Thirty-Nine

“I’m a research assistant to Dr. Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall,” Kvido Bezdek said.

He had welcomed them into his hotel suite—a change from Peyton’s recent visit, when upon learning she had to pee, he’d suggested she descend four flights to a ladies’ room. This time, in fact, he’d held the door for her.

And now they were in the sitting area of his suite.

“You’re the Border Patrol agent,” Kvido said. “Sherry’s friend.”

“Yes. I’m not in uniform.”

“And you?” he said to Stone.

“Maine State Police Detective Stone Gibson.”

“When we arrived,” Peyton said, “you asked if something had happened to Sherry. Do you think something might have happened to her?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “We are very close. I certainly hope nothing is wrong. She should have been back long ago.”

“Where did she go?”

“She said she had something to take care of. She never came back.”

Peyton looked at Stone. He knew it had been nearly the same story Sherry offered when authorities arrived to see Kvido.

“Have you reported her missing?” Stone asked.

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours. I tried to call her repeatedly. Her phone goes right to voicemail.”

“Do you have her number?” Stone said.

“I have it,” Peyton said. She dialed the number—and got voicemail. She left a message.

“I enjoy working with Sherry a great deal,” he said, “and I care about her. That’s why I’m getting concerned. Who is this?” He motioned to Dalton Kingston.

“A friend,” Peyton said. She stood and started walking to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Kvido said.

She didn’t answer. The main room was a sitting area, where up to five could watch TV. The adjacent room was the master bedroom with a king-sized bed and two closets.

Behind her, a knock came on the hallway door.

“That’s for me,” she heard Stone Gibson say; then: “Come with me, Dalton. This is your ride home.”

She heard Leo Miller’s voice, then the door close.

“What are you doing?” Kvido asked again. He was behind her.

“I always wondered what these suites were like. How much a night?” She opened the closet door.

“That’s enough,” Kvido said. “I don’t appreciate you going through my things.”

There was no suitcase, no computer, no books or notes—nothing to indicate Sherry had been writing and researching for a book in this room. Peyton wondered if room 210 was still occupied by Chip Duvall.

She turned and went back to her seat in the main room. Stone Gibson was sitting on the love seat. Dalton Kingston was gone now. He’d gotten a decent meal in him, but otherwise his trip to Reeds from Garrett had been wasted.

“What exactly are you doing here?” Kvido asked.

“I came to see my friend Sherry.”

Peyton sat next to Stone; Kvido stood in the doorway.

“How long have you been in the country?” Stone said.

“A week.”

“Do you come here often?”

“I come to help Sherry, when she asks me to.”

“You should know that Sherry has told me about your relationship,” Peyton said, “so we can drop the pretense. I know Chip left her.”

“I’m worried about her,” Kvido said and slumped onto a chair across from them. “She must’ve told you about Chip, and how he treats her.”

“How does he treat her?” she said.

“He doesn’t understand her. He reminds me of her father. Domineering.”

Had Sherry traded one domineering man for another? That wasn’t atypical.

“What brings you to Aroostook County?” she said.

“Sherry’s parents died. She needed support.”

“Do you know how they died?”

“Yes. She told me. How terrible for her.”

“You’re from Prague?”

“I am.”

“Sherry spends time there.”

“Researching,” he said, “and seeing me.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“Which?” He spread his legs out before him, completely relaxed.

“Seeing you.”

“For ten years,” he said, “with a break for about three there in the middle.”

“Why the break?”

He shrugged. “We just went our separate ways for a time. Then we came back to each other. You know the saying, If you love something set it free, and if it comes back it was meant to be.”

“Lovely,” Stone said.

“I think so.”

“So that’s what happened?” Peyton said. “You set Sherry free?”

“It was mutual.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell. She was getting tenure at her college, and I was building my business. The timing just wasn’t right.” He spread his hands.

Peyton looked at his missing fingers, the discolored skin.

“What business is that?” Stone said.

“Real estate. I own properties in Prague and the surrounding areas and now some throughout Europe.”

“You are part of Andela,” Peyton said.

He laughed. “I was. That was a long time ago. Back when I was young and naive. You know how that goes. Everyone’s a political activist when they’re young, right?”

His English was impeccable, save for the thick accent; his control of nuances and diction were clearly impressive.

“How did you injure your hand?” she asked.

“It’s when I left Andela. It’s when I knew the group was doing things I didn’t agree with.”

“Like what?”

“We began protesting for labor unions. Then the group got big, turned violent. This”—he held up his hand—“is the result of a Molotov cocktail. It was my final day as a member of Andela. That was almost twenty years ago.”

“And you know Simon Pink,” Stone Gibson said.

“Is that a question or a statement, officer?”

“A statement.”

“Simon was much older than me. He was something of a father figure to me, after my own father died.”

Peyton sat stock-still, riveted. She had expected Kvido to request an attorney the moment he opened the door. He hadn’t. And now she was hearing things—from the suspect himself—that hadn’t appeared in the federal file on this man. How much of the story was true?

“How did your father die?” Peyton asked.

“I thought you were here to talk about Sherry. Will you search for her? She left this afternoon and has not returned.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Stone said.

“No. Just that she had to take care of something. I had a bad feeling about it. I feel like she’s hiding something from me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you recognize the name Matt Kingston?”

“Who is that?”

“Could you speculate on what she might be hiding?”

“She hasn’t set a date for the funerals of her parents. It’s been a week. That seemed … odd? Maybe not. She has a lot on her mind with her brother. But I just feel like she’s not telling me everything, which hurts because I care about her.”

“And, of course,” Peyton said, “her husband, who she has a family with, left her, which would add to her stress.”

“You mean to say, who she has a daughter with.”

“Yes,” she said. “You know Chip, of course. How do you get along with him?”

“Well, actually, although I never thought he treated Sherry with the respect that she deserves.”

“And you do?”

“I take offense to that.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Chip lost his business. He embarrassed her. I can support her.”

“I see,” Peyton said. “Tell me more about your relationship with Simon Pink.”

“I did. I’m getting tired. What will you do to find Sherry?”

“Have you called her attorney or Chip? Have you texted her?”

“I called and texted her.” He looked at the floor for a moment, then said, “What happened to Simon is terrible. And I can’t believe someone related to Sherry could murder Simon. Simon was always anti-establishment.”

“And he was your ‘father figure’?”

“That was a poor choice of words. You know English is not my native language.”

“You’re doing fine,” Stone said.

“He took me into Andela, made it sound like a club.”

“You founded the group.”

“No. The group was alive and well when I joined. I brought it to the media. I arranged the protests. Then, when I was told to throw the Molotov cocktail at the church, and I saw people inside and hesitated, well”—he held up his hand again—“I knew it wasn’t the right group for me.”

“What did you learn from Simon Pink?”

“That’s an interesting question. I learned to stand up for what you believe, I guess.”

“And what do you believe?” she asked.

“Oh, in many things.”

“Tell us about your father,” she said.

“He was a great man. He died too young.” He looked at his watch. “I really need for you to go. I’m going to make some more phone calls, try to find Sherry. You don’t seem to be doing much to help.” Kvido walked them to the door and shook hands before closing the door behind them.

In the elevator, Peyton shook her head. “That was unbelievable. The whole time we were in there, I felt like I was in a cage being circled by a Great White.”

“He is good. Even shook hands. He knows he doesn’t have to talk to us, so he can tell us what he wants and ask us to leave whenever he wants to. He even let you search his room.”

“But,” she said, “he doesn’t want to talk about his father.”

“We need to find Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall,” Stone said.

Peyton took out her cell phone and dialed Sherry’s number again. The ring went straight to voicemail.

In the parking lot, as they were getting into Stone’s car, her phone vibrated.

“Cote here.”

“Peyton.” It was Hewitt.

“I was just about to call you.” She told him about Kvido Bezdek.

“He’s sitting in the hotel?”

“That’s right. Why were you calling?”

“I know you’re not on nights now, but any chance you can come in?”

The last time Hewitt had approved overtime there had been a $6.5-million drug bust at the border.

“What’s up?”

“Chip Duvall is here with his attorney,” Hewitt said. “He says he needs to talk to you.”