Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (12 page)

“Did you get the flowers?”

“Yeah, thanks. I should’ve said that sooner.”

He waved it off, then lowered the music, eyes drifting from Route 1 to her face. “Sorry if I upset you in the diner this morning. The way you took off after that kid—I didn’t know what was going on.”

“I was working.”

“You were driving your personal vehicle. Weren’t you off duty?”

“Yeah, but I saw someone who’s part of an investigation.”

“Aren’t there ever times when a Border Patrol agent isn’t an agent?”

“Weren’t we married long enough for you to know the answer to that?”

“I was hoping you’d changed. I sure as hell have. I know what’s important now.”

Right. She and Tommy had been home four months, and Jeff had spent a total three nights with Tommy.

Norah Jones played a soft piano melody. Dense forest lined both sides of the road. A mile or more separated one house from the next. “Is work still interfering with your personal life?”

She grinned and leaned back in the seat. “What personal life?”

His smile acknowledged her joke, but his head shook sadly. “Tough way to live, P.”

“Not for me. Just a tough lifestyle for some people to accept.”

“Seeing anyone?” His eyes were on the road as he pulled into the driveway, killed the ignition, and sat awaiting her response.

She opened her door to get out.

“Guess that’s a ‘no comment.’ You always were tough.”

In Aroostook County, anteroom entryways were known as mudrooms, because on the heels of winter’s often hundred-plus inches of snow, a unique season preceded spring: mud season. The mudroom led to a kitchen, which was separated from the dining room by a breakfast bar.

“Owners moved to Boston,” Jeff explained. “Hard to gauge the size of the interior since there’s no furniture, but the house is nearly twenty-three hundred square feet. Plenty big for Tommy and you.” He looked at her. “And any visitors who might stay over.”

“This was a mistake,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re still passive-aggressive as hell.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He led her through the house, to the four upstairs bedrooms. She had to admit the extra bedrooms would allow for an office and a playroom. She stood looking out the window.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“Trying to figure out how far this is to the stationhouse.”

“That’s your main concern? How long it’ll take you to get to work?”

“It’s one concern.”

“Ten minutes,” he said.

“So twenty in the snow. Not bad.”

“Peyton, what do you think of the
house
?”

“I like it.”

“Because I’m supposed to show it to a young couple later this afternoon. Do you think you’ll make an offer?”

“Wow, that’s fast. Um …”

“Is it big enough?”

“Plenty.”

“Even if Lois, or someone else, were to move in?”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Not a thing. I do this for a living. There’re a lot of things to consider. Do you like the layout? The garage? Yard? I’ve got another property to show you as well.”

“Can’t,” she said.

“Why?”

“Got to get to the hospital.”

“Feeling alright?”

“Yeah, there’s a suspect there—”

“Jesus, Peyton. You were chasing some girl around the diner this morning. I thought you’re working nights.”

“Maine DEA is coming.” She spread her hands. “And I need to type a report before they get here. And don’t worry, Jeff. You don’t have to get upset about my job anymore. Actually, you haven’t had to in three years.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She was already starting down the stairs.

“Speaking of passive-aggressive,” he said. “Hey, I still worry about you. I hope you know that.”

Outside, she felt silly standing near the passenger-side door waiting for him to unlock it and wished she’d driven herself. When she heard the doors click, she climbed in.

“I’m just going to come out and say it,” he said. The dashboard listed the outside temperature at twenty-seven. “I want to see you again, Peyton. Will you have lunch with me sometime?”

She stared into the wooded backyard.

“Peyton, did you hear me?”

She thought of her father’s slumped shoulders, of his sacrifice, of the pride he’d swallowed in the transformation from prosperous farmer to garbage man. He’d done it all for their family. Tommy needed a father.

“That sounds fine,” she said.

SIXTEEN

P
EYTON HUDDLED WITH THE
two Maine DEA agents outside Kenny Radke’s hospital room. The corridor smelled of disinfectant.

The sound of rubber-soled Crocs slapping the linoleum tiles echoed as a nurse hustled past. The agents had driven forty-five minutes north from Houlton to handle the previous night’s drug bust and had entered Garrett Station an hour earlier arguing about whose turn it was to buy coffee. Upon hearing the recording of Darrel Shaley’s confession, they were particularly eager to interview Radke.

“I want to go in by myself first,” Peyton said, “play the tape of Shaley confessing and let Radke hear his name.”

White-haired Mike Bowden nodded. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and tired running shoes. “If you can get him talking, we’ll take it from there.”

“You’ve known Radke a while,” the younger agent, Pete Henning, said. “Think he’ll open up?” He was around Peyton’s age and had shown her wallet photos of his twin two-year-old girls. His garb ran to jeans and a Metallica T-shirt beneath a North Face fleece. He wore a diamond stud in his left ear.

“He might,” she said. “He’s scared shitless of going back to Warren.”

“Don’t blame him,” Henning said.

“Me either.” She turned and pushed the heavy hospital door open without knocking.

“No more needles!” Radke lay on his side, his back to her, staring out the window. “My whole arm is black and blue. No more rookies. Get someone who can draw blood.”

“Like me?”

He rolled over and saw her. She was in uniform, Hewitt having approved a couple hours of overtime like a stingy food-pantry employee dolling out the last dinner roll. One look at Radke’s face and she was glad she’d brought the tape player instead of a transcript of the Shaley interview—reading would be a chore. Hewitt had underestimated Radke’s injuries. His nose was bluish and swollen. He had two shiners and three lacerations on his face. Sutures closed the gashes.

“Who are you? I got nothing to say!”

“Why are you yelling, Kenny?”

“I don’t know you,” he said. “Never saw you in my life!”

“Stop yelling at the door. Who did this to you?”

He continued to look over her shoulder at the closed door.

“A cop sat outside your room all night and is still there. Talk to me.”

“Sure. That worked swell the first time. You said you could help me.”

“Kenny, you gave me a shitty tip. You’ve been busted twice for possession. I
was
helping you—by letting you help us. Think you won’t get busted again? You need all the brownie points you can earn. Did the man you saw talking on the phone at that poker game do this to you?”

“I don’t need no brownie points. I’m clean. And I did my time. I paid society.”

“Turning over a new leaf?”

He nodded. Beyond the closed door, wheels rolled on linoleum. She pulled the straight-backed chair to his bed and sat.

“Let me play a tape for you. See if it jogs your memory.”

He stared at the recorder.

“A guy came to where I work. Said he heard I could use a little money. Said he was doing me a favor, giving me a gift. That was the word he used, gift. Said all I had to do was drive.”

“Hey,” Radke interrupted, “what is this?”

“Just listen, Kenny.”

“No, I’ll do it. I have to. I can’t go away. I don’t know if my wife’s going to make it. Guy’s name is Kenny something. Tall, skinny. Just got out of the joint.”

“Last name?”

“Radcliff? Rad something.”

“Think. What was his last name?”

“Radke.”

She forwarded the tape.

“ … the dope?”

“They came, took my car for two hours, brought it back, and told me to pick up the others at Smitty’s. It’s a bar in Youngsville.”

“Where were you going?”

“Boston.”

She forwarded the tape again.

“Seen Radke since?”

“No.”

“You know who assaulted him?”

“Huh?”

She leaned forward and clicked off the recorder.

Radke’s eyes went from the recorder to her face.

“That’s your voice,” he said.

“Very good. Sorry about your dope.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is that guy? Why’d he say my name?”

“Come on, Kenny.”

He exhaled and cursed under his breath. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth.”

“I don’t know who the hell that is, no idea what he’s talking about. Never been to Smitty’s. This guy was going to take a fall, so he threw my name out there.”

“That happen often? Your name just gets tossed out there during drug confessions?”

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“We’ve already got him. Five pounds of dope. He was driving the damn car and confessed. Why would he mention you? What would be the point?”

“No idea. The guy’s a loser, a criminal.”

“And you’re an Eagle Scout?”

“Hey, my life ain’t been easy. That’s the only reason I done time.”

“No one in Warren’s ever guilty, are they?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you: I want the truth. Let’s start with telling me who did this to you.”

He shrugged—and immediately flinched. “Never saw the asshole. Jumped me from behind.”

“Who’s the man in the suit you played cards with, Kenny? I want a name.”

“Don’t know him. Never got his name.”

“I get pissed when people lie to me,” she said. “What did the group from the poker game have to do with Darrel Shaley and the five pounds of dope?”

“Nothing. And I’m telling you the truth now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Those guys at poker don’t have nothing to do with that.”

“But you do.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She leaned back in her seat. The legs of the chair scraped on the linoleum floor. Through the window, the sky was blue. Huge, low clouds drifted by like slow-moving carp in a pond. For the first time, Radke sounded sincere. She thought about that.

“Who is the man in the suit, Kenny?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

“So you’re not going to cooperate, is that right?” She absently reached for her wedding band to twirl it. Hadn’t done that in years. Had spending time with Jeff led to that? Some kind of Freudian slip? “Two guys from Maine DEA are outside in the hall. I’m going to ask one more time. You’d better think real hard right now, and decide how badly you want to stay out of Warren.”

The little color there had been in his pale face drained. His head shook back and forth, denial an instinctive reaction for him.

“You don’t know what it’s like. You got a job. Life is easy for you, always has been. My old man was a drunk. They took me away from him.”

“I didn’t ask for your sob story, Kenny. I want to know exactly what you’re into.”

“We’re helping people,” he said weakly, then rolled over, his back to her once more.

“By smuggling BC Bud? It’s North America’s strongest pot, Kenny. That’s how you’re helping people?”

“Not that. That’s different.” He stared at the off-white wall behind her.

She’d heard him say he “liked helping people” one other time. “How are you helping people?”

“It’s my contribution to society. About the only good thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

He sounded like he was reading a script someone had prepared.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “How are you helping people?”

“You wouldn’t understand. These people are desperate.”

“For BC Bud? You’re giving it to addicts?”

His eyes left the wall and refocused on her. He looked surprised. “What are you talking about?”

“Jesus Christ,” she said, exasperated. “Tell me about the BC Bud. Who are you getting it from? Who’s buying it in Boston? If you think you’re helping anyone, you’re crazy.”

“The compensation for a selfless act is often very little,” he said, as if by rote, “so I need something else.”

“Did you read that somewhere and liked the way it sounded? What are you telling me, the BC Bud trade is your sideline?”

“I’m telling you that you wouldn’t understand. You have a good home life, always have.”

“I’m not interested in your self-pity.”

“Am I being charged?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I’m done. Good luck.”

“Have it your way.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.

“These nice men are from the Maine DEA,” she said.

But when the door opened, it was agent Scott Smith who entered.

“Peyton, can I talk to you?”

She passed Henning and Bowden in the doorway.

“Who are those guys?” Smith said.

“Maine DEA. What is it?”

“It’s the baby. She’s gone.”

Peyton pulled out of the hospital parking lot with her flashers going and took Route 1 back to Garrett, pulling into the Gagnons’ driveway less than ten minutes later.

“Middle of the day,” Hewitt said, shaking his head, when Peyton joined him at the back of the house, where agents Miguel Jimenez, Stan Jackman, Scott Smith, and a host of local cops also stood looking down at an open ground-level window. Last night’s dusting of snow was proving helpful.

“Footprints in the snow indicate someone went from one basement window to the next until they found one that was unlocked,” State Trooper Leo Miller said.