Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (24 page)

Lee nodded. “That's what my boss said, and that's fine with me. I'll need to clear some things off my desk first. I'll be ready to go tomorrow.”

Immediately after the meeting, the Chincoteague police chief called Kit. “We got somebody here you might want to talk to.”

“Who's that?'

“Latino fella. We picked him up with a whole lotta meth. Down at one of the marinas. I thought that was right odd. Thought it might make you prick up your ears.”

“What made you suspect him?” Kit asked Chief Daisey later as he walked with her to an interview room.

“Got a tip.”

“From . . . ?”

“Anonymous.” Daisey put his hand on the door of the room and looked full at Kit. “We don't get too many tips like this.”

Miguel Martinez looked almost like a child, sitting at the table. Small, with brown skin, the furtive glances he stole as Kit and the chief entered the room conveyed fear to her. A police officer stood leaning against the wall. Kit guessed he was there to translate.

But it was quickly clear the officer knew very little Spanish, and Martinez knew no English. To every hesitantly phrased question, Martinez shook his head and cast plaintive glances at everyone in the room.

Back in the chief's office, Kit found out that two officers had responded to a small fishing boat marina near the tip of the island. The suspect was standing out in clear view, a backpack in his hand. When the officer asked if he could look inside, using gestures to indicate what he wanted, Martinez readily handed it over. Inside was two hundred grams of crystal meth, enough to book Martinez on possession with intent to distribute.

“We got no use for crystal meth here,” Chief Daisey said. “Migrants been bringing it in to the U.S. from Mexico, I hear. That's one import we don't need.”

“Did the officers ask him why he was here?”

“They did, but, as you saw, there isn't much communication going on. We got someone coming down from Salisbury to help us out. He kept saying something like ‘boy.' That's what made me think of you. Why was he at a marina? Why was he looking for a boy? Could it have to do with your case? I mean,” Chief Daisey leaned forward, “what if this guy ran afoul of some drug dealer . . . or user? What if they took his kid to get back at him? Wouldn't that be a possibility?”

Kit nodded. “That would be.” She asked for a piece of paper and wrote down some questions she wanted answered. “When you get a fluent translator, see if you can get answers to these.”

On his second visit to Chico's, the bartender gave David the number of a man who could help him with the new ID he needed. Two hours and
200 later, David had a Virginia commercial driver's license with his picture and the name “David Castillo” on it, and a new Social Security number. He was dark enough he figured he might pass for Hispanic. At any rate, using his own first name would give him a fighting chance to remember his alias when he had to introduce himself.

He hung out in a couple of bars, drinking Cokes and nonalcoholic beer, and he let it drop that he was looking for work as a trucker. He had two hookers approach him and one guy offer him drugs, and he'd collected more smoke in his lungs than he'd had in years.

But late that second night, while David was sitting back at Chico's, staring at an international soccer game on the TV, a man walked in wearing a cowboy hat and boots. He had a small cigar in his hand. And he limped.

The man stopped at the table right inside the door. A Latino stood up, lit the cigar for the newcomer, and sat back down.

David moved his eyes back on the soccer game. He listened carefully, heard the man approach, and pretended not to notice when the man sat down on the stool next to him. “Yeah, go!” David yelled, pumping his arm up in the air as a player took a shot at the goal. A thin stream of cigar smoke wafted his way. Slowly he turned his head to the right, casually taking a drink as he did.

The man was Latino, probably forty years old, short, brown hair, black eyes, and he had a scar which bisected his right cheek. “You rooting for Mexico?” the man said in Spanish.

“I'm rooting for whoever is strong enough to win, you know?” David replied in Spanish, chewing on a piece of ice.
Was this the guy Kit had seen at the live oak farm? The man who seemed threatening to her? The one with the scar? If so, he might be the same guy David had seen there. David turned back to watch the game.

Moments later, the man spoke again. “You the loser last time, eh?”

David looked. The man grinned and gestured toward David's left arm, which was in a sling. He refused to respond, turning instead back to the game.

But his skin was crawling. He took a long drink of Coke, then casually turned to his right. “You know anyone looking for a truck driver?” he asked in Spanish.

“You know one?” the man said, puffing on his cigar.

“Me.”

The Mexican laughed. “With that?” he gestured again.

David took a long drink. “I can do more with one hand than most guys can with two.”

“Sí? Let's go!”The Mexican propped his right elbow on the bar.

David eyed him. “What's your name?”

“They call me ‘Jefe.' ”

Jefe. Boss. David swallowed. “OK.” He put his right elbow on the bar and gripped the man's hand. What was this guy's game? In the mirror, he could see others watching them. First one man, then another stood up. A few walked slowly over in their direction.

El Jefe glanced around the room. He made some comment David didn't quite catch and the men laughed. Clearly they knew this guy well. The bartender came over and said “Ready?” Then he slapped his hand on the bar, and said, “Go!” and the two men began.

The man was strong, no doubt about that. His face reddened and veins began popping out on his forehead. David
felt his own face grow hot and his muscles swell. He kept up the pressure, but as he stared into El Jefe's eyes his adrenaline flowed. They were small and dark, coal black, cold as sharks' eyes.

A drop of sweat ran down David's face. He blinked, and then he felt it, the slightest wavering in the man's hand, the hint of weakness in his grip, and David pressed harder and harder until El Jefe's hand slammed onto the bar.

A general murmur of surprise filled the room. The man laughed, and slid off the bar stool, and slapped David on the shoulder. Then he took one step more, and David thought he was going to move away. Instead, he grabbed David by the shirt, swung around, and landed a blow on his back. A searing pain ripped through David's shoulder.

David jumped to his feet, fist clenched, but the man just laughed. “Now we are even,” he said, and he walked off and left the bar.

David watched him go. A young Latino said, “El Jefe, he doesn't like to lose.”

“I'll try to remember that.” He blew out a breath. “What's his name, anyway?”

“Lopez. Hector Lopez.”

David used that incident the next time he saw Lopez. El Jefe was sitting at the bar drinking when David spotted him. He walked over, slid on to the bar stool next to him and said, “You owe me.”

Lopez continued chewing his ice.

“I beat you. Now, I want a job.”

The man stared straight ahead.

“I heard you need a trucker. I can go short-haul, long-haul, box trucks, eighteen-wheelers . . . I done 'em all. I want the job.”

Slowly, Lopez turned his face toward David.

“I owe a man some money. I need to pay him,” David explained.

Lopez's jaw moved. His eyes scanned David's face. Then he nodded slightly. “I may have a job. You call me next week.” And he wrote a number on a napkin and shoved it toward him.

Miguel Martinez proved difficult to nail down. After several tries, a translator determined he was an indigenous Guatemalan, and he spoke a native Indian language. He knew practically no Spanish—or English. Finally, the peninsula's Latino advocacy group found someone at a university in Washington who could help over the phone. The professor, who spoke a similar language, was able to find out that Martinez didn't know what was in the backpack, that a white man had given him money to hold it.

Meanwhile, Martinez was being held without bond.

“Didn't you say Patricia and the others who were trafficked with her were from Mexico?” Chris asked Kit.

“Yes.”

“Then that's your answer. Martinez isn't connected. It's not worth your time.”

Martinez was not worth her time? Kit frowned. There was something really weird about his case. But unless she could link it to her beach child murder it was, in fact, a dead end.

Late that night, back at the motel, Kit's cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw a strange number. Something made her answer it anyway.

H
ELLO
?” K
IT PRESSED THE CELL PHONE TO HER EAR
.

“Hey.”

David! Kit's heart thumped. “I didn't recognize your number.”

“I need some help.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm a guest of the Accomack County sheriff.”

The jail? “What happened? What'd you do?” Kit crossed her arm in front of her and paced, fixing her eyes on the ugly brown and orange motel room curtains across the room.

He lowered his voice. “Look, I got caught up in a raid on a bar, and they hit me with a concealed weapons charge.”

“Because they don't know who you are.”

“Exactly. Any chance you could make a phone call?”

Kit glanced at her watch. 11:00 p.m. “I'll come get you.”

“No, don't do that. Your friend is here, too.”

“My friend?”

“I don't want you to come!” David reiterated.

“I'll send Chris.”

“Yes, that's right. Be sure he knows there are two Ls in my name.”

“What?”

“Castillo. C A S T I L L O. David's spelled the usual way.”

“Good grief,” Kit said, rolling her eyes.