Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (27 page)

The woman stepped out of the truck. That made it easier.

The sound of Chris's camera seemed an odd counterpoint to their natural surroundings. Kit watched the scene play out before her as if the people were figures on a game board, and once again she felt the pressure to do the right thing. Make the right plays. Her hand was touching the rough bark of a tree.
Dear Jesus
, she prayed silently,
please don't let me fail
.

They showed the pictures to David the next day. “I don't know who the guy is, but that's her,” David said, standing in the offsite office. His voice sounded tight, like a spring about to uncoil. “That's Maria. Who's the guy?”

“We don't know yet.”

“She's alive, anyway.”

“That doesn't mean she wants to be with him.”

“Right.” The muscles in his jaw were flexing. “Can I keep a copy?”

“Sure.”

“I'm going to find out who the dude is.”

David's plan was simple. He carried the blurry photo of the well-dressed man with Maria folded in his pocket. One night, when no one else was around, he asked a guy he had befriended at the loading dock if he knew the man.

The Mexican's eyes widened and a torrent of Spanish poured out of his mouth. Yes, he knew him. He was the Big
Boss. Lopez's boss. He lived in a big house. Had a beautiful wife. And Lopez acted as his gun, his enforcer.

His name?

“Carlos. That's all I know.”

“And how about the woman in this picture?” David asked in Spanish. “You know her?”

No, the man responded. He'd never seen her before.

But David doubted he was telling the truth.

After David's fourth trip in six days, Kit took half a day to head back to Chincoteague to get clean clothes and handle some errands. She was just about to leave her cottage when the crunch of oyster shells on the driveway announced a visitor. When Kit looked outside, Brenda Ramsfeld, dressed in uniform, was walking up onto her porch.

“I thought you'd like to know,” Ramsfeld said when Kit opened the door. “I fired Joe Rutgers.”

“Come in,” Kit said. She opened the door wider. “Have a seat.”

Ramsfeld complied, perching on the couch like a bird ready to fly at a moment's notice. “I found him smoking pot on duty,” she said, “just like you said.”

Kit nodded.

“He protested of course. Said it was his first time. Said he'd never do it again.” Ramsfeld sighed. “We both know that's a lie.” Her eyes were fixed on a book holder on the coffee table. “I figured I'd better tell you, since you've had dealings with him. I don't guess he'll get vengeful, but hey, what do I know?”

“I appreciate that.”

“First time I ever had to fire anybody. Man, the paperwork!” Ramsfeld looked up.

“Was he arrested?”

“Yes. I had the Chincoteague police do it.”

“Where was he buying the stuff?”

“The weed? I don't know. That's for the police to find out, you know?” Ramsfeld stood up to leave. “You got any more on that body?”

Kit hesitated, calculating what she should reveal. “We may have linked him with a farm on the mainland. But we haven't identified him. Haven't even come close.”

Brenda nodded. “I figured that might be the case. Kinda glad I didn't waste my time with it.” She stood up.

Kit walked her to the door. “Hey, how'd you know where I was staying?”

“I drive by here every day on the way to work. I've seen you coming and going. Saw the car in the driveway just now. Guessed it was you. Your other one's a Subaru, right?” Ramsfeld motioned with her head toward Kit's bureau car in the driveway. “That thing just screams ‘cop car'. Anyway, Joe'll be out of the clink in a few hours. That's my guess. Just wanted you to know.”

Brenda Ramsfeld's calculation was right on. But the call Kit got from Chief Daisey as she drove back toward Glebe Hill went even further. “We were booking him,” the Chief said, “for simple possession. Doing his fingerprints, when that Guatemalan was being moved. And Martinez goes ballistic, pointing and yelling. Seemed to be saying Joe's the one that paid him to hold that backpack full of meth. We're callin' the translator, but that's what he seemed to be indicatin'.”

Curiouser and curiouser, Kit thought. Why would Joe Rutgers want to set Martinez up? When she got to the offsite, she went over the whole thing again with Chris.

“So this guy, Joe, was on patrol the morning you found the body?” Chris asked. Kit confirmed the answer with a nod of her head. “And he lied about how far he'd gone. Do you really think he was involved?”

“With the murder? I doubt it. For one thing, he was on shore. For another he just doesn't seem the type. He strikes me as lazy, a pothead . . . but a killer? I don't get that,” Kit said.

“Would be worth another interview. Want me to do it?”

Kit considered that. “Is David making a run tonight?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Why don't I monitor that and you go talk to Joe?” Another thought occurred to her. “Are we getting anywhere with these transports?”

Chris stretched out his legs. “These things take time. He's earning Lopez's trust. Something will come of that. Meanwhile, David thinks he's got a handle on that guy with Maria.” He paused thoughtfully. “He's making progress, Kit. I'd say we stick with it.”

David was driving up Rt. 13 on his fifth trip, making his way back to C&R at 2:00 a.m on a clear, cool night. He was listening to his iPod through the truck's stereo, but he was getting sleepy, so he clicked it off, rolled down the window, and turned his thoughts elsewhere.

After four trips, Lopez hinted he'd have something bigger to transport soon, something that would make him more money, something that would involve an even bigger player. What was he talking about? Drugs? People? David knew if they could just get Lopez talking about something illegal, they'd get authorization to access his financial records, wiretap his phone . . . they'd have all kinds of inroads into his life. And
that could lead to rescuing Maria and discovering who killed the beach child.

What would happen after they'd solved the case? He'd go back to Chincoteague and finish painting. And Kit—what about Kit? She'd seemed guarded, cold even, since he'd started working with them. She acted more relaxed . . . even friendly . . . with Chris.

Still, David saw something in her eyes when she looked at him, something that she couldn't mask, something that gave him hope.

He only knew one thing for sure: he'd never felt this way about another woman. He'd never felt so compelled to pursue one, so intrigued by her thinking, so ready to make room in his life for another. No, he thought, correcting himself: give up his life for another. Even with the problems emanating from her divorce, she was attractive to him. Hey, everyone had problems, right?

He took a big drink of cold coffee. As he did, he glimpsed something on the edge of the road. What was it? A red flag went off in his brain. Automatically, his foot pressed down on the brake. He slowed down and then he saw a cut-through.

Why? What had he seen? What had bothered him? Following his instincts, David turned around.

F
EW VEHICLES TRAVELED THE ROAD AT THAT HOUR
,
AND
D
AVID SLOWED
as he approached the area again. Wide awake now, straining to see into the dark, he fought to retrieve the image of whatever it was that had alarmed him.

The shoulder of the road fell off to a ditch. Beyond that, a bank rose up to woods. With no streetlights in the area, and no moon that night, all David had to go on were his headlights and his instincts.

But those proved true. As the truck crawled along, half on the shoulder, his headlights picked up what his brain had registered: a hand and an arm emerging from the ditch.

Jerking to a stop, he put on his emergency flashers, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed down from the truck. His heart pounded, hard. He jogged toward the ditch and looked down. There, in the weeds, lay a man dressed in khaki work pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, stained with blood.

David dropped to his knees. He felt the man's neck. He found a thready pulse, grabbed his cell phone off of his belt, and called 911. As he spoke into the phone, the man opened his eyes. “Hang on, partner, help is on the way,” David said,
clicking his phone off. He used his flashlight to scan the man's body, ripped open his shirt, and found a bloody gunshot wound.

A dark dread swept over him. David shivered. The smell of the blood, the sight of it, washed through him, bringing back memories. He shivered and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw the man, he saw the kid he shot, he saw a roadside, he saw an alley in the city, he saw life flowing away in a sickening stream.

David forced his eyes open. “Who did this?” he asked as he pressed his hand over the wound.

The man couldn't talk.

“Did you know him?”

The man shook his head. Then he moved his hand, and his gesture sent a deep chill through David. The killer had a scar bisecting his face. Kit's scar-faced man? Hector Lopez?

“Hispanic?” David asked.

The man nodded and then his eyes fluttered.

“Oh, Jesus!” David cried out. The man's eyes opened and he reached out a hand. David gripped it. “You stay with me, man, help's coming,” and he held on, pressing one hand on the man's wound and praying out loud, until lights and sirens pierced the darkness and medics appeared at his side.