Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (22 page)

“Mike, I know my top priority is my regular patrol. But, when time allows, I’d like to continue poking around about the missing baby and the Spanish-speaking girl.”

Hewitt considered it and nodded toward the chair next to Miller. “Have a seat. That’s sort of why Leo dropped by.” She heard animosity in his voice. “We were just, ah, hashing out who will do what.”

“State police handles shootings,” Miller snapped. His sandwich lay on the tinfoil wrapper, untouched.

Hewitt glanced at Peyton.

“I don’t give a shit who hears me,” Miller said. “I’m sick of Border Patrol playing Lone Ranger. This Homeland Security and Patriot Act bullshit lets you guys do whatever the hell you want.”

Peyton thought back to what she’d told Jonathan Hurley—that state troopers would no doubt enter the investigation. That was how it usually worked. Apparently, Hewitt had other plans.

She’d heard complaints like Miller’s before. US Border Patrol had handled things its own way for a long time. Prior to the omnipresent media, she’d heard of shootouts along the southern border that resulted in the deaths of drug mules. Allegedly, their bodies had been quickly taken away with only obscure press releases dispersed to the media. In fact, before the media became such an ever-present force, the Border Patrol worked and thrived with little fanfare.

“The shooting occurred on the border,” Hewitt said, “and the border belongs to us. Period.”

“I won’t be your errand boy,” Miller said.

“Miguel Jimenez is a twenty-six-year-old kid, Lieutenant. One of mine. I spoke to Will Marshall this morning.” Marshall was the Troop F commander. “He said you guys are tied up on a homicide in Houlton anyway and could use some help.”

“Garrett is my beat,” Miller protested.

Hewitt leaned back in his leather chair and sipped coffee. “Then we’d be glad to have you assist us.”

Miller glared.

“I get my orders from Washington,” Hewitt said. “You get yours from Houlton. There’s a big difference there.”

“We both get our orders from Houlton.”

“Not on this. Commander Marshall assured me that this arrangement would be fine with you.”

Miller stood. “More Lone Ranger bullshit.” He stormed out, but not before grabbing his sandwich.

Hewitt smiled at Peyton. “I was hoping he’d leave that sandwich.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“Always nice to work with a fan of the Border Patrol.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Mike, there’re a couple other things I think you need to know.”

Peyton told Hewitt about Hurley’s alleged classroom remarks and his admission of late-night infidelity.

Hewitt didn’t speak for a long time. He swiveled to look out the window, sipping coffee, thinking.

Was he angry? She tried to read his expression.

“Just wanted to give you what I had, Mike.”

“Most of that stuff came out this morning. Not the other-woman bullshit, but the reason Hurley didn’t get another contract in Boston. I put Bruce Steele on Hurley’s background check. Did you know Hurley broke some kid’s arm in Guadalajara, Mexico, two years ago?”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Hurley claimed it was self-defense; the kid said Hurley liked his girlfriend. Either way, he’s got a violent streak.”

Beyond the office door, a phone rang and someone tapped loudly on a keyboard as if doing the one-finger shuffle.

“You were upset when I asked if anything from Hurley’s past might tie into this. That’s why you came in about ten hours early?”

“Like I said, just wanted to give you what I had.”

“Ever have one of those weeks when every time you open your mouth someone gets offended? First, at home—but I’m used to that.” He shook his head. “Now, here.”

“I’m living with my sixty-three-year-old mother,” she said. “I understand.”

He smiled. “I bet you do. Anyway, the principal at that Catholic school in Boston didn’t hold back. Steele says the guy hasn’t got many positive things to say about your brother-in-law. According to the principal, Hurley gave a lecture basically saying the US got what it deserved on nine-eleven.”

It was consistent with what Lois had told her.

“My sister started dating him during my last year of college. After that, I was in El Paso and only saw him a few days here and there. Vacations, holidays. So I haven’t really spent a lot of time with him. And I never approved of my little sister dating the guy to begin with since he was her professor. So they didn’t hang around me much during our one year together in college. He kept his criminal history from the family for a long time. Elise knew, but she didn’t tell me until after they’d been married two years.”

“Given that the guy was arrested for Possession with Intent and caught near a school,” Hewitt said, “I can’t believe he’s teaching.”

“He’s done all the course work for a Ph.D. in history, so he’s overqualified. And Garrett High School is the first public school he’s worked at. The others were independent schools.”

“No fingerprints during the background checks?”

“Maybe not,” she said. “He broke a kid’s arm, and the Boston school still hired him?”

“Hurley says he was walking to his car and got jumped. Says the kid would’ve killed him.” Hewitt put a foot against his desk drawer and retied his boot. His green pant leg was damp; he’d been outside not long ago. “Or maybe corporal punishment is coming back. Christ, a lot of kids I see walking around could use a few swipes from the nuns I had. The principal in Boston did say Hurley related well to the kids, that they liked him. Many were upset when he didn’t return. The broken-arm story didn’t come out until Bruce Steele called a former teacher, now living in Paris.”

Jonathan related well to teens? She considered that. He’d charmed Elise from day one. She wondered if he’d told Elise about his alibi yet. He had to know the story would be checked. Eventually someone would seek verification.

On the floor, near Hewitt’s desk, lay a pair of worn Adidas running shoes. The tongues were pulled back to air out the shoes.

“Run to work today?”

“Every day, until there’s too much snow on the ground. Up here that means I can do it about three months a year.”

“You can snowshoe the other nine months. Got to love snow to live here. What time did you get home?”

“Five a.m. Slept a couple hours, came back.”

He looked well rested. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him look tired. He wore his brown hair cut short, a popular look among ex-military men. His boots always gleamed of polish; the silver leaf on his lapel always shone. He was the type who could sleep four hours a night and function perfectly.

“I’m going to talk to your sister, Peyton. Wanted to give you a heads-up.”

She liked him telling her that. Not only for the advance warning, but it was a sign of trust: he knew she wouldn’t alert Elise, which was a tip of the cap to her professionalism.

“I understand the position this puts you in. How much does your sister know about Hurley’s alibi?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know who he was with?”

“No. I told him to come in, make a statement.”

Hewitt glanced around the empty office. “I see he listens well.”

TWENTY
-
SIX

G
ARY’S
D
INER WAS AS
close to a can’t-miss scene as Garrett, Maine, had to offer. Even on a Wednesday afternoon, the counter seats were all taken when Peyton and Elise entered. They had to wait ten minutes for a booth, standing alone near the coat rack, watching plates of gravy- and cheese-covered
poutine
pass them. The day’s special, according to the chalkboard, was potato pancakes for $2.99.

“If it can be made with a potato,” Elise said, “they’ll make it here.”

“Supporting the local economy,” Peyton said. She’d called Jackman but gotten no answer. “Wish people had done more of that when we were growing up.”

Elise turned to her. “You’re thinking of Dad.”

“I do all the time. I think about what it must have been like to lose the farm, to tell Mom we had to pack, to hand the keys to those bank bastards and watch them walk into the house.”

“They left us one acre across the street from the farm,” Elise said, her voice trailing off. “I remember it all … being so afraid of the future …”

Elise, who usually had makeup artfully applied, looked as if
she
was the member of her family who spent part of the previous night at Garrett Station answering questions, dark half-moons beneath her eyes, her complexion pale. Peyton couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Elise without mascara.

“How’re you doing?” Peyton said.

“Not so good,” Elise said, but didn’t elaborate.

Had she told Lois the perception she’d had of her daughter for twenty-eight years was wrong? Or had Jonathan told Elise he’d been cheating on her during his late-night stargazing sessions?

Donna Dionne led them to a table near the far end of the diner and asked if they knew what they wanted. Peyton told her they were waiting for a third and glanced at her watch. Where was Stan?

“Place still smells like bacon grease,” Peyton said. “I better run after lunch.”

A teenage waitress passed with a tray of bacon cheeseburgers.

“My carotid arteries are clogging just looking at that,” Elise said. “Where’s your friend?”

“Sleeping, I hope.”

A strand of hair fell in front of Elise’s eye. She pushed it away absently, staring across the room. “Jonathan told me you know he was cheating again.”

“Yes,” Peyton said, “he told me. You sound awfully casual about it.”

“Guess I don’t blame him.” Elise’s eyes were focused on her silverware. She carefully realigned her fork and knife.

“Well, I do blame him,” Peyton said and thought of Jonathan’s self-pitying remarks. “Did he ever ask why
you were so unhappy? He ever ask why
you were struggling with intimacy? If he cared, he’d have asked.”

Donna returned with a Diet Pepsi for each sister. Elise was staring across the table at Peyton, face ashen, on the verge of tears.

When Donna left, she said, “I don’t need you telling me my husband never cared. I mean, he was parking—
parking!
—with a Goddamn nineteen-year-old, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie. It’s just that your struggles weren’t his ticket to cheat.”

“He’s done it before.”

“I know,” Peyton said. “Who is she this time?”

“Same girl he was with a couple years ago. The little slut followed us from Mexico.”

Peyton stiffened and stopped punching at the ice with her straw. The muscles at her nape tightened. Her personal life—this time in the form of Elise—was again clashing with her career.

“Is she Mexican?” Peyton asked.

“Yeah.”

A lemon slice straddled the edge of Elise’s dark plastic cup. She dropped it into the soda and stirred.

Peyton watched the lemon spin, her thoughts not far behind it. She tried to piece it together chronologically: They’d lived in Mexico
before
the year in Boston. Where had the affair begun? How had the “little slut,” as her sister poignantly deemed her, followed them here?

“Can you describe her, Elise?”

Elise looked up from her soda. “What does it matter?”

“I’m looking for a woman about nineteen, whose native language is Spanish.”

“Good God, this gets worse and worse. Border Patrol is looking for her? Jesus Christ. Well, she looks about seventeen, which makes it even harder. Makes me feel like he’s traded me in for a younger model.”

“This nineteen-year-old is who he’s been meeting on his late-night walks?” Peyton said.

Elise nodded and sipped her soda. “To his credit, at least he admitted the whole thing.” Her hand shook as she set the cup down. Soda sloshed onto the Formica table. “I could be so tough when it came to your situation, Peyton. Remember how I used to console you when you’d call from Texas? Now look at me. I guess I drove him to it, but I can’t even hold the soda. Pathetic.”

“Not pathetic. And you didn’t drive him to anything. Don’t blame yourself. Your situation wasn’t his license to cheat. He’s still your husband.”

“Only technically.”

Elise’s heartbreak came as no surprise. Hurley was famously self-centered. He’d once given Peyton a T-shirt with the American flag as background to the words F
OREIGNERS
U
SED
T
O
B
E
W
ELCOME
. The gift showed not only how he felt about her job—the laws governing which, as she’d pointed out to Professor Jerry Reilly, she had no control over—but also spoke volumes about his disregard for her feelings.

“Who is she, Elise? How did he meet her? What’s her name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

It wasn’t what Peyton hoped to hear. It put her in a precarious position.

“It’s my job to ask.”

“So this isn’t a sister-to-sister, cry-in-your-ice-cream lunch?”

“It is,” Peyton said.

“But you have your job, too?”

“That’s right. And these situations might be connected. Someone—Spanish-speaking, around age nineteen—approached me the other morning.” Peyton shifted on the hard bench, cleared her throat.

“When you chased the woman outside?”

“Right. Elise, she asked about the baby I found.”

“Jesus Christ. A baby?
Hers!?
”

“Keep your voice down,” Peyton said.

“Is that what you are telling me?”

“I’m not telling you anything. Was the affair going on last year?”

“What?”

Peyton had done the math. She repeated the question.

“All he told me was they met in Mexico, and she followed him here.”

“You were in Mexico
two
years ago, Boston last year. Was he seeing her last year, too?”

“She’s from Mexico, one of his former Goddamn students.” Elise turned away. “Not last year. He couldn’t have, not after he promised it was over between them.” Her head was shaking back and forth adamantly, but her frantic eyes told Peyton something else.

Peyton watched silently, considering her sister’s words: …
after he promised it was over.
The marriage had soured in Mexico two years ago, the reason for that now obvious. Had they moved to Boston for Jonathan’s teaching career, as Peyton had been told, or to flee his teenage girlfriend? Why had the girlfriend shown up here, now? And most troublesome: If the baby was less than six months old, and if she belonged to the Spanish-speaking girl, who was the father?