Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (11 page)

“Ornamentals?”

“Live oaks are the big tree you see in pictures of the old plantations, the ones with the Spanish moss hanging down from them. So people use them to evoke that Old South image. Since they're not native to Delmarva, there won't be nearly as many and they'll be in fairly predictable places, around houses, along lanes, like that. They're evergreens, with leaves that look kind of like thin magnolia leaves. Go to Hampton University. There's a famous live oak there, the Emancipation Oak. That's where the Emancipation Proclamation was read out loud for the first time in the South, in 1863.”

Kit opened up her laptop and Googled “Southern live oak” while she continued to hold the phone.

Dr. Hill continued, “They're resistant to salt spray, and if they're growing right alongside a body of water like the ocean, they'll be kind of scrubby and short. But inland, they get real big—80 feet max. The fact that your boy had acorns in his
pocket at this time of year tells me he was keeping them, playing with them. He had a stash of them somewhere . . . in a jar or something. They don't drop until September, and if they'd been on the ground since last winter, they would have been eaten by animals or rotted. So he had to have had them stored somewhere.

“Here's what I'd do,” Dr. Hill continued. “I'd look at the big tomato fields, and see if I could find a house with live oaks around it . . . lining the driveway or just in the yard, anywhere nearby. Then I'd get a sample from them and check the DNA.”

“So you could trace the DNA? To an individual tree?”

“We should be able to.” The botanist explained what kind of samples he'd need. Kit hung up the phone. She had just a little over a week left to prove her case to her boss.

David pushed his paintbrush into the corner of the window frame. He was trying to keep his feelings at bay by focusing on the painting and playing upbeat music in his iPod.

But he missed her. He barely knew her, but he missed her. And that violated every practical rule he had established for himself. Every long-standing principle. Every common-sense, street-smart, logical game plan he'd ever created.

He looked up every time a car passed, hoping he'd see a green Subaru Forester. Hers. He caught himself daydreaming, his brush poised in midair. He wondered a thousand times over if he should call her. Take a chance, again.

But those chances had never worked out. Why did he think another one would? And was he drawn to her, or the adrenaline of the chase?

Armed with a list of growers from the local agricultural extension agent, Kit spent six hours bent over her laptop, zooming in on satellite photographs of tomato farms on Google Earth, looking for live oaks, based just on their shape—the huge crown, broad, spreading branches, and overall size. After identifying sixteen possibilities, she'd spent two days driving around, checking them out in person, and reducing her list to eight farms. Eight locations on the Virginia portion of the Delmarva Peninsula where there were live oaks near tomato fields.

What a long shot. Kit tried to encourage herself by remembering the case of the federal judge killed by a pipe bomb loaded with nails. The FBI case agent went from hardware store to hardware store, looking for a match for the nails. He finally found exactly what he needed on his vacation.

If that agent could be that persistent, she could, too.

Now, she needed to collect acorn samples and oak leaves and have them tested in the hopes that the DNA from some of them would match the DNA of the acorns in the dead child's pocket. But first, she needed to gather supplies.

The only hardware store in town was small and jam-packed with everything from hammers to nails to seine nets and crab traps. Kit edged through the narrow aisles, collecting things she needed in a small blue bucket. Gloves, zippered plastic bags, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, plastic shoe boxes, paper labels, and Sharpie markers. The last thing on her list was duct tape.

“Aisle 5, near the back,” a helpful clerk suggested.

Kit headed that direction. As she rounded a corner, she nearly collided with a broad chest wrapped in a blue T-shirt emblazoned “Law Enforcement 10K Torch Run.”

David O'Connor.

“Kit!” The surprise on his face mirrored her own. He grabbed her arm and before she could protest, moved her to a quiet corner of the store. “What are you doing? What's all that?” He nodded toward her bucket.

She lifted her chin. “Tools of the trade.”

His eyes showed instant recognition. “Tell me!”

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the coffee shop at the corner, the sweet fragrance of a caramel macchiato mingling with the strong scent of a grande bold, black. Kit perched in her chair, her emotions roller-coastering, marveling at the ease with which David O'Connor had pulled her back into his life. Maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe he wasn't rejecting her.

The sun had begun to slide toward the horizon, sending shafts of light through the stained glass windows of the coffee shop. One golden beam fell across David's face, turning the highlights in his brown eyes golden. Fool's gold, perhaps?

Kit explained the findings of the forensic botanist, her own research, and now, her mission. The words tumbled out, falling over her inhibitions like children at play.

“Why don't we go now? Tonight?” David suggested.

“Tonight?”

“Didn't you say you were short on time? We can snag samples and ship them in the morning. Or we can drive them down to this botanist.”

“We? I thought you didn't want to be involved?”

He blushed and ducked his head. He stared out of the window momentarily. When he looked back at her, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled with humor. “Despite all my resolutions, I think I am involved.”

“David, I don't think . . .”

“Wait, wait,” he said, raising his hand to stop her. “What was your plan?” He leaned forward, intent. “Do it on your own?” The look on his face told her how unwise that would be.

“I do a lot of things on my own,” she countered, “just like you.”

“I don't care how tough you are, no way should you be going out there at night by yourself, no backup . . .”

He was right. Her boss would have a fit.

“Let's go. I'll drive.” David moved his chair back.

Kit remained still. “You're addicted.”

“Addicted? To what?”

“To law enforcement.”

“No way. I'm just trying to help a friend.”

“You said you were backing off!”

“Off the case, yes. But I never said I'd give up acorns! I love acorns.” He grinned. Then his voice dropped. “Kit, I want to help you get these samples. Besides, if something happened to you while you were out there by yourself . . . I couldn't live with myself. Please don't do that to me.”

She checked his sincerity. Then she checked her watch. “Pick me up at 9:00.”

“This is nuts,” she said, smiling as she piled into his vehicle.

“Nuts? I thought we were going after acorns!”

She laughed.

“Anyway, you Feds plan too much. Cops are all about spontaneity. Gettin' it done.”

Spontaneity? Like jumping into a police pursuit? She kept her mouth shut. He was right: cops played things out differently than agents. Cops had to respond to what was happening on the street. Agents tended to plan their interactions with bad
guys more carefully. There were advantages and disadvantages to both methodologies.

David had a gun tucked in beside him, next to the center console of the Jeep. “Expecting trouble?” she asked.

“I'm playing Boy Scout. Be prepared.” He also had flashlights, batteries, bottled water, and Power Bars.

Kit opened her laptop and outlined the plan. They'd start up near the Maryland line, then work their way down the peninsula. “Trivia question: what famous ship is constructed of live oak?”

David shifted his jaw. “Give me a hint: is it an aircraft carrier?” He grinned at her.

Kit laughed. “Come on. Didn't you tell me you spent four years in the Navy?”

“Yes, but . . . I give up.”

“The U.S.S. Constitution—‘Old Ironsides.' ”

He looked at her. “Really?”

“Yep. They used live oak to construct it because it was so strong it could take cannon fire.”

“No kidding.”

“And the Navy still owns stands of live oak trees.”

“Well, Miss Wikipedia. I'm impressed.”

Fifty minutes later, they arrived at their first farm field. The moon was rising in the east as David pulled over. He had extinguished his headlights half a mile down the road. They both sat still just watching for a few minutes. The field was dark and no one was in sight. Kit glanced over at David. His eyes were shining in the dim light. “You want me to do it?” he asked, looking over at her.

“Do you know how many hours I've spent learning to identify live oaks? I've got it.” She quietly opened her door, put her laptop down on her seat, slipped on gloves, and slid out into the night. The air felt thick with humidity. She had on black
pants, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket, and she was wearing her fanny pack. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark, then started into the field. All of her senses remained on high alert. She heard a dog barking in the distance, smelled the pungent tomato plants, felt the soft loam of the field under her feet, brushed away a cloud of mosquitoes hovering around her face.

Dr. Hill had said six acorns from every tree would be enough, along with some leaves, and she moved around the edges with her small flashlight, following the mental map in her head. There were three live oaks near this field, two on the east side, one on the north. She slipped six acorns and some leaves into an individual, pre-marked plastic bag, and then moved on to the next tree. When she got back into David's Jeep, he had created a label with the location of the farm field for one of the plastic boxes. In less than twenty minutes, they had their first samples labeled and stored.

While David drove to the next field Kit entered information into the database in her computer. Who knew what might be important later? She entered the date, time, number of acorns, and the number of the box they'd been placed in as well as the GPS location. Then she prepared labels for the next farm.