Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (33 page)

“Where does he live?” Chris asked.

Kit repeated the address out loud. He typed it into Google maps and soon they were looking at a satellite view of a large,
two-story white house surrounded by trees. A three-car garage sat behind the house to the right, and to the left stood a stable with room for three stalls, at least. “Forty thousand,” Kit repeated. “Yeah, right.”

“Let's get property tax records,” Chris said.

“Good. Do that,” Kit said. “We've got a copy of his driver's license but the only vehicle registered in his name is an old pickup . . . a 1996 Ford. You don't need a three-car garage for a Ford pickup.”

“What's his wife's name?”

“It looks like ‘Carlotta'.”

“What about criminal records?” Roger asked.

“Nothing.” Kit looked around. “This guy's dirty, but his record is clean.”

“What about the shed?” Chris asked.

“At the live oak farm?”

“We should be watching it. Maybe he's loading whatever is in there into the truck David will be driving.”

“I'll go,” Roger said.

“Wait. I think it's going to be the other way around. I think whatever David is going to be transporting is coming
up
from Norfolk. Cienfuegos told him to call him when he started back across the bridge tunnel.” Kit explained about the warning Cienfuegos had given David. “So I need you, Roger, to put the state police on alert, once we know what David's driving. And the same goes for both counties' sheriff's offices. He cannot be pulled over by a cop. But I don't want too much information getting out. Just give them the bare bones.”

“Got it,” he said.

“How are we going to track him?” Kit asked. “What happened last night cannot be repeated. Can we put a GPS tracer on his body somehow?”

Jason looked up. His brown hair hung down over his eyes and curled around his ears.

“You have something that will fit inside his cell phone?”

“They took away his cell phone before.”

“Yes, you're right. Will it fit in his iPod?”

“That might interfere with the transmitter.”

“Well, you call him and see what you can arrange. He's supposed to pick up the truck at 8:00, at C&R's. My guess is, he'll be available most of the day.”

“OK.”

“Can I leave that to you?” Kit fixed her eyes on him, her jaw set.

“Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of it.”

“I'll count on that.” She looked around. “What else can we find out about this Carlos Cienfuegos? Who does he hang out with? Where does he shop? Where does he go to drink? What does he do for fun? What other growers does he work for? And why was Maria in his truck? We need everything we can uncover.”

They spent the rest of the day in a blur of nervous energy. Steve called from Norfolk to get an update on the case, and said he'd assigned more agents to help out. That, to her, seemed a good sign, a sign of confidence.

Roger reported in, saying that the house was appraised at
529,000, well above the county average, and that it was in his wife's name. Carlotta also owned a white Mercedes, a blue Toyota Sequoia, and a four-wheel drive GMC pickup truck, according to personal property tax records. “He used to keep a large fishing boat in Wachapreague,” he said. “Someone in the tax office told me he got tired of paying the county taxes on it.”

That triggered a reaction from Kit. “Contact the Maryland Department of Natural Resources and find out if that boat's registered with them, and where it is. He may have just moved it out of state.” Maryland didn't assess a personal property tax. Was the boat involved in the ocean shooting, Kit wondered? The beach child's death? Her mind raced through the possibilities.

Roger had also gotten the details on all the cars, driving records on the two Cienfuegoses, and one more juicy tidbit: Carlotta had a lawsuit pending against her. “She apparently has a commercial cleaning business. Someone thinks she didn't provide the services promised.”

“So she provides cleaning services and her husband ag workers. Sounds like they would need a lot of laborers,” Kit said. “I think it's time to set up some surveillance on these folks.” Kit looked at Roger. “Any chance we could get some additional manpower from your agency?”

Roger shook his head. “I'll ask, but everyone's tied up with the trooper shooting.”

“Steve's sending agents from Norfolk. I'll see if we can round up some more from Salisbury.”

“Carlotta has contracts with some medical and law offices and a county office building,” Chris reported.

“Wait: Patricia said that Robert Barnes is a big-deal lawyer. Is that a connection?” Kit asked.

Chris shrugged. “Not sure yet. The lawsuit is over a thirty thousand dollar contract to clean a dental office. Apparently, she didn't provide the level of service the contract required and the dentist is suing her.”

“Let's go talk to her lawyer.”

“I've set up the appointment for tomorrow.”

By the time Kit had contacted and made appointments with the three companies she was going to cover, Roger called
back with news that Carlos Cienfuegos did indeed have a boat registered with the Maryland DNR, and he kept it in Ocean City. “Let's bring in Maryland State Police. Ask them to go take a picture of it,” Kit said.

Roger agreed, and then said he had contacted the sheriff's offices to alert the deputies coming on to work the three-to-eleven shift about the special instructions they'd be getting. “Basically, I asked them to stay away from Rt. 13 tonight. Just leave traffic enforcement there alone.”

“Great. As soon as my agents get here, we'll start surveillance,” Kit said.

The offsite would serve as their command center for the duration of David's trip. Kit had bought sub sandwiches and bottled water, a tray of vegetables and some cookies, and as she stowed them in the refrigerator in the kitchen, her mind went over the instructions they'd given David. He would call her when he picked up the truck.

But at 8:05 p.m, he text-messaged Kit with the license plate number of the truck he was driving. Why hadn't he called? She had to presume it was a white box truck loaded with tomatoes. But why had he texted her?

She gave the number to Roger, who immediately contacted dispatch supervisors to make sure state police knew not to pull David over.

“I figure it's going to take him about two hours to get to Norfolk and an hour to offload, then an hour to get back on this side of the bridge. So just after midnight, the fun begins,” Chris said. “You want to go get some sleep?”

As if she could. “No. I'll make coffee.”

Jason sat hunched over an array of computer equipment. “I gave him two transponders,” he said. “One is in his iPod, the
other he was supposed to put on the truck. So far, both seem to be working.”

“Good.” Kit turned toward the kitchen, fear gripping her. Resolutely spooning coffee into the filter, she lectured herself. Be professional. Trust God. Trust David. It's going to be all right.

The plan they'd devised worked perfectly. Both GPS transponders tracked David down the Delmarva Peninsula, to the bridge tunnel, through Norfolk, to the produce distribution center where the tomatoes were offloaded, then back. Roger called the dispatchers back to reiterate the message when David crossed back over the bridge. One state trooper reported seeing him, but left him alone. David made the return trip, dropped the truck back at C&R, and called Kit.

“Did you get any indication what was in the truck?”

“No. On the way down, the load looked like tomatoes, right? In standard shipping crates. I was empty coming back. I think they've installed a compartment under the floor in the back. That's where they're hiding the stuff. My guess is, it's cocaine. Maybe meth.”

Meth? Like Miguel Martinez was holding?

“What about the truck?”

“Same as before.” David paused. “They want me to make the same run tonight,” he said. “Can we do it again?”

“I guess so,” Kit responded. “No sign of Maria?”

“None.”

“Everything OK?” Chris asked as she hung up the phone.

“They want him to do it again tonight.”

The others began packing up their gear.

Chris nodded. “I had a couple of agents watching the shed. A pickup pulled in there at 4:00 a.m. and a man with a flashlight moved into the shed.”

Kit looked at him. “So, do we get a search warrant?” She felt anxious. This had to end soon.

“Not yet. Let's wait.”

“OK.” A bit of a sigh edged into her voice. “Don't forget, we're working the funeral tomorrow.”

Murderers sometimes attend their victims' funerals to relive their crimes, so a law enforcement presence at Bob Stewart's funeral would be essential. The Chincoteague police would attend, in uniform. Many of them had been friends with Bob for years, or they'd grown up with Connie, or they just knew the couple—the island was a small community.

The FBI task force planned to be there, too, but would be keeping a lower profile. One of them would watch the parking lot at the small clapboard church and collect the license plate numbers of the people attending. Dressed in civilian clothes, Roger would sit near the back of the church, cataloging the congregation. Kit and Chris would be in the pews as well. Meanwhile, Jason would stage himself in a nearby building, photographing the grieving attendees with a long lens.