Fallen Sparrow

by D. A. Keeley

  “Tommy brought home a calculator and three math sheets he has to do tonight,” Lois told her. “He says the teacher told him to use the calculator.”

  “It’s part of his new math program,” Peyton said.

  She saw the dark Ford Interceptor pull in.

  “I need to go, Mother.”

  “Did he just arrive?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone Gibson got out, wearing a blue sports jacket, and carrying an iPad. He moved to the driver-side door and helped Dalton Kingston to his feet.

  “What’s he wearing?”

  “Good God,” Peyton said.

  “Hey, I’m not too old to dream.”

  “Goodbye, Mother.” She hung up.

  As they crossed the parking lot, Stone Gibson moved fluidly, like an athlete; Dalton Kingston, though, was clearly drunk.

  Stone held the door and said something to Dalton, who nodded. Both men entered. Stone Gibson led Dalton by the elbow to Peyton’s booth.

  He smiled. “Sorry.”

  “Wild Turkey?” she said to Dalton.

  “I’m all alone,” he said. “You know what that feels like?”

  “I see you’re off duty,” Stone said to her.

  “I had a meeting with Tommy’s teachers, so I changed.”

  He nodded, understanding.

  “Dinner is on me,” she said, “if you’re interested.”

  “I am,” Stone said, “and Mr. Kingston will have coffee.”

  “Do you remember the female cop who came to see you?” Peyton said.

  Dalton Kingston looked at her the way a confused dog does when tilting its head trying to grasp a command.

  “Make that a large black coffee,” she said, “and a sandwich—or anything with bread.”

  “I’ll get on this,” Stone said.

  He went to place their orders. Given his detective rank, he didn’t wear a uniform, but it didn’t matter. Everything about him said cop, and two guys at the counter stepped several feet away when he approached.

  Peyton went to the counter as well, leaving Dalton Kingston at the booth.

  “That’s how I found him,” Stone said. “You were right about the liquor store. Not much he wouldn’t do for a bottle of Wild Turkey.”

  “He say anything about Matt?”

  “He’s been mumbling about Matt since I got him.”

  “But nothing helpful?” she said.

  “No. Do you think Matt got scared and took off?”

  “He doesn’t have a car. We’d know if he borrowed one.”

  “Maybe,” Stone said, “but not necessarily. Teenagers keep secrets well. We have someone monitoring his Facebook page. Nothing was posted since Tuesday afternoon.”

  “I’m glad you’re monitoring it. I feel terrible about this.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I do,” she said. “I interviewed him.”

  “He came to you.”

  She gave Stone Gibson $20 to pay with and then went back to the booth.

  “What are we doing?” Dalton asked.

  “We’re going to see if you recognize someone.”

  “Who?”

  Peyton didn’t answer; she didn’t want to offer any information that might sway Dalton or lend bias to the experiment. Stone returned with two large coffees and one hot roast-beef sandwich. Dalton didn’t press for an answer. He seemed content with his sandwich.

  “Tommy’s doing a nice job in my class,” Stone said.

  “He enjoys it. He mentioned you recently. I went in his room last night and found him doing push-ups. He said you told him they would be good for him.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I did tell him that. Was that okay?”

  “Sure. I’m thrilled to see him motivated and taking his fitness seriously.”

  “I miss my boy,” Dalton said. He no longer sounded like he was speaking with two fat lips.

  “We’re going to try to get him back, Mr. Kingston,” she said. “You’re going to help us do it.”

  They didn’t cross the four-lane highway on foot—not with a not-quite-perfectly-sober witness in tow. Instead, they all piled into the Interceptor and drove to the Hampton Inn.

  “We’re going to the fourth floor,” Peyton told Dalton.

  “What are we doing there?” Dalton asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “You won’t have to do much.”

  Stone pushed the elevator button. They listened to the elevator hum and clang. Finally, the door opened, and they got in.

  Dalton Kingston smelled like sweat, but at least the whiskey smell had given way to coffee breath, following two large black coffees.

  “Just relax,” Stone told him. “I told you. This has very little to do with you.”

  “Is Matty here?”

  The elevator stopped and they got out on the fourth floor, walked the hallway, and stood before room 418.

  Peyton knocked on the door.

  “A woman is going to answer,” she said. “I want you to tell me if you’ve seen her before.”

  “I can do that,” he said.

  Except he couldn’t. Because a man answered the door.

  Apparently, he’d returned from getting cigarettes.

  “Can I help you?” Kvido Bezdek said to Peyton. Then he saw Stone, in uniform. “Oh, God. Is this about Sherry? Has something happened to her?”

  Thirty-Nine

  “I’m a research assistant to Dr. Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall,” Kvido Bezdek said.

  He had welcomed them into his hotel suite—a change from Peyton’s recent visit, when upon learning she had to pee, he’d suggested she descend four flights to a ladies’ room. This time, in fact, he’d held the door for her.

  And now they were in the sitting area of his suite.

  “You’re the Border Patrol agent,” Kvido said. “Sherry’s friend.”

  “Yes. I’m not in uniform.”

  “And you?” he said to Stone.

  “Maine State Police Detective Stone Gibson.”

  “When we arrived,” Peyton said, “you asked if something had happened to Sherry. Do you think something might have happened to her?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “We are very close. I certainly hope nothing is wrong. She should have been back long ago.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She said she had something to take care of. She never came back.”

  Peyton looked at Stone. He knew it had been nearly the same story Sherry offered when authorities arrived to see Kvido.

  “Have you reported her missing?” Stone asked.

  “It hasn’t been twenty-four hours. I tried to call her repeatedly. Her phone goes right to voicemail.”

  “Do you have her number?” Stone said.

  “I have it,” Peyton said. She dialed the number—and got voicemail. She left a message.

  “I enjoy working with Sherry a great deal,” he said, “and I care about her. That’s why I’m getting concerned. Who is this?” He motioned to Dalton Kingston.

  “A friend,” Peyton said. She stood and started walking to the bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” Kvido said.

  She didn’t answer. The main room was a sitting area, where up to five could watch TV. The adjacent room was the master bedroom with a king-sized bed and two closets.

  Behind her, a knock came on the hallway door.

  “That’s for me,” she heard Stone Gibson say; then: “Come with me, Dalton. This is your ride home.”

  She heard Leo Miller’s voice, then the door close.

  “What are you doing?” Kvido asked again. He was behind her.

  “I always wondered what these suites were like. How much a night?” She opened the closet door.

  “That’s
enough,” Kvido said. “I don’t appreciate you going through my things.”

  There was no suitcase, no computer, no books or notes—nothing to indicate Sherry had been writing and researching for a book in this room. Peyton wondered if room 210 was still occupied by Chip Duvall.

  She turned and went back to her seat in the main room. Stone Gibson was sitting on the love seat. Dalton Kingston was gone now. He’d gotten a decent meal in him, but otherwise his trip to Reeds from Garrett had been wasted.

  “What exactly are you doing here?” Kvido asked.

  “I came to see my friend Sherry.”

  Peyton sat next to Stone; Kvido stood in the doorway.

  “How long have you been in the country?” Stone said.

  “A week.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “I come to help Sherry, when she asks me to.”

  “You should know that Sherry has told me about your relationship,” Peyton said, “so we can drop the pretense. I know Chip left her.”

  “I’m worried about her,” Kvido said and slumped onto a chair across from them. “She must’ve told you about Chip, and how he treats her.”

  “How does he treat her?” she said.

  “He doesn’t understand her. He reminds me of her father. Domineering.”

  Had Sherry traded one domineering man for another? That wasn’t atypical.

  “What brings you to Aroostook County?” she said.

  “Sherry’s parents died. She needed support.”

  “Do you know how they died?”

  “Yes. She told me. How terrible for her.”

  “You’re from Prague?”

  “I am.”

  “Sherry spends time there.”

  “Researching,” he said, “and seeing me.”

  “How long has that been going on?”

  “Which?” He spread his legs out before him, completely relaxed.

  “Seeing you.”

  “For ten years,” he said, “with a break for about three there in the middle.”

  “Why the break?”

  He shrugged. “We just went our separate ways for a time. Then we came back to each other. You know the saying, If you love something set it free, and if it comes back it was meant to be.”

  “Lovely,” Stone said.

  “I think so.”

  “So that’s what happened?” Peyton said. “You set Sherry free?”

  “It was mutual.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. She was getting tenure at her college, and I was building my business. The timing just wasn’t right.” He spread his hands.

  Peyton looked at his missing fingers, the discolored skin.

  “What business is that?” Stone said.

  “Real estate. I own properties in Prague and the surrounding areas and now some throughout Europe.”

  “You are part of Andela,” Peyton said.

  He laughed. “I was. That was a long time ago. Back when I was young and naive. You know how that goes. Everyone’s a political activist when they’re young, right?”

  His English was impeccable, save for the thick accent; his control of nuances and diction were clearly impressive.

  “How did you injure your hand?” she asked.

  “It’s when I left Andela. It’s when I knew the group was doing things I didn’t agree with.”

  “Like what?”

  “We began protesting for labor unions. Then the group got big, turned violent. This”—he held up his hand—“is the result of a Molotov cocktail. It was my final day as a member of Andela. That was almost twenty years ago.”

  “And you know Simon Pink,” Stone Gibson said.

  “Is that a question or a statement, officer?”

  “A statement.”

  “Simon was much older than me. He was something of a father figure to me, after my own father died.”

  Peyton sat stock-still, riveted. She had expected Kvido to request an attorney the moment he opened the door. He hadn’t. And now she was hearing things—from the suspect himself—that hadn’t appeared in the federal file on this man. How much of the story was true?

  “How did your father die?” Peyton asked.

  “I thought you were here to talk about Sherry. Will you search for her? She left this afternoon and has not returned.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Stone said.

  “No. Just that she had to take care of something. I had a bad feeling about it. I feel like she’s hiding something from me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you recognize the name Matt Kingston?”

  “Who is that?”

  “Could you speculate on what she might be hiding?”

  “She hasn’t set a date for the funerals of her parents. It’s been a week. That seemed … odd? Maybe not. She has a lot on her mind with her brother. But I just feel like she’s not telling me everything, which hurts because I care about her.”

  “And, of course,” Peyton said, “her husband, who she has a family with, left her, which would add to her stress.”

  “You mean to say, who she has a daughter with.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You know Chip, of course. How do you get along with him?”

  “Well, actually, although I never thought he treated Sherry with the respect that she deserves.”

  “And you do?”

  “I take offense to that.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Chip lost his business. He embarrassed her. I can support her.”

  “I see,” Peyton said. “Tell me more about your relationship with Simon Pink.”

  “I did. I’m getting tired. What will you do to find Sherry?”

  “Have you called her attorney or Chip? Have you texted her?”

  “I called and texted her.” He looked at the floor for a moment, then said, “What happened to Simon is terrible. And I can’t believe someone related to Sherry could murder Simon. Simon was always anti-establishment.”

  “And he was your ‘father figure’?”

  “That was a poor choice of words. You know English is not my native language.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Stone said.

  “He took me into Andela, made it sound like a club.”

  “You founded the group.”

  “No. The group was alive and well when I joined. I brought it to the media. I arranged the protests. Then, when I was told to throw the Molotov cocktail at the church, and I saw people inside and hesitated, well”—he held up his hand again—“I knew it wasn’t the right group for me.”

  “What did you learn from Simon Pink?”

  “That’s an interesting question. I learned to stand up for what you believe, I guess.”

  “And what do you believe?” she asked.

  “Oh, in many things.”

  “Tell us about your father,” she said.

  “He was a great man. He died too young.” He looked at his watch. “I really need for you to go. I’m going to make some more phone calls, try to find Sherry. You don’t seem to be doing much to help.” Kvido walked them to the door and shook hands before closing the door behind them.

  In the elevator, Peyton shook her head. “That was unbelievable. The whole time we were in there, I felt like I was in a cage being circled by a Great White.”

  “He is good. Even shook hands. He knows he doesn’t have to talk to us, so he can tell us what he wants and ask us to leave whenever he wants to. He even let you search his room.”

  “But,” she said, “he doesn’t want to talk about his father.”

  “We need to find Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall,” Stone said.

  Peyton took out her cell phone and
dialed Sherry’s number again. The ring went straight to voicemail.

  In the parking lot, as they were getting into Stone’s car, her phone vibrated.

  “Cote here.”

  “Peyton.” It was Hewitt.

  “I was just about to call you.” She told him about Kvido Bezdek.

  “He’s sitting in the hotel?”

  “That’s right. Why were you calling?”

  “I know you’re not on nights now, but any chance you can come in?”

  The last time Hewitt had approved overtime there had been a $6.5-million drug bust at the border.

  “What’s up?”

  “Chip Duvall is here with his attorney,” Hewitt said. “He says he needs to talk to you.”

  Forty

  Mike Hewitt was waiting for Peyton and Stone Gibson at the front door of Garrett Station Thursday at 6:35 p.m.

  “He came to us,” Hewitt said. “We have started looking for him shortly, of course, since Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall is missing.”

  “Start with the husband,” Stone said.

  “Yeah, and he walked in the door with his attorney.”

  “He didn’t go to the state police headquarters?”

  “No. He came here.” Hewitt looked at Stone.

  “For Peyton?”

  “Probably. He asked for her.”

  “Want me to put on my uniform?” she said.

  “Do you think it matters?” Hewitt asked.

  “No. I know him. This is the third time he’s asked to speak to me about Sherry.”

  Hewitt nodded. “State police are getting Bezdek for questioning. FBI is coming for that. You’ll want to be in uniform for that. But, first things first.” He pointed to an office in the back.

  Chip was seated beside a gray-haired man in a dark-blue suit, with a briefcase open before him. The attorney stood, rounded the table, and shook hands with Peyton.

  “Jim Talon. My client wants to speak to you.”

  So Chip had upgraded lawyers. So much for Len Landmark.

  “I’m all ears.” She sat across from Chip; Hewitt sat next to her, a yellow legal pad before him, pen at the ready. Stone took a chair near the door.

  “Peyton, I went home, to Portland, for a day to check on my kids. They were staying with my sister. I came back when I couldn’t reach Sherry. I’m worried about her. This isn’t like her. She may have a fling, but she wouldn’t just disappear.”