Thirty-Eight

Peyton arrived at the Tim Hortons on Main Street in Reeds, Thursday at 5:10 p.m. After ordering a black coffee, she took a window booth near the spot where she’d recently sat with Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall.

She took her phone from her purse and called Lois. “I’ll be home by seven,” she said.

“I’ll have dinner waiting for you, sweetie.”

“Anyone ever say you run the best daycare program in the world?”

“No, but I know I do,” Lois said and chuckled. “Take your time, I’ll bake something for Tommy. Maybe he can help me. Where are you?”

“Tim Hortons in Reeds. I need to meet Stone Gibson.”

“I hope it’s a date. He’d make an adorable son-in-law.”

“Mom, please.”

“I’m serious. Think of the children you’d have. They’d be bea-
utiful.”

“Oh my god, Mother. This is business.”

“You spend too much time on business, Peyton.”

Peyton said nothing.

“Tommy brought home a calculator and three math sheets he has to do tonight,” Lois told her. “He says the teacher told him to use the calculator.”

“It’s part of his new math program,” Peyton said.

She saw the dark Ford Interceptor pull in.

“I need to go, Mother.”

“Did he just arrive?”

“Yes.”

Stone Gibson got out, wearing a blue sports jacket, and carrying an iPad. He moved to the driver-side door and helped Dalton Kingston to his feet.

“What’s he wearing?”

“Good God,” Peyton said.

“Hey, I’m not too old to dream.”

“Goodbye, Mother.” She hung up.

As they crossed the parking lot, Stone Gibson moved fluidly, like an athlete; Dalton Kingston, though, was clearly drunk.

Stone held the door and said something to Dalton, who nodded. Both men entered. Stone Gibson led Dalton by the elbow to Peyton’s booth.

He smiled. “Sorry.”

“Wild Turkey?” she said to Dalton.

“I’m all alone,” he said. “You know what that feels like?”

“I see you’re off duty,” Stone said to her.

“I had a meeting with Tommy’s teachers, so I changed.”

He nodded, understanding.

“Dinner is on me,” she said, “if you’re interested.”

“I am,” Stone said, “and Mr. Kingston will have coffee.”

“Do you remember the female cop who came to see you?” Peyton said.

Dalton Kingston looked at her the way a confused dog does when tilting its head trying to grasp a command.

“Make that a large black coffee,” she said, “and a sandwich—or anything with bread.”

“I’ll get on this,” Stone said.

He went to place their orders. Given his detective rank, he didn’t wear a uniform, but it didn’t matter. Everything about him said cop, and two guys at the counter stepped several feet away when he approached.

Peyton went to the counter as well, leaving Dalton Kingston at the booth.

“That’s how I found him,” Stone said. “You were right about the liquor store. Not much he wouldn’t do for a bottle of Wild Turkey.”

“He say anything about Matt?”

“He’s been mumbling about Matt since I got him.”

“But nothing helpful?” she said.

“No. Do you think Matt got scared and took off?”

“He doesn’t have a car. We’d know if he borrowed one.”

“Maybe,” Stone said, “but not necessarily. Teenagers keep secrets well. We have someone monitoring his Facebook page. Nothing was posted since Tuesday afternoon.”

“I’m glad you’re monitoring it. I feel terrible about this.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“I do,” she said. “I interviewed him.”

“He came to you.”

She gave Stone Gibson $20 to pay with and then went back to the booth.

“What are we doing?” Dalton asked.

“We’re going to see if you recognize someone.”

“Who?”

Peyton didn’t answer; she didn’t want to offer any information that might sway Dalton or lend bias to the experiment. Stone returned with two large coffees and one hot roast-beef sandwich. Dalton didn’t press for an answer. He seemed content with his sandwich.

“Tommy’s doing a nice job in my class,” Stone said.

“He enjoys it. He mentioned you recently. I went in his room last night and found him doing push-ups. He said you told him they would be good for him.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I did tell him that. Was that okay?”

“Sure. I’m thrilled to see him motivated and taking his fitness seriously.”

“I miss my boy,” Dalton said. He no longer sounded like he was speaking with two fat lips.

“We’re going to try to get him back, Mr. Kingston,” she said. “You’re going to help us do it.”

They didn’t cross the four-lane highway on foot—not with a not-quite-perfectly-sober witness in tow. Instead, they all piled into the Interceptor and drove to the Hampton Inn.

“We’re going to the fourth floor,” Peyton told Dalton.

“What are we doing there?” Dalton asked.

“You’ll see,” she said. “You won’t have to do much.”

Stone pushed the elevator button. They listened to the elevator hum and clang. Finally, the door opened, and they got in.

Dalton Kingston smelled like sweat, but at least the whiskey smell had given way to coffee breath, following two large black coffees.

“Just relax,” Stone told him. “I told you. This has very little to do with you.”

“Is Matty here?”

The elevator stopped and they got out on the fourth floor, walked the hallway, and stood before room 418.

Peyton knocked on the door.

“A woman is going to answer,” she said. “I want you to tell me if you’ve seen her before.”

“I can do that,” he said.

Except he couldn’t. Because a man answered the door.

Apparently, he’d returned from getting cigarettes.

“Can I help you?” Kvido Bezdek said to Peyton. Then he saw Stone, in uniform. “Oh, God. Is this about Sherry? Has something happened to her?”