Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (5 page)

“Hi, Mom,” Tommy yelled and waved, his toothless grin wide, blue eyes aglow.

When he attempted to catch the ball, it careened off his forearms and fell to the ground.

She nearly flinched—not at the dropped pass, but at the sight of the man who’d thrown it.

“Hi, Peyton,” Jeff McComb, her ex, said. “Hope you don’t mind that I picked Tommy up after school. I called, and Lois said it was okay.”

“That’s fine,” she said. Then she noticed Tommy looking at her, reading her expression. “It’s great. It really is. Glad to see you spending time with him.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said, “and, hey, I always liked you in hats.”

He was referencing her black Border Patrol cap, her ponytail pulled through the opening in the back.

“Not wearing it for you,” she said.

He frowned.

The backyard was small, separated from the farmland by dense pines. She looked at the tree line wondering what her mother had been thinking.

“If you tried to return my call, my receptionist didn’t leave a message.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Jeff said and tossed the ball to Tommy. “Because I’d be happy to help you house-hunt. I know the market inside and out around here.”

Was she being selfishly stubborn? If the guy who sent birthday cards and Christmas gifts but failed to call Tommy for months on end now wanted to be part of their son’s life, shouldn’t she genuinely encourage him?

“Dad picked me up after school, Mom. Cool, huh?” Tommy threw the ball to his father, the sleeve of his gray Red Sox windbreaker flapping in the breeze.

“Way cool, love. Aren’t you cold? What do you have on under that?”

Tommy rolled his eyes.

Her phone vibrated. She pulled it off her belt. “Cote here.”

“Peyton, it’s Miguel.” She recognized the Spanish accent at once. “Scott asked me to call. He wants to know where to bring the baby clothes.”

“Baby clothes?”

“For the little girl.”

“Oh, yeah. Just have him leave them on my desk. I’ll get them to her.”

“Will do.”

She hung up.

“I see you still work a million hours a week.” Jeff caught the ball.

“I still work fifty. Just like everyone else in my profession, Jeff.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and threw the ball back.

“I’ve missed him, Peyton. Missed you both, in fact.”

She didn’t reply.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, “your mom looks like she could use something to drink. How about getting us a couple glasses of water?”

“Sure, Dad.” Tommy beamed, thrilled to help his father. He dropped the football and dashed inside.

“Wow, what a great kid,” Jeff said.

She knew as much because she’d raised him—alone—since Jeff had left. She was within arm’s length and could smell his Polo cologne. He’d started wearing it years ago because she’d told him she liked it. He still knew how to dress, she had to give him that—chinos, Cordovan loafers, and a blue button-down shirt, untucked and open at the collar. But her sister had been right: their settlement had been reached before
he’d taken over his parents’ business, and the BMW SUV she’d seen in the driveway was no indication of his alimony payments.

“Since you’re working nights, could I show you a home tomorrow morning? I know you’re looking for a place.”

“You don’t need to do that, Jeff.”

“I know I don’t need to. I want to. I want to take care of my son.”

“For the first time in three years?”

“Did you really need to say that? We both know what happened in the past. I’m trying to do something now, for Tommy. Are you going to let me?”

She looked up. The sparse gray clouds to the west hinted of snowfall; the wind was blowing out of the north.

“You get done at nine tomorrow morning, right? I want to be his dad, that’s all.”

“He doesn’t need a dad. He needs a father.”

“That’s what I meant.”

Part of her wanted to house shop with Jeff, for Tommy, the same part that had heard the bullet whistle past her right ear the night before she’d put in for a transfer. The other part of her—the part that had wanted to go back to the desert the next night and shoot the bastard who’d tried to kill her—still wanted nothing to do with Jeff McComb.

But she was a mother first, an agent second.

“Okay. I’ll meet you at your office.”

“Great. That’s just great. I’ll go in right now, go over some comps. I think I know your price range.”

“What is it?” she said.

He gave her a figure. The bastard hit the nail on the head.

Tommy was with them again, water glasses in hand.

They both drank as they walked to the front of the house. When they reached Jeff’s SUV, she noticed a dark Chevy Silverado parked on the side of the dirt road, two telephone poles from her mother’s house. The truck started up, U-turned, and drove away.

Jeff leaned close to Peyton. “It’s so good to see you again. You really look great.”

When he moved in to kiss her cheek, she pulled back. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine.”

SIX

P
EYTON FIGURED THE ODDS
of Mike Hewitt approving overtime above the standard fifty-hour workweek were similar to winning the Powerball. But Kenny Radke had provided two names, and she was determined to get to the bottom of the bad tip. So after dinner she drove to Smythe Road, parked her Jeep Wrangler beside a late-model, rust-pocked Toyota Corolla, and climbed a set of wooden front steps covered with slush that the thirty-degree air would soon make treacherous. She rang the doorbell of Morris and Margaret Picard’s small Cape.

Margaret opened the door. She had pewter hair that framed her face and wore an apron and gold earrings that featured a mother holding a baby. A crock-pot stood on the counter, the rich aroma of stew wafting through the house.

“I’m Peyton Cote. Is Mr. Picard available?”

“The Border Patrol agent?”

“Yes. That newspaper article was embarrassing.”

“What article?”

“Now I’m even more embarrassed.” Peyton smiled. “That must’ve sounded presumptuous. I thought that was how you knew who I was, since Mr. Picard mentioned the article at the diner today.”

“I don’t know about any article. I saw you at the diner. Morris told me who you were. Come in and take off your boots. Mo is in the living room.”

Peyton followed her through the dining room and into the living room. The wallpaper needed updating, the hardwood floors required refinishing, but she was struck by the room’s contents. She’d taken US History I and II from Morris Picard, never realizing his tastes ran to Tiffany china and Bose stereo equipment. She thought of the rusted Corolla in the driveway. Why hadn’t it been replaced?

“Peyton,” Morris said, rising to greet her, “thanks for stopping by.”

“Were you expecting me?”

“No, but it’s great to see you.” He turned down the volume on the World War II documentary he’d been watching on a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. “I see you’re out of uniform. Is this business or pleasure?”

“I hope both.” She smiled and took the loveseat, Margaret sitting beside her.

One wall was dominated by framed eight-by-tens of children. In the center, like a sun surrounded by its rays, hung a large collage made from pictures of the Picards interacting with children.

“In every shot,” Peyton said, “you’re smiling.”

“I love kids,” Morris said. “We both do.”

“Those foster kids were a big part of our lives,” Margaret said. “Raising them was so fulfilling.”

“You still take in foster kids?”

Margaret sighed and looked at the floor.

“No,” Morris said, “no, not anymore. Was that what brought you here?”

Peyton shook her head. “I’m here to ask about a poker game.”

She looked around the room at the high-end items. Could gambling account for the expensive things? Hard as it would be to believe, if he was involved with the alleged shipment of BC Bud, that, too, would explain the expensive contents.

“You played cards last Tuesday night—”

“Who told you that?”

“—and I’d like to know who the other players were.”

He returned to his La-Z-Boy, but his feet weren’t on the footstool now, and he wasn’t leaning back in his chair. Both feet were on the floor; he leaned forward, forearms on thighs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?”

“Who told you that?”

“Who told me that you attended a poker game? Poker games aren’t my concern, Mr. Picard. Why are you so upset?”

“Just want to know who’s spreading rumors. I have a right to know.”

Margaret was looking straight ahead, out the picture window at finches eating from a feeder under a spotlight in the front yard. A doe appeared in the window frame, creeping slowly, head down, elegantly placing one foot in front of the next, eating something off the ground near the feeder. The room fell silent, tension momentarily waning, as they watched the deer. The coffee table was littered with books and magazines—
A Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln
, copies of
US History
Magazine
.
Near Mo’s chair lay a yellow two-fold brochure.

She tried to shift gears, ease him back into his comfort zone, before going after the poker game.

“Is that the Castle Inn?” The Castle Inn, in nearby Perth, New Brunswick, was a landmark. She smiled. “Where were these extravagant field trips when I was in school?”

“What are you talking about?”

She leaned forward and picked up the brochure.

“That’s not the Castle Inn. Please put that down.”

She read the title—
St. Joseph’s Orphanage of London
—and realized she was off the mark. She remembered, years ago, always seeing Morris around town with foster kids, at Little League games, at the ice-cream parlor, at the sliding hill in winter. He’d cared for them as if they were his own.

“If you two are looking into adoption,” she said, “some child will be lucky.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” he said.

She thought of the poker game and the contents of this house. Could he afford them on a veteran teacher’s salary? He was department chair. How much had he earned as a foster-care provider? One thing was certain: she’d heard crazier things, but Morris Picard didn’t strike her as one who’d have anything to do with BC Bud. The guy genuinely cared for kids. Could he be involved in drug trafficking, which would no doubt hurt them?

“When you take in foster kids,” he said, “you get materials from lots of orphanages.”

“Even from London?”

He nodded.

She heard the crock-pot bubble in the kitchen.

“Peyton,” Morris said, breaking the silence, “I play cards once in a while, but I didn’t play last week at all. What makes you think I was at Mann’s?”

“I never said you were at Mann’s Garage, Mr. Picard. Only that you played cards last Tuesday night. I’d like to know who the other players were.”

Margaret stood. “I need to feed the birds.” She stood and left the room.

Morris watched her go, then leaned back in his chair. The smile coursing his face surprised Peyton.

“You’ve become a very competent woman.”

It was her turn to smile. “Must’ve had excellent teachers.”

“That must be it.”

He looked out the window for a long moment. The front door closed with a bang. The doe looked up, then, in two leaps that spanned the length of the house, was gone. Margaret appeared in the front yard wearing a parka and filled feeders hanging from trees.

“Like I said, I’m not here about illegal poker games, if that’s your hesitation.”

He smiled and spread his hands. “So you can understand my reluctance to admit I was there.”

She nodded, having been in this situation hundreds of times: He was on the verge of answering her question. So her responses would be brief, leaving him room to talk. If he said something incriminating about the would-be shipment, she’d be back here with Maine DEA.

“I guess I still see you as that shy girl in the middle of the second row. I shouldn’t treat you like a student anymore, should I?” He made a half-fist with his right hand and examined his fingernails. “So I like to play a little poker. What’s the crime in that?”

“There is none. Who else was there?”

“Why?”

“Mr. Picard, I’m simply checking some facts. Please answer my question.”

He thought some more. Finally, he blew out a breath. “All right, you’ve got me. You’ve really grown up, you know that? What led you to the Border Patrol?”

She didn’t answer.

“Where were we?” he asked.

She waited.

“Oh, yes. You wanted to know who else was there. Just me, Kenny Radke, and Jerry Reilly from U-Maine.”

Radke had said four men had played—himself, Picard, Tyler Timms, and the unknown man in the blue suit. Was Reilly that man?

“He’s a professor?” she asked.

“Yes. Teaches history at the college. I met him at a conference downstate.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Wearing?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you describe what he was wearing?”

“Tweed jacket. I gave him a hard time about it, actually. Told him he dressed like a college professor.”

“Anyone else there?”

“No. That’s everyone.”

She knew she wouldn’t get more from him, but she felt Morris Picard knew more than he was saying. “Thanks for your time.”

Peyton stopped near the front door to tie her boots, and Morris waited to see her out. Margaret was back inside and hanging her coat in the entryway.

Bending, Peyton spotted a photo in a curio cabinet. It was Morris, Margaret, and a young girl with blond hair and intense green eyes who appeared to be only a year or two older than Tommy. In the picture, Morris held a plastic car and pointed to it; the girl’s eyes were narrowed—taking in his every word. Unlike the eight-by-tens, this photo was recent.

“Is she one of your foster children? That looks like a special girl. Very bright, you can tell.”

Margaret opened the cabinet, picked up the photo, looked at it, and nodded. She handed it to Peyton for a closer look.

“She was with us a year,” Margaret said. “She was why we stopped taking in kids.”