Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  All of that had been followed by suspicious looks from colleagues.

  She would make damned sure that didn’t happen to her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  SOME THINGS ONE EXPERIENCES as a parent are truly priceless. And at 1:15 p.m. Thursday, despite the events of the past fifteen hours, Peyton felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

  Tommy looked up from his desk and saw her standing in the doorway of his classroom.

  “Tommy,” Sara Roberts, his teacher, said, “look who came to volunteer.”

  She didn’t know what to expect. Was it still cool to have your mom visit class when you were a big second grader?

  When his face lit up, she knew the answer. She knew, too, that he’d know he had one parent who took an interest in him.

  Peyton drove Tommy home after school and then, at 4 p.m., met Pete Dye and Billy Dozier at a bar on Main Street in Reeds.

  She couldn’t report to Garrett Station, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t work. Dozier was the doorman at the Tip of the Hat in Garrett, the bar where an awfully young-looking Spanish-speaking girl—who, according to Dye, had been pregnant early last summer—had gone with a man in a tweed jacket.

  “Pete said that if I came here and talked to you, you might buy me dinner and a few beers,” Dozier said, taking a seat across from Peyton.

  The interior of the bar was dimly lit and had dark carpeting and low circular tables.

  “Did he now?” She shot Dye a look.

  He smirked and shrugged. “Always been good at spending other people’s money.”

  “I’m remembering that now.”

  When a waitress approached, Peyton said, “All of this is on my bill.”

  Dye ordered a bottle of Heineken for himself and a Michelob Light for Dozier. Peyton got a Bud Light draft.

  “I’m glad you’re back in town,” Dye said.

  “Oh, I can tell.” The last twenty-four hours had been the worst of her life since the day Jeff left her, making the smile she now flashed feel like her first in months. “No draft beer when I’m buying, huh? Instead it’s three-dollar bottles.”

  “And dinner.” Dye grinned.

  “Dinner? Sure. There’re some peanuts here.”

  She nudged the bowl near the candle on the table toward Dye. The tablecloth was fawn-colored vinyl; the candle was unlit.

  Dozier rolled his eyes. “You ask me here just to watch you two flirt?”

  “That what we were doing?” Dye asked Dozier, but his eyes were on Peyton.

  She held his gaze. She could see how it looked like that, but Pete Dye was just fun to be around. They hadn’t been flirting.

  Had they?

  “Pete said this was about an ID,” Dozier said. “I card everyone who walks through the door of the Tip of the Hat.”

  “Tell me about a Spanish-speaking girl in the Tip last summer.”

  “Don’t know any.”

  “Wrong answer,” she said. “Let’s keep this cordial, Billy.”

  “I know what Border Patrol agents are like. They beat the shit out of my cousin.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I’m sure he deserved it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The girl,” she said. “I’m not after you. I have some questions to ask her.”

  “Fine. The Mexican girl only came with a guy in a tweed jacket. The guy’s coat looked ridiculous.”

  Dozier was short, squat, about twenty-five, with a ruddy complexion and a shaved head. He was rugged in a thick, farm-boy way. His beer-keg physique had been acquired via a meat-and-potato diet and lots of manual labor.

  The waitress returned with the beer.

  “Did her ID say she was Mexican?”

  Dozier shrugged. “Don’t remember, but she spoke Spanish.” He looked around the room.

  The bar was called Cooper’s Lounge. Peyton knew she wouldn’t run into fellow and, more importantly, active-duty agents here to witness her working in a less-than-official capacity.

  Having come from school, Pete Dye wore khakis, a creased white button-down, and loafers. He’d either just bought the shoes or had polished them especially for the occasion. That, and the way he’d sounded disappointed on the phone when she’d asked him to bring Dozier, made her curious. It also made her wonder about Dozier’s interpretation of their light-hearted conversation.

  “What was the girl’s name?” she said.

  “How should I know?”

  “You IDed her.”

  Dozier looked at Dye.

  “I’ll get the second round.” Dye stood and went to the bar.

  Dozier watched him go and shook his head. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No.” She ate a peanut. “Got nothing to do with you. I’m not a cop.”

  “The Border Patrol doesn’t do undercover. Where’s your uni-

  form?”

  “I’m off duty,” she said, a gross understatement. “What’s her name? Where does she live?”

  “Why you looking for her?”

  She shook her head.

  A group of men wearing flannel and orange hunting vests entered and went to a round table. When they ordered drinks, their New York accents were clear.

  Dozier listened then said, “I hate hunting near out-of-staters. Some of them are sound-shooters.”

  “ ‘Sound-shooters’?” Peyton said.

  “They hear something in the bushes, they turn and blast. Last year, my cousin had some asshole from Connecticut shoot a limb off a tree about four feet from his head.” Dozier took a handful of peanuts. “The girl’s ID said she lived in Mars Hill, I think. She only came in three, four times. But she was good-looking so I remembered, and I remember her speaking Spanish, which makes her kind of hot, you know?”

  Mars Hill was ten minutes south of Reeds, twenty minutes north of Houlton.

  “Name on the ID,” he said quietly, staring at the Celtics game, “was Jane Smith.”

  “Jane Smith?” she said.

  He turned from the TV, surprised by her incredulity.

  “Did she speak English?”

  “Not that I ever heard.”

  “The name on the ID was Jane Smith, but she spoke no English?”

  Nod.

  “That didn’t seem odd to you?” Peyton said.

  “Didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Who was the guy she was with?”

  He shrugged. “Some redheaded guy.”

  “From?”

  Shrug. “He was older. Didn’t card him.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “Hey, I don’t spy on people. Like I said, she was only there a few times.”

  “Did he speak English?”

  “Not to her. Only when he ordered for them.” Dozier drank some beer. “I didn’t hear them talk a lot, but when they were walking in, they spoke Spanish to each other. She called him Professor. He looked like a professor to me, not that I know any.”

  Peyton thought of her classroom visit, of Jerry Reilly’s elbow patches, of his tweed jacket. How many redheaded tweed-jacket-wearing professors could there be on the tiny University of Maine at Reeds campus?

  “She ever call him Jerry?”

  “Not that I heard. Can I go?”

  “Sure. I appreciate your help. I’ll buy dinner.”

  He shook his head, stood, and walked out.

  “You can buy me dinner,” Dye said, approaching the table.

  “I’m sure,” she smiled, “and you’ll eat for two.”

  He laughed. The after-work crowd hadn’t arrived yet. The smell of chicken cooking over an open flame was present and mixed with the scent of rum. Her bruised chest hurt when she moved, but the pain was manageable. She was glad Dye had come; glad, too, that Dozier had left.

  “I heard something happened to you last night, Peyton. Heard you were there when Kenny …”

  She looked away.

&nbs
p; “Sorry. I can tell that upset you. When I heard, I called the hospital. They wouldn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t want to bother your mom or Elise.” He drank from his bottle. “Couldn’t sleep all night.”

  “That’s sweet.” She smiled at him. “Didn’t know you followed my career.”

  “It’s a small town. You hear things.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Not much, but Kenny Radke had been to jail for dealing drugs. And I teach high school kids. He doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me.”

  “Hey,” she said, “you and I used to get to Tip of the Hat before anyone else, and I used that time to beat you at pool.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember it like that. In fact, you practically paid for my first CD collection.”

  She pointed at the vacant pool table. “Rematch?”

  “I’m glad we did this,” she said, as Pete Dye walked her to her Jeep.

  It was dark now, and there were other cars in the parking lot.

  “I’m sorry about what happened with Kenny,” Dye said. “If you need to talk to anyone, you know I’m on your side. When I heard you were involved, I just wanted to see you.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. They were quiet and walked slowly.

  Then Pete Dye leaned in and did something she never saw coming.

  “Sorry,” he said, when the kiss ended.

  “Don’t be,” she said, but she went quickly to her Jeep and drove away.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BUZZING A LITTLE FROM the kiss, and confused a lot by it, she turned left out the parking lot. She had lots to discuss with professor Jerry Reilly now, and work always cleared her mind.

  Or did it just distract her?

  What had just taken place between her and Pete? Had each of them confused their longtime friendship for something more?

  She pushed that thought away. There was work to do—there could always be work to do, even at 5:25 p.m. on a Thursday. The odds of Professor Jerry Reilly being in his office in the Dumont Building were slim. But Reeds was a twenty-minute drive from Garrett, and she’d been just down the street, so she pulled into the parking lot at the University of Maine branch.

  Her footfalls echoed as she climbed the concrete stairs. Reilly’s office door was closed, but she could hear voices within and knocked.

  Reilly didn’t ask who it was. He poked his head out, tilted it slightly, and paused before registering her face.

  “I’m out of uniform.”

  “Ah, yes. Um, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk.”

  Behind him, someone asked who was there.

  Reilly’s red hair fell in front of his wire-rimmed glasses. He brushed it away. He wore what might be the now-infamous tweed jacket over a pale blue T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers. The guy wasn’t one for making a fashion statement.

  He glanced behind him to whoever was in the office, then turned quickly back to her.

  “I enjoyed my classroom visit,” she said, stalling.

  He smiled broadly. “Really?”

  She felt bad about playing on his social ineptness. But her colleague was still in the ICU, a baby had been killed, Kenny Radke was now dead, and now someone she assumed to be at Garrett Station was pushing the investigation into her shooting of Radke. The proverbial push had come to shove.

  “Maybe I could talk to your students about the professional opportunities available to them in the Border Patrol. We never got to that.”

  The hallway was lit by narrow overhead lights suspended from the ceiling. They were covered by pebble-textured plastic and hummed incessantly.

  He cleared his throat and stood stiffly, ever formal. “I’m kind of tied up right now.” He glanced over his shoulder again, then looked down shyly.

  “Oh,” she said, “I can wait.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I mean, I anticipate being tied up a while.”

  “I’m not leaving, Jerry.”

  “Let me finish with this student, then you may come in.”

  He closed the door. His schedule was on it. If she read it correctly, the guy taught only three classes, worked something like nine hours a week.

  When the door reopened, she couldn’t believe who stepped out.

  Morris Picard, the Garrett High School history department chair and Jonathan Hurley’s boss, tried to avert his eyes as he passed her, the way he would bypass a homeless person waving a cup. The man behind Picard was familiar as well. She’d seen him the last time she’d found Reilly in his office: the pitted-faced man, dressed, once again in a suit and still toting a briefcase.

  “Mr. Picard, how are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

  Picard slowed as if unsure of what to do. Could he keep walking, ignore her altogether? Did he have to stop and chat? He paused and looked quickly to Reilly, saw no help there, then turned to the other man.

  She watched closely. Picard’s face lost color. He seemed to physically shrink. She thought he might return to the office and lock the door.

  The hallway was narrow. The scent of perspiration wafted among them, the tension palpable. What was going on?

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. Is this an academic mee-

  ting?”

  Picard was no taller than five-feet-seven. The square shoulders of his navy blue blazer made him look even shorter and block-shaped. He started to say something, but the man in the suit clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  She shot the pitted-faced man a look. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”

  “No,” he said and smiled, “we haven’t.”

  She extended her hand. “Peyton Cote.”

  “I know who you are,” he said, his hand remaining at his side. Then he steered Picard down the hall, out of view. She and Reilly watched them go, footfalls on the linoleum tiles fading away.

  When they were gone, Reilly turned back to her, his eyes des-

  perate.

  “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” she said.

  He looked at her, eyes narrowing.

  “It’s just a cup of coffee, Jerry.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then someone else will talk to you,” she said, “and it won’t be over a cup of coffee.”

  She didn’t wait long to put the question to him.

  “Just a couple of my friends,” he said. “That’s all. Actually, I’d much rather talk about something else.” He smiled shyly. “Like us.”

  She didn’t return the gesture.

  They were seated at a table in the Northeastern Hotel bar. There’d be no kiss at this bar—of that, she was sure.

  “I am talking about us. I’m talking about the mutual friends we seem to share. How do you know Morris Picard?”

  “I don’t know him well. He works with a friend of mine.” His eyes scanned the interior of the bar.

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “Tell me about the job opportunities you want to tell my students about,” he said.

  Then something clicked for her. “Is your friend Jonathan Hur-

  ley?”

  He turned and looked at her, eyes quickly darting away.

  She recognized the gesture of admission. “Small world. Hurley is my brother-in-law. Is that an English accent, Jerry?”

  He seemed relieved to change topics. “Not much of one anymore. I’ve been in the US for twenty-one years.”

  “Interesting. How do you and Hurley know each other?” Her voice was pleasant, casual.

  He cleared his throat. “We both teach history.”

  “And the guy in the suit,” Peyton said, “does he teach history, too?”

  Reilly looked around again, clearly uncomfortable. He shrugged halfheartedly. She’d seen variations of that reaction hundreds of times. He didn’t know which way to go and had no time to stall. He wasn’t quick on his feet—she’d asked a question to which he had no answer.

  She noticed something else
about Jeremiah Reilly. On the way to the bar, he’d sat in the passenger’s seat, shifting uncomfortably, remaining silent. The classroom leader, who’d put her on the spot in front of nearly twenty kids, wasn’t the same guy who’d sat quietly in the Jeep managing barely a nod. Maybe, away from his area of academic expertise and his college-campus comfort zone, he no longer felt powerful. Or maybe, and Peyton liked this theory better, Reilly was never quite as strong as he’d led her to believe that day in his classroom. He’d just been dealing with nineteen-year-old kids.

  A waitress came by to take drink orders.

  When Peyton asked for a draft, Reilly looked as if he’d brought her to meet his mother only to have her show off a tattoo.

  “Scotch,” he said, “on the rocks.”

  “Scotch?” The freckle-faced waitress chewed gum vigorously. “Like, for real?”

  “Yes,” he said. His brows narrowed, his tone becoming suddenly confident. Kids posed no intellectual challenge to him; he could push them around.

  “Kind of a beer crowd here. I’ll see what we have.”

  “Please do,” he said.

  The girl walked to the bar, leaned toward the bartender, and whispered. The bartender made a face. The waitress pointed at Reilly. Both looked over, and the bartender, a tall wiry guy with a shaved head and a dark blue tattoo of barbed wire on his bicep, laughed.

  Peyton shifted gears again. “Hablas Español?”

  Reilly smiled. “Muy poco, a little.”

  “Oh, a cultured man like you? I bet you’re fluent.”

  “Actually, I am. You must be, too. All Border Patrol agents speak Spanish, right?”

  She nodded. The girl oddly known as Jane Smith had sat with an academic type at Tip of the Hat, speaking Spanish. That man looked like Reilly. Now, apparently, he talked like him, too.

  But first things first.

  “So who is this man in the suit, the guy you, Jonathan, and, I guess, even Morris Picard share as a mutual friend?”

  Reilly thought for several long moments, eyes squarely on her, his wheels turning. Across the room, a group of young men watched a hockey game on CBC, a Canadian network. Someone scored a goal, and they let out a roar. Reilly didn’t even glance in their direction. His focus never left Peyton, which affirmed her instinct: something in her questions regarding the man in the suit bothered Reilly.