Ten

Peyton was at her desk by 8:15 Thursday, reviewing a file from the FBI’s counter-terrorism office in Washington.

She was reading about Simon Pink.

Next she scanned her email and spotted a message from Secret Service Agent Wally Rowe that Hewitt had forwarded to Garrett agents. The message was cryptic, as expected: the Secret Service would be “in the region in the coming days” and agents “might be called upon” to serve in “various activities.” (Even the CBS Evening News had guessed that much.) And people said government officials spoke in vagaries.

“Here you go.” It was Hewitt, setting a second file on her desk. “Come to my office when you’ve read it.” He turned and was gone before she could tell him what she’d learned about Simon Pink.

It took her twenty minutes to read Hewitt’s new delivery and learn that the cause of the fire was officially arson. But she was more concerned with what the fire marshal had found at the site.

“What do you make of page four?” she asked, taking a seat across the desk from Hewitt.

Hewitt shook his head. “I have a call in to Mitch Lincoln, the fire marshal, about that. Looks like they were building bombs.”

“IEDs?” she said.

The light reflected off the gold leaf pinned to his lapel. The leaf was a designation of his status as Patrol Agent in Charge.

“Sure looks like it,” he said. “They found detonators.”

“Why torch a place with bomb-making materials? You know it’ll blow up.”

“It makes no sense,” he agreed.

“I got background on Simon Pink,” Peyton said. She glanced down at her iPad, checking her notes. “He immigrated to Montreal at age eighteen. According to a contact I have with the Mounties, Pink never got so much as a parking ticket in North America.”

“That’s your background info?”

“There’s more,” she said.

“From the Feds?”

“FBI,” she said.

“If the FBI has background on him, there has to be something in his file.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Simon Pink wasn’t Russian, like everyone thought. He was Czech.”

“Just never bothered to correct anyone?” Hewitt said.

“It appears so. He had a few scrapes with Czech officials in Prague when he was a kid there. Fights at an anti-government protest.”

“And Canadian Immigration welcomed him?”

“You know how that goes,” she said. “A couple fights as a kid on his record. That’s all. He was coming to study chemistry.”

“And he ends up shot in a torched cabin with bomb-making materials,” Hewitt said. “Was the FBI watching him?”

“If he was on any of their lists, obviously he was way down at the bottom.”

“I want to talk to Mitch Lincoln about the cabin again,” Hewitt said.

Peyton heard the stationhouse door open and saw Hewitt look past her.

“You having breakfast with Karen Smythe?” he asked.

“No.”

“Uh oh,” Hewitt said. “Then she’s here on business.”

Peyton turned to see Maine State Police Detective Karen Smythe cross the bullpen with receptionist Linda Cyr. Peyton knew Karen had done a triathlon the previous year. She also knew she was single. By choice.

Miguel Jimenez, the station’s youngest agent, who was also (very) single, looked up at Karen and absently fixed his hair after his night shift.

“Got a minute?” Karen said when she reached Hewitt’s office. “I need to speak to you both.”

“Peyton,” Linda said, “is Pete Dye bringing coffee this morning, or should I put the pot on?”

“Make a pot.”

“Everything okay, sweetie?”

“Make a pot,” Peyton repeated.

“You’re here on business,” Hewitt said to Karen.

“And I come bearing gifts,” Karen said.

“Marie St. Pierre purchased two plane tickets to Prague for next month,” Karen said. She pulled a second metal folding chair from the wall and sat next to Peyton. “Did either of you know that?”

“No,” Hewitt said. “No one here knows that. That’s your gift?”

“I’m always thinking of you guys.”

Hewitt scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. Peyton shared her new information regarding Simon Pink with Karen.

“And Simon Pink is the other name on the two tickets we found under a pot in a cupboard over the stove,” Karen said. “Marie hid them, apparently, where she knew Fred would never find them.”

“Because he never cooked,” Peyton said.

“You’re smiling,” Hewitt said.

“I appreciate little victories,” Peyton said.

“Meaning she pulled one over on her husband?”

“Kind of. He treated her terribly.”

“She should’ve left the sonofabitch,” Karen said. “That would’ve been the real victory.”

“True. But she’s not like you or me, Karen. She’s more like my mother—not that my parents’ relationship was like theirs. But that’s the kind of woman she was. She’d stay with him no matter what.”

“Submissive?” Karen said.

Peyton made a face. “That’s not it, exactly. More like dedicated. That’s the word. She’d stay with him because she believed you have to lie in the bed you make. People up here see things through to the end. It goes with the territory. You grow up in a farming community, you understand there are many things you can’t control, and the way through it all is riding it out.”

The phone on Hewitt’s desk rang.

Hewitt lifted the receiver, introduced himself, then said, “Leo, settle down.” He listened, then said, “Slow down and tell me.” As he listened for nearly a minute, his eyes moved from Peyton to Karen. “Got it. Thanks.”

He hung up, then scribbled more on his legal pad, set the pencil down, and blew out a long breath, eyes returning to Peyton.

“How well do you know Fred St. Pierre Jr.?”

“Not very. Like I said, I knew him a long time ago, when we were kids.”

“Well, we have a ballistics match on the .22 slug in Pink’s head. It came from Fred Jr.’s pistol. Leo Miller has him in lockup, wants to move him to Houlton. He’s salivating at the idea of interviewing a real live murder suspect.”

“He has jurisdiction, right?” Peyton said.

“Yes, we do,” Karen said, “but even I don’t think Leo’s the best candidate to interview a murder suspect.”

“I’ll play the Homeland Security card,” Hewitt said.

“State cops hate hearing about that card,” Karen said and smiled.

“I know,” Hewitt said, “but it’s a really useful card. We have a lab that was destroyed close to an international border. It can buy us a little time. Peyton, can you talk with Fred Jr. when I get him here?”

“You can get him here?” Peyton said.

“I think so. There’s one other thing you should know. His sister is coming up here. She was handling the funeral arrangements. But now she’s bringing a Portland attorney, too. You said you knew her.”

“In middle school,” she said.

“The attorney makes me think she’s going on the offensive.”

“Probably looking out for her brother,” Peyton said.

“Maybe you could happen to run into her, feel her out, get an idea of what she thinks, see where she falls on her parents’ death and her brother’s arrest.”

“Sounds like you want me to interview her.”

“I’m sure her attorney wouldn’t allow that. I just think it would be convenient if you happened to bump into her and have a talk.”

“I was planning to offer my condolences if and when she came to town. Let me know when Freddy arrives here. I’ll interview him.”

“Great,” Hewitt said, and reached for the phone. “Now you two will have to excuse me. I have an ace in the hole to play.”

“Before we go,” Karen said.

“Yes?” Hewitt waited.

“Have you typed up the reprimand yet?” Karen said.

“For Peyton?” Hewitt said. “We talking about the St. Pierre shooting?”

“Yeah,” Karen said.

“Let it go, Karen,” Peyton said.

“Karen,” Hewitt said, “you’re way out of line getting involved in that.”

“I’ve lost a lot of sleep over that, Mike. Peyton shouldn’t be punished for what happened. Anyone would’ve made that call. I’m asking you to think about it.”

“You’re out of line,” Hewitt repeated and looked at the door.

“And you’re wrong, Mike. I don’t work for you. I can say that.”

She stood, and Peyton followed her out.