Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (39 page)

“Look,” David said, mustering all the strength he could. “It's true, I was a cop in D.C. But I shot a kid and I'm off the force and I needed the money. That's what I was doing. I didn't care what you were running. I just needed the money. Haven't you ever heard of a bad cop?”

Cienfuegos's eyes fell on David's iPod wires, which were protruding from his pocket. He jerked the wires, and pulled out the iPod. Then he held his hand out toward Consuela and snapped his fingers. She looked confused at first, then retrieved her purse, and dug her own iPod out of it.

David felt suddenly dizzy. They were the same model, and Cienfuegos was comparing them. He closed his eyes.

Cienfuegos cursed loudly. David's eyes flew open just as the Mexican threw his iPod onto the ground and stomped on it. Lopez moved forward and grabbed David by the throat. He began squeezing, cutting off his air. David gasped desperately for breath.

He looked into Lopez's eyes. They were cold, like a snake's eyes, and David saw his pupils enlarge and his face relax in pleasure. An icy cold chill raced through David's veins. His knees grew weak. Lopez tightened his grip. Consuela watched, her arms crossed. Then the edges of David's vision began to grow dark. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, God!

“¡Alto!” Cienfuegos said, jerking Lopez out of the way. David's throat ripped open and he began to cough. But Cienfuegos threw David back against the car. “Who are you working for?” he demanded. “Who?”

David didn't answer. Cienfuegos cursed again and drove his fist into David's jaw. Then everything went black.

“Look, there aren't that many roads,” Kit said, looking at a map while Chris drove the black SUV north on Rt. 13. “Not until we get to Salisbury, anyway.”

“My guess is they'll head straight north, to Philly or New York. They won't risk crossing the Bay Bridge. The toll takers could ID them.”

“You don't think they'll just hole up somewhere?”

Chris should his head. “They want to get off this peninsula as quickly as they can.”

Kit settled back in her seat, her thoughts racing. “So at Pocomoke, they can go Rt. 13 or 113.”

“They'll go 13. It's much quicker.”

Kit nodded. The lights streaked by in the dark night. The dread she'd been avoiding now gripped her. She stared at the road ahead. The dotted centerline flashed by like a strobe. Her head pounded. She glanced at Chris. “How long . . .” her voice stuck in her throat.

Chris flexed his hand on the steering wheel. She saw his jaw shift. “It all depends on where he took the shot. If an artery got hit . . .” Chris's voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. “Think positively. With just a flesh wound, he can last a long time, especially if he can put pressure on it.” He nodded his head, as if affirming his own thinking. “David's smart. He won't panic. He'll take care of himself.”

Kit bit the corner of her lip. Her cell phone rang. She picked it up. “Yes? Yes . . .” She gestured for Chris to speed up. “Good! We're on the way.” She looked at Chris. “Maryland State Police chopper has a white Escalade on the bypass around Salisbury.”

“All right!”

When he woke up, he could tell he was in a vehicle but he had no idea where or when or how he got there . . . he tried to move, and realized his hands were bound behind his back and there was tape across his mouth. Anger flashed through him. The thin stream of air he could take in past the tape wasn't enough. He began fighting, then realized quickly it was fruitless. Heart pounding, he began reciting the alphabet backwards in his head, a technique he'd perfected as a boy facing a drunken stepfather and trying to survive. Gradually, like a slowly melting glacier, his anger began to disappear. His heart rate slowed. His throat relaxed a little. He could breathe better. And his trembling became sporadic.

Where was he? In the back of a car. With something over him. A blanket. He moved his head around until his face emerged, and he pulled in a grateful breath of cool air.
Please help me, please help me, please help me
, he prayed silently.

An occasional flash of light helped him get oriented. He was on the back seat of the Suburban. He could hear Lopez and Cienfuegos up front. Where was Consuela? And where were they going?

The men were speaking Spanish. David forced himself to concentrate, and slowly he began to catch snatches of their conversation. He heard the word “Consuela” and then the word
“barco”
—boat. He heard Cienfuegos laugh softly and then say, in English, “We'll be halfway to Miami.”

The FBI vehicles screamed up Rt. 13, lights flashing, jockeying through traffic and blasting across intersections. Kit, her stomach tight, stayed on the phone, listening to the Maryland State Police narrate the apprehension of the Escalade.

“How much farther?” Chris asked her.

She glanced over at the GPS unit. “About twelve miles.”

“Ten minutes then.” He glanced over at her.

Kit pressed the phone to her ear. The state police had pulled the Escalade over. She held up one finger, asking Chris to wait. She frowned. “One occupant,” she said, looking over at Chris.

Her partner grimaced. “Wrong car?”

Nine minutes later, Chris pulled their SUV up behind the cluster of cop cars surrounding the Escalade in the parking lot of a bowling alley. Red and blue lights flashed so brightly Kit could hardly see around them. She jumped out of the Bureau car before it came to a complete stop, and raced toward the Escalade, flashing her badge. She looked inside, and fought nausea when she saw the blood all over the back seat. “Where's the driver?” she asked a cop nearby.

He motioned toward a state police car. Kit approached it. A state trooper looked up at her. “You Agent McGovern?”

“Yes.” She flashed her creds.

“The young woman there was the only occupant.” He nodded toward a Latina.

Kit shielded her eyes from the flashing lights. Did she know her? Was it . . .

“Car's registered to a Cienfuegos.”

Chris suddenly appeared at her side. “Who is she?”

“David's Maria,” Kit said softly.

L
OOK
, M
S
. E
SPINOZA
,” K
IT SAID, PACING IN THE INTERVIEW ROOM AT
the state police headquarters, “the amount of meth we found makes you eligible for a nice long sentence in federal prison. You want to spend the rest of your life in jail? Never get married? Never see your family?”

Consuela Espinoza, AKA Maria, twisted her hands in her lap. She wouldn't make eye contact with Kit. “No comprende,” she said over and over, shaking her head.

Sure, Kit thought.

But Chris was right on it. He leaned over Consuela, his arms braced on the table. And he spoke to her in Spanish, explaining her situation firmly, and pressing her again about where Carlos Cienfuegos was and what she was doing with his car, about her relationship with him and how long she had known him.

Kit studied the young woman as Chris questioned her. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and dark eyes. Slim. Attractive. But there was a hollowness in her cheeks that caught her attention. Was she on meth? Is that what it was? Then she noticed something else. The woman kept touching her belly, almost cradling it, as if it were tender, as if . . .

“Consuela,” Kit said suddenly.

Chris turned toward her in surprise.

“Do you want your baby to be born in jail?”

The woman looked at her, shocked.

“We need to know where these men are. You help us and we'll help you.” Kit softened her voice. “Consuela, it's not just about you any longer, is it? It's about doing what's best for that baby. Will Carlos take care of you? Or will he dump you like he's dumped other women?” Kit saw a shift in Consuela's eyes, a bit of uncertainty. “Maybe he's already dumped you.”

“He protect me . . . from Hector.”

Ah, yes. Consuela/Maria had seduced Cienfuegos, Hector's boss, to keep Hector from hurting her again. Smart move. Still, Cienfuegos was using her. Kit felt sure of that. She pressed the woman. “Where exactly did he tell you to drive to, Consuela? With David's blood all over the back seat of your car? Knowing we were looking for a white Escalade?”

Tears came to the woman's eyes.

“Do you really think he's coming to meet you?”

Chris picked it up. “Tell us as much as you know, Consuela, and we'll help you out.”

Time seemed to crawl. Kit's heart was beating hard. Then Consuela looked at her.

“He tell me,” the woman said hesitantly, “he tell me drive north on Rt. 13 to Elkton, and he meet me there. Tonight.”

“Where? Where exactly?”

She gave them the name of a motel. Chris turned and left the room to notify the Maryland State Police.

“What else?”

“He have me bring things to him.”

“Like what?”

She described a suitcase, a large plastic container, and some personal things: toothbrush, toothpaste, clothing, money, food, and rope.

“But these things aren't in the Escalade.”

Consuela shook her head.

“So you gave them to him.”

She nodded and described the Suburban.

Kit had one more question. “Consuela, we know David was shot. How was he when you saw him?”

The woman stared at her blankly, her mouth a thin line.

“Consuela, he was your friend!”

Then the woman broke down. She buried her face in her hands. “He is bleeding everywhere. And I told them, I told them!”

“Told them what?”

“That he is a cop!”