Seventeen

Peyton drove back to Garrett Station.

Aroostook County was flat relative to its sister border in northern Vermont. As she noted the red maples, green and black ashes, and sugar maples—producing dramatic reds, yellows, and oranges against the mid-day sun—she recalled her time on the Southern border. She’d loved the long, low, blue Texas sky (like an inverted ceramic bowl, she’d read somewhere), and she remembered how, standing on a vista, you could see forever. But nothing matched snowshoeing on winter afternoons, crisp air exhaled in smokey puffs, sun reflecting off the white landscape; or summertime night walks beneath the full moon.

Peyton shifted, retrieved her iPhone, and plugged its charger into the dashboard.

Sara Gibson claimed to have seen the murder-suicide that had taken place nearly forty-eight hours ago. She described it in vivid detail, claiming Fred St. Pierre had put the gun to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and taken his life.

That made her testimony problematic. Fred hadn’t put the barrel to his temple; he’d put it in his mouth. And those images couldn’t be confused. Peyton surely wouldn’t forget the frame-by-frame sequence anytime soon.

So why was Sara’s story off base? Had she been too far from the events to get a good look and therefore allowed her imagination to fill in details? And why had she wished the media contacted her, especially since she’d refrained from reporting similar sounds months earlier?

Her explanation made sense. Gunshots weren’t uncommon; hunters shot targets year-round in Aroostook County. There was a rod-and-gun club in town that most agents visited monthly in preparation for requalification sessions.

But if Sara knew the difference between the sound of gunshots and the sound of what Peyton now believed to be explosions, why hadn’t Sara called the authorities upon hearing the latter?

Sara wasn’t exactly an impeccable witness. This was a thirty-something party girl, a woman who still lived at home and whose mother was desperate to see her meet a “nice boy.”

Peyton thought about that as she opened the front door at Garrett Station and found a “nice boy” of her own waiting to see her.

“He’s been here twenty minutes,” Linda said when Peyton entered.

Peyton carried a backpack and wore her forest-green uniform and boots. Her short ponytail protruded through the back of her baseball cap. In her free hand, she carried her iPad sheathed in a protective OtterBox case.

Across the room, seated in a plastic chair next to her desk, Dr. Chip Duvall, the southern Maine dentist and Sherry’s husband—who patted her thigh like she was a Labrador—sat reading the New York Times.

“Doesn’t want to see anyone else,” Linda said. “Doesn’t want coffee. Doesn’t want to chat. He’s just been sitting there, chewing breath mints and smelling like expensive cologne.”

“Don’t make a pass at him. He’s married,” Peyton said, although she doubted that would stop the silver-haired widow. “He say what this is about?”

Linda shook her head.

Miguel Jimenez, the station’s youngest agent, walked out of the breakroom with a plate of poutine.

“Hey,” he called, “want some?” and pointed to his plate. “I’m bringing this recipe back to Texas.” He grinned. “I’ll open a diner and retire.”

She smiled. “French fries, cheese, and gravy? That’s your ticket to millions?”

“It’s addictive,” he said.

“If I ate that every day for lunch, like you do, I’d weigh three-hundred pounds and be on cholesterol meds.”

Chip Duvall followed the exchange, folded the Times, and smiled when Peyton set the backpack near her chair and sat facing him.

“Doesn’t look to me,” he said, “like you have trouble staying fit.”

“Thanks.”

“Or like food is your temptation,” he went on.

She noticed his eyes appraising her. “How can I help you?” She slid the iPad to the center of her desk. Was he staring at her chest or eyeing her badge?

“Sherry met with you this morning.”

She nodded. “You were there.”

“Not for the full conversation,” he said. Then he paused and looked around. Jimenez was sitting maybe fifteen feet away, eating his poutine with a fork and looking at his computer. “Is there someplace,” Chip said, “more, ah, private where we can talk?”

“No.”

“This is important, Peyton.”

“What is this about? It’s been a long morning, and I have a lot of paperwork, which I hate and want to get done.”

“I think Sherry is in trouble,” he said.

Peyton stood without saying a word and walked to the back of the bullpen. She turned right and went down the hallway.

“Peyton?” Chip called after her. “Agent Cote?”

She didn’t stop until she reached the coffee maker. Poured a cup of black coffee and stood sipping. And thinking.

What the hell was Chip Duvall doing here?

She’d begun the day listening to Sherry speak of her brother’s woes. Now her husband was here, saying Sherry was in trouble.

Several of Peyton’s pressing questions were, at least peripherally, related to Sherry: What was the relationship between Simon Pink and Marie St. Pierre? And why did the two plan to travel to Prague?

Could Chip answer those?

Peyton poured a second coffee and brought it to him.

“You wanted more privacy,” she said. “You got it.”

“It’s filthy out here,” Chip Duvall said.

“Were you expecting the Marriott?”

They were in the six-bay garage at the back of the stationhouse, standing among snowmobiles, four-wheelers, a dog crate, a boat, and a green-and-white Ford F250 service vehicle that now served as the plow truck, a Fisher snow plow mounted to its front.

“We could go back to my hotel room,” he said.

The statement gave her pause: had he just made a pass at her?

“I thought you needed privacy,” she said.

“Oh, Sherry?” he said. “She’s writing.”

The relationship had seemed strained that morning, and Peyton had no intention of getting involved in Chip Duvall’s marital crisis.

“What is this about, Chip?”

“I told you. Sherry is in trouble. I think you can help her. I think she knew about Freddy.”

“Knew what about him?”

“I think that’s why she’s fighting this so hard,” he said. “I mean, you saw her in the meeting with the district attorney. I think she knew and now feels a little responsible.”

She retrieved her iPhone from her pocket, turned on the voice-recording option, and said slowly, “I’m going to record the rest of this conversation, Dr. Chip Duvall. Are you okay with that?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re not under arrest, Chip. I just want to make sure there’s no confusion later on.”

“No. This is all off the record.”

“She’s your wife,” Peyton said.

“It’s got to be off the record,” he said.

She turned off the phone and slid it back into her pocket. “What exactly are you telling me?” she said.

“I think Freddy planned to do it all along, Peyton. And I think Sherry knew about it.”

“What makes you think either of those things?”

“I heard some phone conversations. There was some money exchanged.”

She waited.

When he didn’t elaborate, she asked him to do so.

“That’s all I know,” he said. “They spoke about money on the phone. I think she gave him upwards of twenty thousand dollars, but I monitor our accounts closely. It didn’t come from us.”

“What was the money for? What exactly did you hear, Chip?”

He sat down on the edge of the snowmobile seat. A leather cover was on the cement floor. The machine’s hood was up. Someone had been working on the engine.

Chip leaned forward, clasped his hands before him, and his shoulders shook slightly. “What have I just done?” he said. He was crying, tears hitting the concrete floor.

“Chip,” she said, “it’s time that we make this a formal discussion. You need to come with me.”

He looked up, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and said, “No. A husband can’t be asked to testify against his wife.”

“I’m not asking you to testify. I’m asking you to make a formal statement. At this point, I believe it would be in your best interest to do so.”

“Hold on. Hold on. This isn’t what I came here for. I thought you could help her. That’s all. This can’t turn formal.” He stood. “This was a mistake.”

She watched him walk out of the garage. There was no point in trying to stop him. He had a high-powered attorney in the area, and he was no fool. If he’d just incriminated his wife, he would know there were only the two of them present during this conversation, and his attorney would tell him that DA Stephanie DuBois surely wouldn’t use a he-said-she-said scenario in court.

So what was Peyton left with?

Cryptic but incriminating background information. And two new questions: If Sherry had given Freddy upwards of $20,000, where had it come from? And what was it for?

She walked back inside to find Mitchell Cosgrove, the CPA turned Customs and Border Protection officer.

“Mike wants to see you, Peyton,” Linda said, when Peyton re-
entered.

“Is Mitch around?”

“Not until tonight.”

Peyton nodded. Cosgrove was “pulling mids,” which was how agents referred to working the midnight shift.

She sat down and sent Cosgrove a brief email, asking him to look into the finances of Freddy St. Pierre Jr. in hopes of turning up a money trail.

Peyton hit Send and went to Hewitt’s office.

“Let’s debrief,” he said. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll tell you some new information we have.”

She walked him through her day, starting with the power breakfast with Sherry, running through her meeting with Sara Gibson, and finishing with the recent discussion with Chip.

“The bizarre, the weird, and the just plain crazy, huh?” Hewitt said.

“Yeah,” she said. “That about sums up my three conversations.”

“She gave her brother twenty thousand dollars?”

“It was cryptic information. Chip overheard a conversation. That’s all. He hasn’t seen any money go missing from his accounts.”

“Do they have separate accounts?”

“That’s what I’m asking Mitch Cosgrove to find out,” she said. “I have no idea.”

“Well, Bruce Steele ran Poncho the pooch all over the St. Pierre farm. Your friend Sherry and her attorney didn’t like it much, but we got a warrant. Anyway, Poncho likes the place,” Hewitt said. “A lot.”

“He found drugs? There?”

“Not drugs. Detonators.”

“Poncho smells those?”

Hewitt spread his hands. “Not sure exactly what he smells, but he led Steele to detonators and some other stuff.”

“How much stuff?” she said. “Are we talking massive quantities?”

“No. Just a few in the barn.”

“So Len Landmark will say they were using it to blow up stumps,” she said.

“Maybe. But the Duvalls seem to be willing to talk to you.”

She leaned back in her seat.

He smiled, nodding.

“You’re hoping I can turn someone,” she said.

“A mind reader,” he said. “That’s what you are.”