Fallen Sparrow

by D. A. Keeley

  “I know she was a prostitute.”

  Bezdek slammed his open palm on the metal table top. The sound reverberated throughout the room.

  “That’s enough! You’re wasting my client’s time. You can charge my client or we can walk.”

  Peyton knew Landmark was right. Everyone in the room did. She waited to see if Hammond had another card up his sleeve.

  “I have several more questions,” Hammond said.

  Landmark shook his head. “You’ve burned this bridge, Agent Hammond. My client came when you called him. You have insulted him and done nothing more than fish for suspicious answers. Let’s go, Kvido.” Landmark stood.

  “Okay. You want me to be direct, Len. How’s this?” Hammond turned to face Kvido. “Tell me what you know about making bombs. Where you learned it. And from whom. Period. That’s what I want to know.” He turned back to Landmark. “That fucking clear enough, counselor?”

  “I know nothing.”

  Hammond leaned back in his seat. “So here we are, Kvido. I just had you read a classified document about yourself. The CIA knows you worked with Simon Pink. We know Pink made bombs for Andela. And you have admitted you were close to him … ”

  Bezdek’s eyes ran to Peyton. She held his stare. “ ‘Father figure,’ ” she said.

  “ … but you’re going to tell me you know nothing about bombs? I can guess you flunked the exam by looking at your hand. But you must have learned something.”

  “Fuck you. All of you,” Bezdek said, but the rage had left his voice. His words were quiet now, controlled.

  “Come on, Kvido,” Landmark said.

  “I can ask State Trooper Stone Gibson back there to bring him in for questioning,” Hammond said.

  Landmark sat down again.

  “Why don’t you explain what Simon Pink was doing in Aroostook County?”

  “I understand he was working,” Bezdek said.

  “Coincidentally? For your girlfriend’s parents?”

  Bedzek shrugged. And he smiled at Hammond, whose face colored. “Any more questions, agent?” Bedzek said.

  “Sure. How come you gave Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall over two hundred thousand dollars? You see we have her bank statements. There were a couple accounts that took some finding, but you know how the government is in this country—too big. A lot of government employees have lots of time on their hands, like Agent Cosgrove back there.”

  Cosgrove smiled.

  “My finances are my business,” Bezdek said.

  “Kvido,” Landmark said, “that’s enough.”

  “Agent Cote, here, raised an interesting question when we first spoke to Chip Duvall. She asked him if he lost his house when he lost his business. He said no. That was interesting to us. You see sometimes, no matter how well you plan, no matter how smart you are, the people you surround yourself with fail you, even if they try hard not to.”

  “Agent Hammond, you are way, way out of line here,” Landmark said. “And you know it. This is insulting. You called us in simply to fish. There is no other reason.”

  “No. I’d like to know just why your client gave Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall two hundred grand. That genuinely interests me. I’d also love to hear where he got the money.”

  Landmark leaned close to Bezdek to whisper something.

  Bezdek pulled back. “I need no help.” Then to Hammond: “I gave her the money. It was a gift.”

  “Where did you get the money? I thought she paid you. You said you did research for her.”

  “As a hobby. I am passionate about her research. It is not my”—he searched for the right word—“primary job. I invest in real estate.”

  “What did Sherry do with the money?”

  “Oh, that, I cannot tell you. You see, I do not know, Mr. Hammond. The money was a gift. She was free to do whatever she wanted with it.”

  “Did you know her father?”

  “No. I never met him. Based on her, I’m certain he was a fine man.”

  “Actually he abused her, verbally and sexually.”

  “That is terrible to hear.”

  “Funny,” Hammond said, “that she never mentioned it to you, seeing as you were close to her.”

  “Is there anything else?” Landmark asked.

  “One other thing,” Peyton said, “but I’m hoping we can avoid it.” She slid the warrant to Landmark.

  “You want to swab his mouth?”

  “I don’t want to. I’d rather be able to ask your client a question and get an honest answer.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Sam Duvall, Sherry’s nine-year-old son, is yours, correct?”

  “Why do you ask?” Bezdek said.

  “Sherry told me as much. I just want confirmation. I can do it with a DNA test, or you can provide the answer. Either way.”

  “Yes, he’s my son. Sherry and I were together years ago. I told you I loved the woman.”

  “And she was raising your son?” Peyton said.

  “Yes.”

  “And Chip? He adopted Sam?”

  “No. Sam is my son.”

  “But Sam goes by Chip’s last name. I’m told he legally adopted Sam.”

  “Sam is my son.”

  “Does Chip know you’re the father?” she asked.

  Bezdek didn’t immediately reply. And he was too self-assured to look to Landmark for help. He simply sat staring at Peyton, his wheels clearly turning.

  “We haven’t discussed it. As you can imagine, with Sherry leaving Chip for me, Chip and I do not have a relationship.”

  “That’s funny,” Peyton said, “because I could’ve sworn he was meeting you for lunch when I saw you at the diner the other day.”

  “I have never met Chip for lunch.”

  “No,” Peyton said. “He pulled in, but you went out to stop him before he came inside.”

  Bezdek shook his head.

  Hammond was about to speak, but Peyton played a hunch, saying, “Yeah, Chip denied it, too.”

  Bezdek looked at her for a moment, then nodded, and leaned back in his seat: an unconscious gesture, one that told her Bezdek had just been reassured.

  Of what?

  “Can you tell us where you were Wednesday afternoon?” Hewitt asked. He and Hammond had gone to find Bezdek then but hadn’t been able to do so.

  “I don’t recall.”

  “No? A smart guy like you? You can’t remember?”

  “Perhaps I was taking a walk. I cannot recall. Maybe in the gym.”

  Hammond said, “Do you know where Sherry took Matt King-

  ston?”

  “No. I would have no idea and no way of knowing. And, honestly, I do not like to think about that, about how it turned out.”

  “Where were you the night Simon Pink was murdered?”

  Bezdek smiled broadly. “Why I was in the air, flying here, Mr. Hammond.”

  “I hope the flight was smooth.”

  “Extraordinarily so. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be in the area for a few days, Mr. Bezdek. We may need to ask you some additional questions.”

  “Like I said, I will be at Sherry’s funeral. She’s being buried here.”

  “How does Chip Duvall feel about that?” Peyton asked.

  Bezdek looked at her, thinking.

  “I mean, surely he won’t want you there, seeing as you were stealing his wife.”

  “Stealing is not the correct word.”

  “What is?”

  “I was making her happy. If he cared about her, he should have wanted that for her.”

  “Is that what you wanted?” Peyton asked. “For her to be happy?” She felt Hewitt’s eyes on her, and she knew why: her tone had changed. She reeled her emotions back in. “That’s nice to hear,” she said. “W
hat happens to Sam and Marie now?”

  “We are working that out.”

  “Who?”

  “The people involved.”

  “And who is that? They’re either going to you or Chip or you’re splitting them up. What’s the plan?”

  “It’s not finalized yet.”

  “Does Sam know you are his father?”

  “Really, agent,” Bezdek said, “what are we talking about?”

  “It’s time for us to go,” Landmark said.

  “Thank you for your time today, Mr. Bezdek,” Hammond said and stood. The others followed him out.

  Twenty minutes later, Hewitt and Peyton were in the breakroom. Peyton was eating a salad; Hewitt was having five cookies.

  “Quite a lunch,” she said.

  “I ran six miles this morning. This is my reward.”

  “Healthy.”

  “Healthy enough,” he said. “You were getting pretty upset in there.”

  “Not much to like about that guy.”

  “You were close to Sherry when you were kids, huh?”

  She looked at him. He was staring at her.

  “What are you saying, Mike?”

  “I’m saying this isn’t only about Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall, Peyton. This is also about Simon Pink, Pete McPherson, and, of course, what was probably an assassination attempt on the president of the United States, which comes above all else. Don’t lose sight of that.”

  “I won’t. But Sherry was used and tossed away by this asshole—and that led to all of the other deaths, Mike.”

  “She was paid, Peyton. Two hundred grand, in fact.” Then he nodded. “But, yeah, she never expected things to end as they did.”

  Through the window in the breakroom, she could see the rolling farmland across the street. A large crop sprayer bounced across a field, its metal arms jutting out like mechanical wings.

  “Freddy changed his plea after we left,” Hewitt said. “Stephanie is in talks with Shelley Wong. In exchange for talking, Freddy’s being released on his own recognizance. It was part of the deal. He really wants to get out of there and back to the farm.”

  “He’s not cut out for prison life.”

  The tractor’s huge tires moved carefully between the rows. Peyton was amazed at the speed at which the tractor traversed the land.

  “He better get used to prison,” Hewitt said. “Conspiracy to Commit Murder carries ten to thirty years. I doubt he’s getting off without serving something.”

  “Might depend on how much he talks.”

  “He doesn’t know all that much.”

  “Or he’s playing dumb.”

  “He’s not smart enough to pull that off. You saw him today. We were offering him a pass, and he didn’t know it.”

  “You think no one knew what the cabin was being used for, except Sherry?” Peyton shook her head. “Farmers are some of the most observant people you’ll ever meet, Mike. Hard for me to believe Freddy knew so little. I think he was scared when we interviewed him and didn’t want to say anything to incriminate himself.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m certain Fred knew something was going on in that cabin, too. He was upset Marie called me to start all of this.”

  “Think she knew?”

  “That’s a good question. I don’t think so. Simon Pink could’ve given her the money I found in her dresser—that would explain why she was so upset to learn of his death: he was helping her escape her abusive husband.”

  “So she called us, as any good citizen living near the border would?” Hewitt said.

  “That’s what I believe,” Peyton said. “She called to report two men on her property. That’s all.”

  “So what did Fred Sr. get out of this?”

  “His back taxes were paid by his daughter. It’s quite a gift, Mike. It let her parents keep the farm, avoid being disgraced. It’s a bigger deal, maybe, than anyone not from here might realize.”

  Hewitt sat looking at her. “That Conspiracy to Commit charge is looking contagious.”

  “I wish Hammond would’ve pressed Kvido Bezdek on the IEDs, Mike.”

  “I’ve worked with him before. He’s good. He got a warrant and tapped both hotel rooms this morning. He did it himself.”

  “Really?”

  “He knows what he’s doing, Peyton. You know, not everyone goes at things a hundred miles an hour.”

  “You saying I do that?”

  “You started off convinced we had a crystal meth problem, if I recall correctly.”

  She smiled. “You recall correctly. Still, I want to know who planted and set the IEDs. Pink, we assume, made them, and he was dead. Sherry couldn’t plant them; she wouldn’t know how. And Freddy was in jail. That only leaves Bezdek. He might not be able to make them with that hand, but he could have set them out there.”

  Hewitt was nodding.

  She took a bite of her salad and chewed quickly. “Well, Bezdek isn’t staying here forever. Everything hinges on him—the money, the IEDs, the kidnapping, everything.”

  “We think.”

  “I know it.”

  “No,” he said. “You think you do.”

  “I know it. Listen,” she said, “we all want to nail this guy. I have an idea, but we’ll need one more warrant.”

  “We tapped both hotel rooms this morning.” Hewitt blew out a long breath. “If it’s a decent idea, we might try it. What do you have in mind?”

  “It won’t be easy, but it’s all there is left to do,” she said.

  Forty-Seven

  Peyton was outside the Hampton Inn at 5:45 p.m. Monday night when Stone Gibson, wearing Oakley wrap-around sunglasses, jeans, and a dark T-shirt, slid onto the passenger’s seat and closed the door.

  “It’s nice to work with a federal employee,” he said. “A Toyota? You guys get undercover vehicles?”

  “This is my mother’s Camry. And I’m not getting overtime pay for this.”

  “Well, state police would never have gotten the warrant for the wire taps.”

  “Woe is me,” she said. “You know that’s not true.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t have gotten it same day.”

  She didn’t deny that.

  “Our situations aren’t so different,” she said. “A team of Homeland Security Investigations agents are on the way. Once they get here, I’m probably back on border patrols. Field agents are a dime a dozen.”

  “Ever read the play Death of a Salesman?”

  “I think so.”

  “This guy Willy Loman says he’s not a dime a dozen.”

  “No one is,” she said. “It’s kind of why I’m here.”

  “For Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall?”

  “And all of them. But, yeah, because, if I’m being honest, I do think she got a raw deal—not just on this, but in life in general. Her father sexually abused her. She spent her youth trying to prove to him she was good. Then she spent her adulthood trying to excel. But she couldn’t because she was broken from the start.”

  “I respect your compassion,” he said, “but it’s dangerous.”

  “I thought you never went to college. How do you know who Willy Loman is?”

  “Changing the subject? Okay. I read a lot. So you say Sherry tried to prove stuff. Maybe I do, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m not illiterate. You don’t need a school to be educated.”

  “How much do you read?”

  “Eighty books last year.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she said.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “There’s the green Ford Escape,” she said. “Both of the hotel rooms face the other side of the building. So why don’t you move the car near the door, and if Chip or Kvido come out, let me know.”

  “Go
t it,” he said.

  Peyton got out, and Stone did the same and moved to the driver’s side. As the car pulled away, she did her best Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall impression—wearing sunglasses, pulling a Red Sox cap low, and raising the hood on her University of Maine Black Bears sweatshirt over her head. She went to the Escape and removed the Slim Jim she had pressed to her side inside her sweatshirt. She jimmied the bar back and forth inside the driver’s-side window and unlocked the door. Once the door was open, she planted the tap. Finished, she walked back to the Camry.

  “I’m going inside to make sure both rooms are still being used and to see if both men are home.”

  “I’ll watch the lobby,” Stone said.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Chip Duvall said, when he answered the door of room 210 at the Hampton Inn.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” she said, “and I thought I’d drop by.” She knew she’d used that line the last time she’d been at this hotel room.

  Apparently, Chip didn’t know it had been rehearsed previously.

  “I’m not doing very well. I came here to help Sherry bury her parents. Now I’m”—his voice cracked, and he looked down, shoulders trembling—“burying her beside them.”

  The weight of his statement hit Peyton. She knew what he said was true, of course; but at the same time, she’d not thought of it. She’d been working the case and thinking of Sherry’s plight. The irony of Chip Duvall’s situation was evident by the pain on his face.

  “May I come in, Chip?”

  “Gee, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  She looked at him. Could this be the same idiot who’d made several passes at her? Why the change? A show of respect for his late wife? If so, she wanted to hit him in the throat again—make him consider where that respect for Sherry had been a week ago.

  “I have a few questions I need to ask you.”

  “You sound formal.”

  “The investigation is still ongoing.”

  “What investigation?”

  “The murder of Simon Pink.”

  “Oh, that,” he said and held the door. “Yeah, come in.”

  His suitcase was open, clothing strewn on the floor around it. “Excuse the mess.”

  “How are you holding up?”