by D. A. Keeley
He looked around the room again. Looking for his scotch? Or checking the faces? She couldn’t tell, but he shifted in his seat.
His thick red hair was still parted to one side, cheeks still dotted with freckles. But now the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes stood out, the wrinkle lines more severe than she’d remembered, as if accentuated by the stress of her question.
Reilly stood and walked to the bar, got a small paper napkin, and returned. He sat and put it before him.
“The waitress will bring napkins, Jerry.”
He didn’t respond.
Jonathan Hurley, their “mutual friend,” also tried hard to look the part of the well-educated man. Her beret-wearing brother-in-law would rather talk about his Harvard degree than his baby. Reilly’s tweed jacket was, likewise, quite a statement—he was a college professor, and he wanted everyone to know it.
He took a peanut from the bowl, ate it, and leaned back, crossing his legs as if thoroughly relaxed.
“His name is Alan McAfee,” he said.
“No wonder he said he knows who I am.”
“Not sure how he would,” he said. “He’s from Boston.”
“Then why did it take you so long to say his name?”
“What? He’s not important. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Peyton?”
“I was in El Paso for a while.” She smiled. He did, too. “But you knew that already. I have a young son from a former marriage. I grew up here.”
“Seeing anyone?” he said.
The guy was direct; she’d give him that. For a split second, Pete Dye’s kiss returned, and she genuinely considered the question.
“Hard to meet single and interesting people in this area,” he said.
“That’s one opinion.”
“Oh, I forgot you’re from here. That came out wrong.”
“Did it? Sounds like you’re being honest.”
“Do you agree?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “In fact, you seem to have found an eclectic mix—a Boston lawyer, a Garrett schoolteacher, a high school department chair, and yourself. How about a Border Patrol agent named Scott Smith?”
He looked at her, then toward the waitress.
“The scotch isn’t coming yet, Jerry. Why don’t you tell me what all of you have in common?”
He examined the back of his hand thoughtfully for several moments. Finally, his head shook back and forth. Then his eyes rose to meet hers.
“Peyton, I spent a decade accumulating degrees. It wasn’t exciting. Many nights, in fact, were lost to libraries. I earned my Ph.D. only to find the college teaching market saturated. Only job I could find was up here.” He shrugged. “I took it.” He stood, reached in his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. “You have no real interest in me. That’s pretty apparent.”
He tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the table.
“I’ll walk home,” he said, and left.
THIRTY-FIVE
SHE PULLED INTO A slot marked “visitors” at St. Mary’s Hospital and got out. The night air had become brisk with the fading sunlight. The doors to the lobby whirred open and she entered, her thoughts swimming in rough seas.
The Spanish-speaking teen who’d asked about the abandoned infant was supposedly named Jane Smith.
Jerry Reilly, who had said, “Americans should be more aware of what’s happening around the world … isn’t that why nine-eleven really happened?” was friendly with Jonathan Hurley, who similarly had told students at a Boston Catholic school that Muslims had the strongest faith and that 9/11 occurred because Americans failed to understand other cultures. And both men hung out with fellow history buff Morris Picard. The obvious link between the three was history, but Picard, seemingly, had a strikingly different personality than the two others. Did Picard, too, share an anti-American stance?
All three had attended a poker game with the late Kenny Radke and a man wearing a suit. Was that Alan McAfee, who was from Boston? Hurley had worked in Boston. But what could McAfee’s connection to the others be?
When she entered Stan Jackman’s hospital room, he was sitting up in bed, staring at the window like a man looking into a dark reflective pool, his face pale. She knocked lightly on the open door.
“How are you, Stan?” she said.
“Place is like a jungle,” he said, motioning to the flowers lining the windowsill.
She kissed his cheek. “Lots of people care about you.”
He nodded. “Thanks. I got the bouquet from you and Tommy.”
She waved that off and grinned. “Elise was upset that you stood us up for lunch. Refused to put her name on the card.”
“Hey, I never said I was reliable.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m relying on you to continue being a pain in the butt for a long time, so get better and get out of here.”
She sat in the recliner next to the bed. A rolling tray table was beside the chair, a brown cafeteria-style tray atop it. Silver covers topped plates like hotel room-service meals. The plastic wrap covering the drink hadn’t been removed.
“Eat anything?” she said.
“Ever try the food in here? They don’t need to worry about me gaining weight.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“I had a heart attack.”
“I see you smoking again and you won’t have to worry about having another heart attack because I’ll shoot you.”
“You got no idea how bad the pain was. Cold turkey.”
“Good.”
“For someone with shitty luck, you’ve been in the right place a couple times this week. Thanks for coming to my house. You saved my life, Peyton.”
“Wrong place, right time. It’s on my business card.”
“I go home tomorrow or the next day, start cardiac rehab in a week or so. That’s a pretty image—me on a treadmill. At least I can work half-days. I told the doctor to give me that much, or I’d gain twenty pounds sitting at home.”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress, Stan. I know you miss Karen terribly, and the whole thing with Miguel the other night … Time off might do you some good.”
“Yeah, all that has been building up. And then, when I got home, there was a phone message that set me off. Hurley’s lawyer called, said he needed to meet with me to discuss my role in the apprehension and questioning of his client.”
“Can he do that, call you directly?”
“Well, he did. It wasn’t him contacting me that bothered me. It was how he worded it. Something like, ‘We need to discuss the stress of your wife’s passing, and how it’s led to a drop off’—I remember that, drop off—‘in your job performance.’ ”
“Never heard of a lawyer saying that much on a phone message,” she said. “He was trying to rattle you.”
“Well, he did. My mind started racing. I sat down to read the paper, started reading about Miguel, and thought about my decision to let him go off on his own that night. Then I thought about the message again. My left arm started to hurt. And that’s about all I remember.”
“Miguel is an experienced agent, Stan. You can’t babysit him. You couldn’t have prevented it. He was shot point-blank.”
“That’s exactly why I think I could’ve prevented it. Someone got that close to him. I could have had his back, had I been there.”
A young nurse entered wearing lavender hospital scrubs and bright yellow Crocs.
“Time for a blood check, Mr. Jackman.”
“How come you smile every time you jab me with a needle?”
She laughed. “Makes my day.”
Peyton listened to Jackman whine about the needle, just as he had about the hospital food. Stent or not, if he could just forgive himself for Miguel’s shooting, he’d be fine.
“Peyton, any news on that missing baby? They set up a tip line?”
“I haven’t heard,” she said, and wondered if she would, since she was on leave.
The nurse took her seat on the edge of the bed and looked
for a vein.
Peyton rose and kissed Jackman’s cheek. “I’m going to look in on Miguel.”
“Is this your daughter?” the nurse asked.
“Not biologically,” Jackman said, “but she stays on my case like a daughter.”
“See you tomorrow, Pops.” Peyton smirked and left.
When she entered Miguel Jimenez’s room, she knew Mike Hewitt wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there. Hewitt was sitting bedside, staring at Jimenez like a father whose son was clinging to life.
Jimenez was asleep, an IV running from a drip bag to a needle in the back of his right hand. The skin near the needle was iodine-
yellow. An IV port had been inserted, held in place by a thick gauze wrap. This would alleviate future needle pricks, but the flesh around the port was purple—previously, someone had a hell of a time finding a vein, their struggles leaving Jimenez’s hand badly bruised.
Jimenez, in a white cotton johnnie, lay in peaceful repose. The way the dead do, Peyton thought. What struck her was a conversation she’d had with him only days earlier. He’d told her all about his new Xbox.
“How old are you?” she’d asked. “My son plays Xbox.”
Jimenez had laughed then.
That vibrant agent, who slept all of five hours a night, now looked thin and pale with dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked suddenly grown-up.
Things could change in the blink of an eye. Kenny Radke’s eyes had flashed desperation a millisecond before the barrel of his pistol had barked and hers had followed, its report sounding like an echo. In turn, she’d gone from BORSTAR to administrative leave that quickly.
Hewitt stood and silently pulled the room’s leather recliner beside his straight-backed plastic seat, careful not to disturb Jimenez.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said, “only family in ICU.”
“You told them you were his sister, didn’t you?”
“Thanks for getting me a seat.” She sat down beside him.
They spoke quietly, no longer the suspended agent and the senior officer who’d placed her in that role. Now they were two colleagues visiting a fallen friend.
“You don’t look like Jimenez’s sister,” Hewitt said. “They upgraded him to Stable this afternoon, so that’s probably why they let you in.”
“I admit nothing,” she said.
Hewitt grinned, laugh lines forming on his lean face.“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Something on the computer mounted to Jimenez’s bed beeped.
“The doctor says he’s not out of the woods yet,” Hewitt said and looked down at his shoes.
He was off duty and wore jeans, a white button-down shirt (starched and creased, of course), and cordovan loafers that matched his leather belt. His pale face and bloodshot eyes belied his clothing, making him appear as if he’d not slept. She’d never seen him with a five-o’clock shadow before.
“The doctor says he’s still day-to-day,” he said, “says he has a ways to go.”
It was nearly 7 p.m., and she wanted to be home to read with Tommy before he fell asleep. Somewhere beyond the closed door, a cart rolled down the hall, its wheels squealing every few feet, as if
a tack was stuck in one. Clear liquid fell in dime-sized droplets from the hanging IV bag, slid down the tube, through the needle, and entered Jimenez’s bloodstream through the port. The room smelled of disinfectant, a strong bleach-like aroma. Being here reminded her of her father, of his heart attack, of his two-week fight, and mostly of sitting bedside, staring at his thick liver-spotted hands. During the final hours, they too had possessed an IV port.
“You all right, Peyton?”
“Yeah, fine. I was just with Stan. Did you know Alan McAfee called him? That’s what sent him over the edge.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“He’s a first-class asshole, Mike.”
“I’m aware of that, too. You’ll be meeting with him soon. Marcy Lambert, the Assistant US Attorney, called and asked for a meeting between herself, you, and McAfee.”
“When?”
“Soon. Lambert is in contact with the guy. When she tells me, I’ll let you know. McAfee insists he has no idea where Hurley is. Hurley’s second set of tickets to London is for March, and American Airlines will notify authorities if he tries to change that date. All the airlines have his name. If he tries to leave, we’ll know it.”
“Assuming he uses his real name.”
“Assuming that,” he said. “BOLOs went out nationwide. And your sister gave us a real good photo to use, a clear headshot. We’ve also got the plate number of his Toyota Tacoma. Someone will see him.”
“Has Hurley been charged with the shooting?” she said.
“We can’t place him at the barn. Without that …”
“Then why would McAfee go after me? Is there a link between Kenny Radke and Hurley?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wants to see what we know. Marcy Lambert can’t figure that out either. We can’t place Hurley at the scene, and he has an alibi.”
“Not much of one,” she said. “He was with a girl we can’t locate. I might have learned something on that front this afternoon.”
He tilted his head. “But you’re not working, correct?”
“I had drinks with a couple people.”
She told him about the girl’s name and how Jerry Reilly fit the description of the redhead in the tweed jacket at the Tip of the Hat with Jane Smith.
“Jane Smith?”
Peyton nodded.
“Your sister said she was Mexican.”
“I doubt it’s her real name.”
“Perfect,” Hewitt said. “I asked McAfee to produce the girlfriend for questioning. He says he can’t locate her either.”
“Of course he can’t.”
Jimenez snored softly, startling them both.
“Peyton, have you forgotten our Lone Ranger talk? You’re on leave.”
“I can ask some questions. I’ve got a lawyer trying to drag my name through the mud.”
Hewitt rubbed his face with his free hand, too tired to argue. “How’s your sister holding up?”
“She’ll make it. Thanks for asking.”
They were quiet. She stood and went to the window on the far wall. Distant lights illuminated the University of Maine campus, and she could see the campus’s wind turbine. She shook her head
and whispered over her shoulder, “What the hell is a Boston lawyer doing up here anyway?”
“Says he’s representing Hurley in a wrongful-termination case, that he’s Hurley’s regular counsel.”
She turned around. “I took my son for ice cream Tuesday night and saw him with Kenny Radke and Tyler Timms, two locals.”
Hewitt sat looking at her.
“McAfee met with local educators,” she continued, “so maybe that meeting had to do with the suit against the Boston school. But Radke works at Garrett Public Works, and Timms works at Mann’s Garage. What could that meeting have been about? I keep going back to that.”
Hewitt clasped his hands atop his head and leaned back.
“You know,” he said, “usually when you meet with someone’s attorney, although no one ever says it, you all know the guy’s either a dirt bag or someone who accidentally crossed the border or did something like that. Either way, the attorney and I are usually pretty much on the same page. But McAfee’s different. He seems to go beyond simply advocating for his client.”
She waited, but he didn’t say more in that line.
“McAfee went to law school in Portland, passed the Maine bar, and worked in southern Maine before moving out of state ten years ago.”
“You checked him out,” she said.
“He doesn’t handle many criminal cases. The guy’s an adoption attorney.”
She’d heard that once before, in Gary’s Diner. Jonathan himself said that when Elise suggested Peyton use their attorney.
N
ow something tugged at her, something at the edge of her consciousness that she’d missed. What was it?
“You’ll be cleared,” Hewitt was saying.
Miguel stopped snoring and moaned as if having a nightmare.
She walked back to Hewitt and sat down again.
“Peyton, McAfee doesn’t have the ammunition that the lawyer who dragged me through the mud had. That guy caused a nationwide scandal—page two or three of every newspaper in the damned country.”
“I remember it.”
He smiled. “Infamy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
She knew the wounds were old, that many had yet to heal, but he was getting by.
“Either way,” she said, “I appreciate you trusting me.”
Neither of them spoke then, and the silence in the room was uncomfortable. She shouldn’t have mentioned him sharing his past.
“Mike, where’s the investigation on the missing baby stand?”
“We’ve got the baby’s footprint at every hospital we can find, and we have a photo on BOLOs nationwide.”
“No ID makes her a needle in a haystack.”
“Yeah.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said.
“Keep it to yourself,” he said. “I’m an optimist.”
“Who’s working the case now?”
“Pam Morrison, Bruce Steele, and Scott Smith.” He stood, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and paused at the door. “Peyton, you’re on leave, right?”
“Right,” she said.
“Don’t smirk when you say that,” he said. “And tell your sister I’m sorry for all that is happening. You never know what life will throw at you. I know what she’s going through.” He walked out and closed the door softly behind him.
THIRTY-SIX
A HALF-HOUR WITH TOMMY wasn’t enough, but it was more than she’d had on most nights during the past two weeks. She’d quizzed him for his upcoming spelling test, and then she’d read The Giving Tree to him. He could say the words with her, having memorized them, but no matter. It was a book for all ages.
“Mommy,” Tommy said, “are you crying?”
She wiped her eyes. “Even moms cry sometimes.”
