Free Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) by D. A. Keeley Page B

up here.”
    Hewitt remained silent. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was: Had Kenny Radke been put in the hospital over five measly pounds of dope?
    She’d heard of dealers killing for less, but this didn’t feel right. Radke’s description of the unknown poker player made her think this was a large-scale operation, that the leader was in town to oversee the final delivery. On the southern border, “large-scale” meant a street value of six or seven figures. Maybe she had to adjust her expectations. Given the area’s median income, $20,000 was a lot of money.
    “What I don’t get,” Smith said, “is why these guys came back to Peyton. I’d have kept running. My ass wouldn’t have stopped until I was back in Canada.”
    Bruce Steele leaned over and scratched Poncho’s ear. “Is Maine DEA coming for these guys, or is this thing going higher?” he asked, Southern drawl ever-present.
    “State DEA,” Pam Morrison said, “but no one’s coming tonight.” In her previous life, she’d been a pre-K teacher. The station’s resident computer specialist, she’d recently attended a seminar in Princeton, New Jersey, on cyber terrorism.
    “The four stooges can sweat things for a while,” Hewitt said and leaned forward, thick forearms stretching the fabric of his uniform shirt as they rested on his desk blotter. “See if one of them remembers anything. Right now, nobody knows who set up the shipment, where it was from, or probably the name of the president.”
    “They’re all Canadian.” Steele grinned. “Ask if they know who the prime minister is.”
    Hewitt turned to Peyton. “Think this is the drop Radke men-
tioned?”
    “Where’d they get it?” she said. “Did they pick it up ‘near the river’?”
    “We don’t know yet.” Hewitt clasped his hands behind his head and stared at his black office window. “Just five pounds?”
    “I was thinking it would be more,” she admitted.
    “Yeah,” Hewitt said, “but if these clowns are mules in the same deal Radke mentioned, they might know who kicked the shit out of him this afternoon.”
    “There is that.” She retied her ponytail and pulled it through the back of her cap. Twenty grand might be a lot to Kenny Radke or the four men in custody. It wasn’t enough to attract the feds or even ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which was the criminal investigations division of Homeland Security. Maine DEA would get in the mix. After that, Garrett Station, being three hours north of Bangor and five from Portland, would be on its own.
    Peyton looked at Morrison. “Get any hits on NCIC?”
    The National Crime Information Center was a computerized index of fugitives, stolen property, and missing persons that was routinely used to trace a suspect’s criminal record. Each of the four men had been fingerprinted.
    “None have records,” Morrison said, “which means the DEA will have trouble linking them to any ongoing investigations.”
    “Maybe we can turn one,” Hewitt said. “Anyone say anything, in the field or on the drive here? Anyone a talker?”
    Peyton leaned back in her chair, sore from the tackle. “Not a peep. The five of us stood there for about five minutes, until Scott arrived. He could tell I was hurting and offered to drive them back.”
    Hewitt looked at Scott Smith.
    Smith shook his head. “No one said a word.”
    Peyton sipped her stationhouse coffee. It was loaded with hazelnut creamer, which made it nearly tolerable. “The short guy in the leather jacket might turn. Like Bruce said, the others stopped running once I got him, so he must be the weak link.”
    Hewitt nodded. “Paramedics told me they had to sedate the guy you kicked to get him to the hospital. Guy’s having his knee scoped tomorrow.”
    “He threatened me. Then he stepped closer, so …” She shrugged. “I defended myself.”
    “I guess to Christ you did,” Hewitt said. “I went to the hospital and took the guy’s statement. I saw