Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838)

by White, Linda J.

  Steve nodded. “Start there. You agree, Mark? See where that leads?” Seeing the AUSA nod, he turned to Chris. “You give some hours to this. You work with Kit and see what we need—surveillance, subpoenas, whatever—to go after these people, Robert and Rhonda Barnes.”

  Kit interrupted him, her heart pounding. “Steve, I think they’re just the tip of the iceberg. I want to check out this operation on the peninsula. As Chris suggested, whoever was driving that box truck last night didn’t want the trooper to see what was in it. It might have been drugs … but it could have been people, too.”

  Her boss’s neck reddened. “You haven’t made the connection to my satisfaction. For all we know the trucker was carrying dog food.”

  Kit thought fast. “Let me look into this C&R Enterprises. Let me check out why that guy driving their truck was so aggressive. See if there’s a connection with the trooper who was shot. Let me find out who ‘Hector’ is.”

  “Sounds like you’re not ready to leave the beach.”

  His comment took Kit aback. Flustered, she groped for words. Surprisingly, Chris stepped in. “I see her point, boss. How about I work on this Norfolk couple, while Kit takes the lead on the peninsula?”

  Steve grimaced. “All right. But Kit, if you hit a dead end, you’re back here, understand?”

  The scar-faced man could identify her green Subaru Forester, so Kit traded it in for her Bureau car, a dark blue Crown Victoria. Then she drove to her apartment, fixed coffee, and while it brewed, leafed through the stack of mail her neighbor Ellen had left on her counter.

  Her heart nearly stopped when she saw the familiar handwriting on the pink envelope. Another card. Gee, thanks.

  And maybe it was leftover tension from the meeting, or fatigue, or just sheer loneliness, but tears sprang to her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep the feelings at bay. Then she went to her bedroom, jerked open the closet door, and threw the card in the box with the others—many, many others, collected over the course of twenty-four years.

  Kit grabbed what she needed from the apartment and left. Halfway across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge tunnel, she remembered the coffee.

  Over the next two days, Kit visited the marinas in Wachapreague as well as the ones on Chincoteague and in Ocean City to see if they’d observed any unusual activity lately. She spent an hour with an emotionally engaged state police captain, furious at the loss of one of his own men.

  “He called it in: he was pulling over a large white box truck for speeding at 2:00 a.m. on U.S. 13,” Captain Roy Grizzle stated succinctly. “The next thing we know, dispatch can’t raise him. So our dispatcher sent another trooper to check on him. Meanwhile, a citizen calls in on a cell phone. There’s a state police car, he says, on the side of the road, lights flashing, with no trooper in sight. Right behind a white box truck.

  “The second trooper found Chip in the ditch with two bullets in his head.” Grizzle shook his head. “When I find that son of a …”

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said.

  “Chip had a wife and two teenage sons. Plus, he’s going to be hard to replace.” Grizzle threw a wad of paper toward his trashcan, missed, and let it lie on the floor.

  His office was cramped and gray: gray desk, gray chairs, gray carpet. White walls. Kit felt like she was in a fog. “When is the funeral?”

  Grizzle scratched out the pertinent information on a note pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her. “Look, what can I do for you? What’d you come here for?”

  Kit told him about finding the boy’s body on the beach, about the link to the farm where the live oaks were, about the trafficking leads they had, and her concerns that all of this information might be connected.

  Grizzle listened to her, but Kit could tell by the way his eyes kept shifting to the paperweight on his desk that he wasn’t the least bit interested. “All I can say,” he responded when she finished, “is keep in touch. If we find whoever killed Chip, we’ll let you know. Maybe then we can help you.”

  She was pumping gas at the gas station on Main Street in Chincoteague when Rick Sellers pulled up right behind her. “I thought that was you!” he said. “How’s it going?” He straightened his Coast Guard uniform. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “All right. How about you?” Kit squinted into the sun.

  “Heard about that cop shooting.” Rick leaned against her back fender and ran his hand down the edge of her car. “This is a different car, isn’t it? Don’t you drive a Forester?”

  Kit didn’t answer that question. “What’s the word about the shooting?”

  “Nothing. Just that it happened. Weird summer, I’ll tell you that.” He flashed a smile. “You feel like dinner sometime?”

  She quickly calculated a response. “I’m pretty busy right now.”

  He laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.” His tone remained neutral. “You got any more on that kid?”

  Kit shook her head. “Not really. You?”

  “Haven’t heard a thing.”

  Later that afternoon, Connie called, asking if she could come by and retrieve some items the property owner had left in the cottage. Of course, Kit told her. Reflexively, she put on a pot of coffee. Something in Connie’s voice told Kit she needed to talk.

  14

  CONNIE KEPT HER RED HAIR PULLED BACK IN A LOW PONYTAIL. SHE HAD ON white Capris and a bright pink shirt, defying any theory of a redhead’s “colors.” She gave Kit a hug at the door. “Honey, I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re no bother! Come in.” Kit led her into the cottage.

  There was one locked closet in the cottage. Connie went immediately to it, used a key to release the lock, and pulled out a file folder thick with papers. “They may be thinking about selling this place,” she said, over her shoulder.

  “Really?”

  “Yep. She wants this bunch of papers mailed priority. Everybody’s in a hurry these days.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you in a hurry? Have time for coffee?”

  “Of course, honey. Of course.”

  They sat on either end of the couch, facing each other, and Connie chattered on about the news of the island. Emma Mae’s daughter’s gettin’ married. Henry Wilson’s got cancer. Seems a shame. His momma and poppa both died of it … All the while, she twisted a napkin in her hands.

  “So what’s going on with you?” Kit asked. “You seem tense.”

  Connie snapped up that grounder. “I tell you, I’m scared.”

  “About …”

  “All this stuff goin’ on.”

  “Stuff?”

  “The murders! First the boy, then that cop went and got himself shot. They’ve been stopping every truck out there on 13. Even my Bob got questioned!”

  “That’s routine. They’re looking for witnesses.”

  “They had a checkpoint. Like Russia or something. Everybody had to stop, show ID, answer a bunch of questions … delayed him two hours that night. I was sick to death with worry.” Connie sat down on the couch. “That man is never late.” She hunched her shoulders and huddled over her steaming mug.

  “Bob’s innocent, so he’s got nothing to worry about.” Kit smiled to reassure her. “He runs nights, right? So they wanted to know if he saw anything.”

  “That’s exactly what he said. But I tell you, Kit, it’s worrisome.” Connie fixed her eyes on Kit. “I’m so tired of all this. Why last night, there I saw this big, lighted sign on Rt. 13 saying ‘Murder Info: Call State Police. Reward.’ ” Connie shivered. “It’s givin’ me the heebie-jeebies. First, we got a boy’s body on the beach. Nobody in my family ever heard of nothin’ like that. A little boy! At the beach! Then we got a cop shot. My cousin said a third one’s on the way.”

  “A third what?”

  “A third death. They come in threes.”

  Kit laughed. “They come in a lot more than threes, Connie, let me tell you.”

  Connie very pointedly did not smile. “You may be u
sed to dealin’ with this stuff but we ain’t. Not here. Not on Chincoteague. I got a premonition, or something. Been wakin’ up at night. That’s not like me. Bob says I sleep like a horse that’s been run all day. Not now.”

  Kit traced her finger around the edge of her coffee mug. Why did she derive such comfort from a cup of coffee, even on a hot day? Connie clutched hers as if her life depended on it. Her fingernails were white from the force of her grip. “Connie, I understand you’re spooked. But I don’t see any connection between the little boy we found and the state trooper. It’s just coincidental. Bad timing. Don’t get superstitious! Besides, what do you always tell me? ‘God’s in charge.’ ”

  Connie’s eyes narrowed. “God’s in charge, all right. That don’t mean we got to like what he’s lettin’ happen. I’m tellin’ you, there’s a third death comin’. And if you don’t watch it, it could be you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard what you did for David O’Connor.”

  Kit’s face grew hot. “From whom?”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “The other day.”

  The other day? So David was here, on the island? Just the other day? Why hadn’t she seen him, Kit wondered. She tried to minimize the rescue. “It was easier than when I was lifeguarding on the ocean.”

  “I remember you doing that,” Connie responded. “One of the few women they’d take.”

  Kit took a sip of coffee. “He shouldn’t have been out in that storm, that’s all.”

  “He said you risked your life. Said he would’ve drowned but for you.” Connie rubbed her hand on her Capris. “You cheated the Grim Reaper outta Number Three. He won’t let that go by.”

  Kit laughed. “Connie, that’s ridiculous.” What did they teach at Connie’s little island church?

  “You’d best be careful, Kit. I don’t want to have to be calling your father and explainin’ how you met your demise here on Chincoteague.” She shook her head. “It was bad enough, him going through …” she hesitated, looking like someone who’d just realized she’d walked into a private room, “… what he did.”

  Kit felt a rush of emotion, like a primal scream, race through her.

  Connie watched her over the rim of her cup as she took a sip. “You ever see your momma?”

  Her heart pounded. She set her jaw. “No.”

  “She don’t call you?”

  “No.” Kit put her mug down, stood up, and walked away. “Her idea of motherhood is sending me a card once in a while.”

  “She tell you how she is?”

  “I don’t know. I never open them.”

  Connie’s hand rubbed her coffee mug. “It must have hurt your dad bad, her walkin’ off like that. Your dad and you kids, too.”

  Kit shrugged. “Hey, it is what it is. I don’t think about it anymore.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  Connie seemed to chew on that for a bit. She smoothed her Capris. “I saw your momma after she left.”

  I don’t care, Kit thought. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

  “She came over here to talk to your Daddy’s mother, Miss Margaret. Right there in that Main Street house. I happened to be there when she showed up.”

  Kit felt her jaw tighten. Words and images began appearing and disappearing on the walls of her mind, things she hadn’t thought about in years, exploding and fading like fireworks in a darkened sky. Please stop.

  “I think she wanted to explain, needed to explain …”

  “There was nothing to explain!” Kit exploded. “She walked away from her family. Quit. Abandoned a husband and two children who loved her to pursue her own life.”

  “Is that what your daddy told you?”

  “My father never said a bad word about her.” Kit crossed her arms. “He didn’t need to. I saw it myself. Saw the selfishness. Even at age eight.” She frowned. “She left …”

  “Just like Eric.”

  Kit’s eyes widened.

  Connie didn’t stop. “And you came here to grieve that.” She shook her head. “Only next thing I know, you’re working again.” She stood up and walked to the kitchen sink, poured out what remained of her coffee, rinsed her cup, and filled it with water. She turned around to face Kit again, and leaned against the counter. “Your dad’s done good, raisin’ you two.” She lifted her mug to her lips, took a drink, lowered it again. “He’s such a fine lawyer. So smart. I remember when he won that big case in D.C., that Mobley case, everyone was so proud.”

  Kit lifted her chin. She was only five or six when that case claimed the front page of The Washington Post for days and cemented her father’s reputation. She’d read the stories much, much later.

  “And your brother … brilliant. All of you are bright, aggressive people.” She pursed her lips, then looked straight at Kit, her eyes soft. “Did you ever think … did you ever think it was just too much? Too much for her?”

  “Too much? One husband? Two little kids? I was eight. How threatening can an eight-year-old be?” Why did an image of Eric run through her mind?

  “Your mother is so creative, so artistic …”

  Kit shot her a look. “What did my grandmother say to her?”

  “I didn’t stay for their whole talk. I know Miss Margaret was surprised. I also know she invited her in and made tea. Your mother had the look of a rabbit chased near to death by hounds. I felt sorry for her.” Connie took a deep breath.

  Kit attacked. “Sorry for her? My dad didn’t abuse her, didn’t yell at her, didn’t do anything but be who he was. I guess that wasn’t good enough for her. You know she has a whole new family on the West Coast? She left us and started over. Traded us in.” Kit paced away. “I guess we weren’t what she wanted. ‘Smart’ and ‘aggressive’ weren’t good enough for her. So she had to try again. I sure hope those kids measure up, because if they don’t,” she gestured as if she was cutting her throat. “My mother,” Kit said, “is totally unreliable.” She lifted her chin. “I’m glad she left.”

  Connie’s eyes reflected shock. She cleared her throat, paused, then spoke in a soft, distant voice. “Y’know, my mother had a hard time lovin’ me. Took me ’til my thirties before I began to see what the problem was. My momma saw in me a dim reflection of herself and that’s who she was rejecting over and over and over. Not me. Her.”

  What’s that got to do with me? Kit wanted to scream.

  “I started gettin’ over it, when I realized that. But it took forgiving, and that took letting go of something deep inside. I had to let the little girl inside cry, and then ask God to heal her. I had to believe that Scripture that says ‘All things work together for good for those who love the Lord and are called according to his purpose.’ I had to believe that. Then I could forgive my momma.”

  Kit’s fists clenched but she remained speechless.

  Connie shook her head as if dislodging her thoughts. She gave Kit a hug and picked up her keys. “Thanks for the coffee. I’m sorry if I stirred the pot. I guess I’m jus’ scared. Bob says the devil’s afoot. I laughed at him, but I’m beginning to b’lieve him. Thing is, God’s in charge. Thanks for the reminder, honey. I hope I didn’t upset you none.”

  For two restless days and nights, Connie’s visit plagued Kit. Images swarmed her like wasps every time she dropped her guard. She saw her father, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. She saw the empty space in the garage where her mother’s car used to be. And she saw the day she came home from school, second-grade papers in hand, to find her older brother eating cereal at the kitchen table.

  Where’s Mom? she had asked.

  She’s gone.

  Where?

  I dunno. Just gone. Gone for good. Justin got up and threw his cereal milk down the drain. Go look in her room.

  Kit raced up the stairs. She stood staring at her mother’s empty closet, the papers in her hand fluttering to the floor. Then she burst int
o tears.

  Shut up! Justin said as she came back into the kitchen. Don’t cry! Dad will be home when he gets out of court. Now shut up. Only girls cry.

  Only girls cry. Thinking about those days left Kit feeling like a little kid. Why? Why now? She’d dealt with the reality of her mother’s abandonment for years. Why were these feelings still so potent?

  It’s true: she’d never really talked out what happened, and the way she felt, with the men in her life. Not her father. Or her brother. They all just soldiered on. And when was the last time she’d had a heart-to-heart talk with a female friend? In college? With her roommates? Before her marriage?

  She lived in a man’s world. Her father. Her brother. Her husband. The men at work. It felt natural to her, but just now, talking to Connie, she realized she’d left her heart behind somewhere. Misplaced it. And she wondered if she’d ever get it back.

  Several nights later, Kit’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. Her heart jumped. Oh, God, she thought, please help me stay strong. Bracing herself, she resolutely pushed the button.

  “Kit,” David said. His voice sounded tense.

  What was wrong? “Where have you been?”

  “I’ll tell you about that later. I need your help.”

  “What now, David? What now? I told you …”

  “Look,” he said, taking a deep breath, “this is not about you. Or me. Honest.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Can you come over here?”

  “Why?” she could hear the resistance in her own voice.

  “Kit, listen to this.”

  Another voice came on the phone. “Miss McGovern? Alice Pendleton here.”

  The famous photographer?

  “We need you ASAP.”

  15

  HOW LONG HAD DAVID BEEN BACK ON CHINCOTEAGUE? WHERE HAD he been? What did he want? Why was Alice Pendleton at his house? Kit alternately chastised herself for her rudeness and prayed on the eight-minute drive to David’s. What in the world did he want?

  An old, battered Ford sedan sat in the driveway. Kit pulled up beside it, jogged to the front porch, and mounted the steps.