Fallen Sparrow Page 18

  “What are you doing?”

  She looked up to see Miguel Jimenez eating an egg sandwich.

  “Every time I see you,” she said, “you’re eating.”

  He shrugged. “What is that? Looks like the messy outlines I made for high-school papers.”

  “It’s messy alright. I’m thinking.”

  “You looked pretty focused,” he said. “I called your name twice.”

  “Sorry. How can you eat that? I can smell the Tabasco from here.”

  It was dripping off his sandwich onto his paper plate.

  He smiled. “I like hot sauce. And Tabasco is for wimps. This is mi madre’s recipe.”

  “If I need to take the paint off my car, I’ll call you,” she said, then: “Who has the detonators that were found at the St. Pierre farm?”

  “State police turned them over to the FBI.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why? That mean something?”

  Peyton looked past Jimenez at the breakroom. Wally Rowe was talking on the phone.

  When Rowe hung up, Peyton crossed the bullpen and knocked on the breakroom door.

  “Hi,” Rowe said. “What’s up?”

  “Got a sec?”

  “For a BORSTAR agent? You bet.”

  “Former BORSTAR agent,” she said and smiled.

  He wasn’t wearing a sports jacket this day. He wore jeans and a dark windbreaker.

  “Hey,” she said, “what are you working on?”

  He leaned back in his seat and frowned. “I’m Secret Service. I’m working on the president’s security details.”

  “Any idea what the FBI is doing in regards to the cabin fire?”

  “Why don’t you call them?”

  “That’s not answering my question,” she said.

  He spread his hands as if to say, You know I can’t talk. Give me a break.

  She wasn’t buying it.

  “I’ll tell you what I think: I think you’re collaborating with the FBI. And that you could answer my question, if you wanted to.”

  “I’m Secret Service,” he said again. “By definition my job requires discretion and secrecy.”

  “And self-importance. Maybe I was expecting too much to think we could share information like two professionals.”

  “Spare me.”

  She sat down across from him. He didn’t seem pleased, his welcoming smile now long gone.

  “Who told the county fire marshal to desist?”

  “Just a Secret Service agent. That’s me.”

  “Look, those detonators bother all of us. The FBI isn’t here yet, and I know why.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You were an FBI agent. You still have contacts there.”

  “Naturally,” he admitted.

  “And ties.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I oversee the president’s travel into this state, Peyton.”

  “I know that. Those detonators would raise red flags at the FBI. And when the FBI looked at the president’s travel itinerary, someone at Secret Service got a phone call. You came up here early because of Simon Pink and what was found in that cabin.”

  Rowe looked at her. His blue eyes steady, his expression stoic, his hands folded calmly in his lap.

  “You play poker?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “You should,” she said.

  Finally, a smile. “Thank you. Look, Peyton, I don’t want to waste your time. So let me say this: The cabin has moved up the federal foodchain. FBI isn’t directly involved in it anymore.”

  She leaned back in her chair and offered a momentary smile.

  “So the CIA has entered the picture?”

  He said nothing, which was a confirmation.

  “Time for a squeeze-play,” she said and went out.

  Twenty-Seven

  Tuesday, just after lunch, they were in an interview room in Garrett Station. The stationhouse had begun life as a ranch-style home. The room’s north-facing window frame had been painted and repainted, but Peyton could see MAGGIE carved into it in jagged letters. She figured this had once been a child’s room.

  “Thanks for coming in, Dr. Duvall,” Stone Gibson said. “I’ve asked Agents Cote and Cosgrove to join us.”

  “My attorney says I don’t have much choice,” Chip Duvall said.

  Peyton sat between Stone and Mitch Cosgrove, across the table from attorney Len Landmark and Chip. Chip had a plum-colored bruise near his windpipe and dark rings beneath his eyes. He wore the same khaki pants and creased shirt he’d worn the night before. If he’d showered, his matted hair gave no indication. But Linda Cyr was right—Peyton smelled good cologne.

  “Dr. Duvall, you were close to your wife’s parents, is that correct?” Stone Gibson smiled warmly at Chip.

  “Not particularly. We didn’t have a lot in common, aside from my wife and daughter.”

  “You have a son, too. Is that correct?”

  “I meant to say my wife, my son, and my daughter.”

  “You’ve spent a lot of time here recently, though. Isn’t that true?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘a lot.’”

  “It seems like you or your wife has come here almost every month for the past year.”

  “No, not that often.”

  Gibson looked at Cosgrove.

  “You bought gas locally almost every month for the past year,” Cosgrove said. “We have your American Express records.”

  “Didn’t seem like we were here that often,” Chip said.

  Gibson continued, “Your father-in-law ran into some financial difficulty in recent years.”

  Chip looked at Landmark, who shrugged. Peyton remembered the last time she watched the two of them in a legal proceeding—during Stephanie DuBois and Landmark’s discovery session. Chip hadn’t let his rattled wife participate, even chastising Landmark publicly. Now, no longer sure of himself, he was looking to the lawyer for advice. He’d come to Peyton twice attempting to somehow skirt the legal system and help his wife—and to seduce Peyton. Those attempts had failed. Was he now running scared?

  “Are you asking if Fred had money problems or telling me that he did?” Chip said.

  Stone Gibson looked at Mitch Cosgrove. Cosgrove slid a spreadsheet to Chip.

  “What’s this?”

  “Tax records,” Cosgrove said. “Anything stand out to you?”

  “No.”

  “What are we doing?” Landmark said. “Why is my client here?”

  “Fred Jr. tells us your client helped his father-in-law pay off nearly a hundred thousand dollars in back taxes.”

  “Freddy told you that?” Landmark said.

  “Yes,” Cosgrove said.

  “Is that illegal?” Chip asked.

  “No, but it appears to be impossible. You filed for bankruptcy and closed your practice six months before you gave Fred St. Pierre the money.”

  “This is embarrassing,” Chip said, “and unnecessary.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Gibson asked.

  “That was my wife’s money.”

  “Not possible,” Cosgrove said. “She didn’t have an extra hundred thousand dollars. We’ve seen her tax records.”

  “I don’t do her taxes. But I’m telling you what I know. She makes damn good money on her books.”

  “How do you know that?” Cosgrove said.

  “She told me.”

  “You haven’t seen bank statements,” Cosgrove said, “royalty checks, tax records, any of that?”

  “Do you ask your wife for that stuff? No, I didn’t ask for verification. I think her books sell well overseas. She’s there often.”

  “How did you lose y
our practice?” Peyton asked.

  Chip’s eyes moved instinctively to the questioner. Then he looked away. “My goddamn throat still hurts,” he muttered.

  “What was that?” Landmark said.

  “Nothing,” Chip said and faced Peyton. “I lost my practice the way a lot of people lose businesses. I grew too fast. I needed more space. Instead of building one larger office, I got some bad advice and followed it.”

  “Can you explain that?” she said.

  “Yeah, I built a small shopping plaza. I was going to put my practice in one of the store spaces. But then my goddamned anchor store backed out. This isn’t easy for me to talk about.”

  “Please describe your brother-in-law’s relationship with Nancy Lawrence,” Stone Gibson said.

  Chip looked at Landmark, who nodded as if to say, This is what we prepared for. Chip cleared his throat. “I guess he knows her.”

  “Are they intimate?”

  “I don’t know details of Freddy’s love life.”

  “That isn’t quite what you told me last night,” Peyton said.

  She knew Chip was smart enough to have told Landmark what he said to Peyton the night before. And Landmark would have counseled Chip to offer vagaries to avoid outright lies.

  “I’m not aware of a relationship between them,” Chip said.

  “So they weren’t dating,” Gibson said, “when Fred Jr. spent the night on her sofa last week?”

  “I’m not aware of a relationship between them.”

  “Do your children like to see their grandparents?” Peyton asked.

  Chip looked at her. “Sure.”

  “When you visit, you typically go the St. Pierre farm?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Freddy lives there with his parents?”

  “Until they were killed, yes.”

  “And you or your wife has been here monthly for the past year?” Peyton said.

  This time, Chip didn’t answer. He sat staring at her.

  “You see where I’m going, Chip. A single man, living at home? Do you think for a second that if there was a chance he’d met someone and might now have a life apart from his parents, that his sister, who is professionally successful and married to a doctor and has two kids of her own—his sister, who he has probably been compared to for years—would not know about it?”

  “That is entirely speculative, agent,” Landmark said. But there was very little bite in his words.

  “That’s correct,” she said. “But here’s what is not: all of us know damned well that the alibi won’t stand up in court, so the question now becomes, Why did Nancy Lawrence agree to be Freddy’s alibi and become complicit in a felony murder?”

  Chip looked at Landmark again, and Landmark nodded. Chip shifted in his seat.

  “Go ahead,” Landmark said.

  “All right, Peyton. I thought you were different. You’re from here. I thought you would understand. Yes, Nancy Lawrence was paid by my wife.” Chip leaned back in his chair, as if the statement took great effort.

  “You know that?” Gibson said.

  “Yes.”

  Stone Gibson wrote something on his legal pad. Then he said, “How much money?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You have no idea?”

  “I heard the figure twenty thousand dollars once.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  “Sherry was on the phone. She wouldn’t say anything to me. That’s her. Protecting everyone.” Chip sniffled, and Peyton watched his eyes water. “Look,” he said, “my wife is a good human being. Freddy didn’t shoot anyone. We all know that. And Sherry was just trying to protect—”

  “That’s enough,” Landmark said. Then to Gibson: “I think we’re done here. My client has cooperated. He has answered your questions to the fullest of his ability.”

  “Are you still representing Sherry?” Peyton asked.

  “Obviously not,” Landmark said.

  Stone Gibson looked at Cosgrove to see if he had additional questions. Cosgrove shook his head.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Gibson said.

  When Chip reached the door, Peyton called his name. He turned back.

  “When you lost your business, did you lose your home?”

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s enough,” Landmark said again, and they walked out.

  Cosgrove followed them out.

  “I’m going to town for lunch,” Stone Gibson said to Peyton. “Want to join me?”

  Stone Gibson’s invitation gave her lots to think about as she made the short drive to Gary’s Diner.

  Pete Dye hadn’t called since the last time she’d seen him—a dinner date that ended early and silently. She took the prolonged and uncomfortable silence as an admission by both parties that their lives were not going to mesh. Pete wanted everything, and he wanted it now. But she was forever trying to balance single-­motherhood with her commitment to her career, a commitment that her ex-husband and now Pete failed to understand.

  She pulled the Ford Expedition onto Route 1, passing over the stretch of Crystal View River that wound through Reeds. Below, a man and woman stopped paddling their kayaks and simply drifted. The river weaved its way between Canada and the US, offering spots in both countries where one could dock with ease—a thought that gave her professional fits most days. This day, though, she considered the couple below with envy: drifting, not worrying about the complexities of life as a professional and a single mom, seemed pretty damned good.

  She pulled into the lot at Gary’s Diner but didn’t get out of the Expedition immediately.

  The realization that Pete Dye’s inability to understand her commitment to her work meant that he likewise failed to comprehend her need for that commitment, a need which comprised so much of who she was, told her it was over between them.

  It was 2:15 p.m., and Gary’s Diner was nearly empty when Peyton walked in. Sitting at the white Formica counter, his back to the front door, was a dark-haired man in a navy-blue sports jacket and jeans, whom she recognized. He sat alone, reading the newspaper. Peyton glanced at him. He didn’t turn around.

  At the opposite end of the counter was Tom Dickinson, who made eye contact with her and immediately looked down. It took her a moment to place him in her memory because, although he still had the eighties-rocker haircut, he now wore a blue suit and a red tie with blue sailboats.

  Stone Gibson sat at the north end of the diner, at a window booth. She turned away from the man at the counter and quickly went to the booth.

  Stone smiled. She had to give her mother credit—Stone was nice-looking. No doubt about it. With dark hair and dark eyes, he had a smart, serious look. The kind of guy who would appear at home both hiking Mount Katahdin and toting a briefcase.

  He said, “Thanks for coming,” and stood when she approached.

  “You don’t have to get up.”

  He looked embarrassed and sat quickly, and she realized her comment was a mistake—he stood because this was a first date of sorts to him.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” she said.

  The man at the counter was facing them now. She made eye contact, and he offered a smirk and raised his coffee cup as if to say, Here’s to you.

  “Who’s that?” Stone said. “And what the hell happened to his hand? He’s missing fingers, and that’s quite a scar.”

  “I don’t really know who that is,” Peyton said. “Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall says he’s her research assistant. But I think she’s sleeping with him.”

  “That would explain why the family attorney, Len Landmark, told you he wasn’t representing Sherry anymore.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Tina Smythe came to the booth. When Stone dropped his eyes to look at the menu, Tina glanced at Peyton with a raised brow.

/>   Peyton refocused on her menu.

  “Tommy enjoyed his first karate class with you,” Peyton said, after ordering a chef’s salad. Stone had ordered a roast-beef sandwich.

  “He’s a nice kid. Strong, too, for his age.”

  Tina set two iced teas and some sugar packets before them. Then a bell chimed behind the counter—an order was up—and she hurried back to put a turkey-platter lunch special before the man Peyton knew only as Kvido.

  Stone sipped his iced-tea. “You grew up with Freddy St. Pierre, right?”

  “Sort of. He was younger than me.”

  “Think he did it?”

  “Murdered Pink?” she asked. “It doesn’t look good for him. We have the gun, and he’s got a bad alibi. But we can’t place him at the scene. And I know he knows more than he’s saying. I’m trying to get him to realize he can help himself by talking to me.”

  “You’ve got the cabin. I’ve got the murder that apparently happened in it.”

  “A lot of overlap,” she said.

  “I think so. It would be nice if we could cooperate.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  He smiled.

  “Hear anything from our three-letter friends about the cabin?” she asked.

  “Last I heard FBI was looking into it.”

  “They handed it off to the CIA,” she said.

  “That mean something to you?”

  “CIA is usually interested in what we do only if there’s an intelligence angle.”

  He looked at her. “So what’s the CIA involvement mean?”

  “Not sure,” she said, “but they’re interested in the detonators found in the cabin.”

  “You think Simon Pink was making bombs?”

  “He had a chemistry background.”

  “And idiosyncratic crimes are on the rise,” he said.

  “I love that term,” she said and shook her head. “To most people, it’s shorthand for disgruntled nut job who gets angry at the world and goes it alone.”

  “Alone or not,” he said, “anybody can be dangerous.”

  “The shootings at the Colorado movie theatre, Sandy Hook, and poor Gabby Giffords showed us that,” she said, and looked around. Only Kvido and Tom Dickinson were in the diner, but she still whispered it: “I cried each of those days,” she said.