  Hewitt and Miller walked out.

  Peyton went to Jackman, who sat, hunched over his coffee, staring as if looking into the paper cup for answers.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Huh?” Jackman said. “Oh, good. Why?”

  “My sister and I are having a late lunch at Gary’s. How about joining us?”

  “No … I don’t—”

  “Excellent,” she said. “You in the office this shift?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be by to get you,” she said.

  He sighed and grinned. “How about I’ll meet you there? Got something to do first. And thanks.”

  “Great,” she said. “Call me.”

  She walked to Hewitt’s office, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. When Hewitt hollered, “Come in,” she moved to his desk and remained standing. Miller sat in one of the two visitors’ seats across from Hewitt and unwrapped an egg sandwich. Hewitt, whom she’d never actually witnessed ingesting any form of caloric substance, drank strong-smelling black coffee from his Navy SEAL mug. The framed photos of his wife were now gone from his desk, too.

  “Mike, I know my top priority is my regular patrol. But, when time allows, I’d like to continue poking around about the missing baby and the Spanish-speaking girl.”

  Hewitt considered it and nodded toward the chair next to Miller. “Have a seat. That’s sort of why Leo dropped by.” She heard animosity in his voice. “We were just, ah, hashing out who will do what.”

  “State police handles shootings,” Miller snapped. His sandwich lay on the tinfoil wrapper, untouched.

  Hewitt glanced at Peyton.

  “I don’t give a shit who hears me,” Miller said. “I’m sick of Border Patrol playing Lone Ranger. This Homeland Security and Patriot Act bullshit lets you guys do whatever the hell you want.”

  Peyton thought back to what she’d told Jonathan Hurley—that state troopers would no doubt enter the investigation. That was how it usually worked. Apparently, Hewitt had other plans.

  She’d heard complaints like Miller’s before. US Border Patrol had handled things its own way for a long time. Prior to the omnipresent media, she’d heard of shootouts along the southern border that resulted in the deaths of drug mules. Allegedly, their bodies had been quickly taken away with only obscure press releases dispersed to the media. In fact, before the media became such an ever-present force, the Border Patrol worked and thrived with little fanfare.

  “The shooting occurred on the border,” Hewitt said, “and the border belongs to us. Period.”

  “I won’t be your errand boy,” Miller said.

  “Miguel Jimenez is a twenty-six-year-old kid, Lieutenant. One of mine. I spoke to Will Marshall this morning.” Marshall was the Troop F commander. “He said you guys are tied up on a homicide in Houlton anyway and could use some help.”

  “Garrett is my beat,” Miller protested.

  Hewitt leaned back in his leather chair and sipped coffee. “Then we’d be glad to have you assist us.”

  Miller glared.

  “I get my orders from Washington,” Hewitt said. “You get yours from Houlton. There’s a big difference there.”

  “We both get our orders from Houlton.”

  “Not on this. Commander Marshall assured me that this arrangement would be fine with you.”

  Miller stood. “More Lone Ranger bullshit.” He stormed out, but not before grabbing his sandwich.

  Hewitt smiled at Peyton. “I was hoping he’d leave that sandwich.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “Always nice to work with a fan of the Border Patrol.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “Mike, there’re a couple other things I think you need to know.”

  Peyton told Hewitt about Hurley’s alleged classroom remarks and his admission of late-night infidelity.

  Hewitt didn’t speak for a long time. He swiveled to look out the window, sipping coffee, thinking.

  Was he angry? She tried to read his expression.

  “Just wanted to give you what I had, Mike.”

  “Most of that stuff came out this morning. Not the other-woman bullshit, but the reason Hurley didn’t get another contract in Boston. I put Bruce Steele on Hurley’s background check. Did you know Hurley broke some kid’s arm in Guadalajara, Mexico, two years ago?”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “Hurley claimed it was self-defense; the kid said Hurley liked his girlfriend.
Either way, he’s got a violent streak.”

  Beyond the office door, a phone rang and someone tapped loudly on a keyboard as if doing the one-finger shuffle.

  “You were upset when I asked if anything from Hurley’s past might tie into this. That’s why you came in about ten hours early?”

  “Like I said, just wanted to give you what I had.”

  “Ever have one of those weeks when every time you open your mouth someone gets offended? First, at home—but I’m used to that.” He shook his head. “Now, here.”

  “I’m living with my sixty-three-year-old mother,” she said. “I understand.”

  He smiled. “I bet you do. Anyway, the principal at that Catholic school in Boston didn’t hold back. Steele says the guy hasn’t got many positive things to say about your brother-in-law. According to the principal, Hurley gave a lecture basically saying the US got what it deserved on nine-eleven.”

  It was consistent with what Lois had told her.

  “My sister started dating him during my last year of college. After that, I was in El Paso and only saw him a few days here and there. Vacations, holidays. So I haven’t really spent a lot of time with him. And I never approved of my little sister dating the guy to begin with since he was her professor. So they didn’t hang around me much during our one year together in college. He kept his criminal history from the family for a long time. Elise knew, but she didn’t tell me until after they’d been married two years.”

  “Given that the guy was arrested for Possession with Intent and caught near a school,” Hewitt said, “I can’t believe he’s teaching.”

  “He’s done all the course work for a Ph.D. in history, so he’s overqualified. And Garrett High School is the first public school he’s worked at. The others were independent schools.”

  “No fingerprints during the background checks?”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “He broke a kid’s arm, and the Boston school still hired him?”

  “Hurley says he was walking to his car and got jumped. Says the kid would’ve killed him.” Hewitt put a foot against his desk drawer and retied his boot. His green pant leg was damp; he’d been outside not long ago. “Or maybe corporal punishment is coming back. Christ, a lot of kids I see walking around could use a few swipes from the nuns I had. The principal in Boston did say Hurley related well to the kids, that they liked him. Many were upset when he didn’t return. The broken-arm story didn’t come out until Bruce Steele called a former teacher, now living in Paris.”