Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (26 page)

Kit looked at the keys in her hand. Her heart was trembling. “Report in frequently,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She nodded, turned, and walked away.

Of the twenty-three people on C&R Enterprises' books, ten, Kit eventually discovered, were related. There were the owners, Sam Curtis and his son-in-law, Tom Richards. Tom's wife and two of Sam's other sons were on the rolls, as well as Sam's brothers and some of his cousins. Susan Richards, Tom's wife was the bookkeeper and her sister was in charge of shipping. What's more, the company's tax records showed a healthy profit over the last five years. Tom Richards and his wife had recently bought a new home nearby. Everything pointed to a normal business, normal families, normal lives. With all those family members on the payroll, and with the business doing
well, would the owners risk everything to participate in human trafficking?

If C&R was involved, Kit bet it was involuntarily. Maybe someone on their staff, or a supplier, or some peripheral employee was the culprit. She was still working this all out in her mind when Chris called.

“The truck they found at the site of the trooper murder? It was a chop-shop job.”

“You've got different VINs?”

“Several. And guess what? One of the axles was from a truck purchased by C&R Enterprises eight years ago.”

C&R'
S MAIN OFFICE WAS IN
O
AK
G
ROVE, A SHORT DRIVE AWAY FROM
Glebe Hill. Tom Richards was on a deep-sea fishing trip out of Ocean City, but Sam Curtis seemed all too happy to talk to Kit and Chris. “Come right on in!” he said, extending a huge hand toward the two agents. “Have a seat.”

Above Curtis's battle-scarred oak desk hung a huge, mounted trophy fish. Chris asked him about it. “White marlin. Caught it right off Ocean City fifteen years ago. Best trip I ever had,” Curtis explained. “Now, it ain't every day we have federal agents come to call. What can I do for ya?”

Chris explained about the axle.

“That truck was stolen,” Sam Curtis said, “five, maybe six years ago. Hold on.” He pressed a button on the phone on his desk. “Helen, get me that file on the stolen truck, hon.” A few minutes later, his secretary walked in with it in her hand. “Yessir, let me see,” Curtis said, licking his thumb and going through the pages. “We reported it gone December 15, five years ago. Yep. That's right. Five years.” He turned the file around so Chris and Kit could read the police report. “Insurance paid us off. So you found the axle?”

“Yes.” Kit had been watching the man carefully. She found it hard to believe he was anything other than an agricultural produce businessman. “How's business been lately?” she asked him.

Curtis smiled. “Good. Once't we got over that salmonella scare. You Feds got to be careful about them warnings. Cost us a bundle.” He settled back in his chair and propped his folded hands on his ample belly. “We doin' OK, though,” he said. “ 'Nough to keep my grandkids in shoes.”

Behind him, on a credenza, were pictures of two little blond-headed kids, one boy and one girl. “Are those your grandchildren?” Kit said, pointing toward the pictures.

“You bet.”

“Mr. Curtis . . .”

“Sam. Just call me Sam.”

“OK, Sam . . . can you tell me how your operation runs? I mean, I've driven by tomato fields . . . but I've often wondered just how they get to market.” Kit hoped her question came across as innocuous as she intended.

“City girl, huh?” he said, laughing. “Tomatoes are an important crop around here. They account for 'bout half of Eastern Shore Virginia's total ag product sales. You got to handle 'em right. The pickers . . .”

“Your employees?”

“Nope. We contract that out. They's mostly migrant workers. All legal, far as I know. Anyway, the pickers got to wear gloves, watch out for cuts in the skin, sort 'em right, wash 'em.”

“Then what?”

“We truck 'em north and south, to Salisbury or down to Norfolk. We actually bought that distributor out last year, so we truck 'em now to our own building in Norfolk, and send 'em all over the East Coast. Got to move 'em fast; they're fragile.”

“So these truckers,” Kit said, tapping her pen against her lip, “they're your employees?”

“Some is, some ain't. Our needs are flexible. So we got a fleet of our own trucks, but then we contract with other guys to take up the slack.”

“How many trucks do you own?” Chris asked.

“Let me see now . . . right now, ten. And we contract out with twenty or so more. Keep 'em busy, this time of year.”

“What happens in the off season?”

Sam Curtis grinned. “I go to Florida.”

“I mean with the trucks.”

“We keep 'em 'round the processing plants. That's when that one got stolen, in the off season. Nobody 'round to watch 'em.”

Kit looked at Chris, who seemed to read her mind. “Mr. Curtis,” he said, “do you have an employee named Hector Lopez?”

Sam looked puzzled. “Lopez . . . Lopez . . . not that I recall.” He grinned. “Now if ya said ‘Curtis' or ‘Richards' I might be able to help you out.” He laughed at his own joke. “We contract with Mexicans for field crews. Ain't nobody named Lopez that I recall.”

Kit leveled her eyes at him. “He was driving a truck registered to your company.”

Sam picked up a pen. “Give me the tag number if you got it. I'll check it out. There been an accident?”

“No,” Kit said. She started to write the tag number on a slip of paper. Chris put his hand on hers and stopped her.

“Let it go for now, Mr. Curtis. We'd just as soon not let him know we're looking at him.”

Curtis's eyes narrowed. “All right.” He set down his pen.

“Could we get a list of those contractors?”

“Absolutely.”

When they were done, Kit and Chris exited the one-story building. “You were right,” Kit said. “Not tipping off Lopez is the right thing to do.”

Chris nodded.

“I don't see any red flags,” she said.

“I agree.” He started the car. “That means we've got to go deeper.”

“Lopez told me what the job is.” David stood in the offsite office, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Kit thought he looked fatigued. “I pick up the truck at 8:00 p.m. tonight at the processing plant. Lopez wants me to drive it to Norfolk. So I'll be gone a while.”

“You'll be OK driving the truck?” Kit gestured toward his arm, which he still had in a sling.

“It'll have an automatic transmission and power-assisted steering. I'll be fine. I can drive with my knees if I have to!”

Kit rolled her eyes. “Call me when you get back,” she said, “even if it's in the middle of the night. And, of course, call me if something goes down bad. Or even if you feel hinky.”

“I will.”

“What will you be carrying?”

“Tomatoes.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I know of.”

Kit paced, her arms crossed over her chest. “How will you protect yourself?”

“Good looks.”

Kit rolled her eyes again.

“I'll have my gun.” He grinned.

“And you do have my cell phone number in your new phone?” Steve Gould had assigned a technician to help them.
Jason had bought pay-go phones for all of them to keep real FBI cell phone numbers secure.

“Yep.”

“Call me then.”

“I promise! I will.”

Kit spent the evening in her motel room, going over some of C&R's records and trying not to think about David, trying to get the different parts of her life to line up . . . she'd thought she'd gotten it right with her carefully considered marriage to Eric. The divorce blew that notion to pieces. Now she didn't know what to think. Her cognitive, rational side, the one nurtured and reinforced by her father, was battling with her emotional side. Was she really as flaky as her mother?

She hoped not.

Frustrated, she considered calling her dad, just to talk, then rejected that idea. Her friend Ben, maybe? But when she looked at her watch she realized it was already getting late . . . late for normal people with normal lives, that is. She was stuck. She'd just have to ignore her confusion and focus on work. That seemed to be her favorite coping mechanism anyway.

C&R Enterprise's financial records seemed straightforward. No IRS issues. They had contracts with four crew chiefs to provide workers for the fields. They rented acreage all around the county, paid their bills on time, and made a profit each year.

Kit leafed through page after page of material, studying until the numbers grew blurry and fatigue made her eyelids feel heavy. Finally, David called. Kit jumped when the phone rang at 1:00 a.m. “How did it go?” she asked.

“He sent some young dude with me,” David said. “We're about ten miles down the road and the kid pulls out a joint.
I told him if he didn't stow that thing I would pull over and throw it and him out of the truck.”

“So did he?”

“Yeah. But I had to pull off the road and threaten him again. That's all I need is a dope charge.”

“Right. Good move, David.” She gripped the phone, her stomach tight. “Nothing else odd?”

“Nope. It was very routine. I found the distribution point, offloaded the tomatoes, and drove back. But I'm going to tell Lopez I'll make future runs by myself. That kid was irritating.” David yawned. “Right now though, I'm going to sleep.”

Kit hung up the phone, relieved. Still, what was Lopez up to? Did he really need David just to make routine produce runs?

The next day, Kit and Chris drove to the old churchyard, where Chris stowed his FBI SUV in a copse of trees. Together they walked through the woods to the hill overlooking the farm, where the field workers were ending their day. Sure enough, Lopez's pickup truck was parked in the lane.

“So, is he the boss of just this group of workers?” Chris asked.

“We don't know yet. He's at least that,” Kit said, staring at the field through her binoculars. “Here comes the van.” She put her binoculars down. “I'd like to follow it, but any car, much less a bureau vehicle, is going to stick out on these deserted roads.”

“Which is why we need David.”

His logic was irrefutable. “Look. Who's this?” she said, gesturing toward the farm.

A shiny blue pickup was driving down the lane. A man got out, walked toward Lopez, and the two of them stood talking. The man looked taller than Hector, and had on jeans and a bright white shirt.

“He's new,” Chris said, aiming his camera at the man. “He's too far away to get a great picture, even with this long lens. I'll get what I can.”

“I can't quite read the license plate. The angle's . . .” Kit stopped abruptly. “Hold on. There's a woman in the passenger seat. Can you get her?”

“I'll try.”