The Killing Hour

  It still amazed Quincy how easy it was to fail the ones you loved.

  “Was that Kimberly?” Rainie asked from behind him. “What did she want?”

  “She’s leaving the Academy this morning. She talked one of the counselors into giving her a leave of absence for emotional distress.”

  “Kimberly?” Rainie’s voice was incredulous. “Kimberly, who would walk barefoot through fire before asking for a pair of shoes, let alone a fire extinguisher? No way.”

  Quincy merely waited. It didn’t take long. Rainie had always been exceptionally bright. She got it in the next instant.

  “She’s going to work the case!” she exclaimed suddenly. In contrast to his reaction, however, she threw back her head and laughed. “Well, what do you know. I told you the Georgian was a hunk!”

  “If Supervisor Watson finds out,” Quincy said seriously, “her career will be over.”

  “If Watson finds out, he’ll simply be mad he didn’t get to save the second girl first.” Rainie bounded out of bed. “Well, what do you want to do?”

  “Work,” Quincy said flatly. “I want the ID on the victim.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And maybe,” he mused carefully, “it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit to the forensic linguist, Dr. Ennunzio.”

  Rainie regarded him in surprise. “Why, Pierce Quincy, are you beginning to believe in the Eco-Killer?”

  “I don’t know. But I definitely think that my daughter is much too involved. Let’s work, Rainie. And let’s work fast.”

  Kimberly and Mac drove toward Richmond mostly in silence. She learned that his taste in radio stations ran toward country music. In turn, she taught him that she didn’t function well without a morning cup of coffee.

  They had taken his car; the rented Toyota Camry was nicer than her ancient Mazda. Mac had thrown a backpack filled with supplies into the trunk. Kimberly had added hiking boots and a duffel bag filled with her sparse collection of clothes.

  She’d retrieved her gun first thing this morning, turning in the plastic Crayola along with her handcuffs. She signed a few forms, relinquished her ID, and that was that. She was officially on leave from the FBI Academy. For the first time since she was about nine years old, she was not actively aspiring to be a federal agent.

  She should feel anxious, guilt-stricken, and horrified, she thought. So many years of her life she was suddenly throwing away on a whim. As if she ever did anything on a whim. As if her life had ever held a hint of the whimsical.

  And yet, she didn’t feel horrible. No shortness of breath that would indicate an oncoming anxiety attack. No bunched muscles or pounding headache. In all honesty, she actually felt the lightest she had in weeks. Maybe, beneath her sleep-deprived haze, she was even a little giddy.

  What that meant, she didn’t want to know.

  They made good time getting to Richmond. Mac handed her a printed-out e-mail, and she navigated to the offices of the U.S. Geological Survey team, which were located in an office park north of the city. First glance wasn’t what Kimberly had expected. The office park, for one thing, was plunked down in the middle of suburban sprawl. They passed a community college, a housing development, and a local school. There were lovely sidewalks shaded by graceful trees, wide expanses of deep green yards, and brightly flowering pink and white crepe myrtle trees.

  The USGS office building, too, was different from what she had pictured. One story of brick and glass. Newer. Lots of windows. Nicely landscaped with more crepe myrtle trees and God knows what kind of bushes. Definitely a far cry from the usual government décor of monochromatic malaise.

  So a nice building in a nice place. Kimberly wondered if Mac knew that the FBI Richmond field office was literally right down the street.

  She and Mac got out of the car, pushed their way through the heavy glass door and were immediately greeted by the waiting receptionist.

  “Ray Lee Chee,” Mac said. The receptionist smiled at them brightly, then led the way.

  “He’s a botanist?” Kimberly asked as she followed Mac down the wide, sunny hall.

  “Geographer, actually.”

  “What’s a geographer?”

  “I think he works on maps.”

  “You’re bringing our leaf to a mapmaker?”

  “Genny knows him. He went to school with her brother or something like that. Apparently he has a background in botany and he said he could help.” Mac shrugged. “I have no jurisdiction; it’s not like I can order up any expert I want in the state.”

  The receptionist had arrived at an interior office. She gestured to the partially opened door, then turned back down the hall, leaving Kimberly alone with Mac, already wondering if this wasn’t some kind of fool’s errand.

  “Mr. Chee?” Mac asked, poking his head through the doorway. A short, well-built Asian man promptly fired back his desk chair and popped up to greet them.

  “Oh God, don’t call me that. Ray, by all means, or I’ll keep looking around for my father.”

  Ray pumped Mac’s hand vigorously, then greeted Kimberly with the same enthusiasm. The geographer was younger than Kimberly would’ve thought, and definitely not a dried-out academic. He sported khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt made out of one of those micro-fibers favored by hikers for wicking the sweat from their bodies.

  Now, he gestured them into his paper-jammed office, then bounced back into his chair with about four times the necessary energy. His biceps bulged even when sitting and his hands were moving a mile a minute around his desk, looking for God knows what.

  “So Genny said you needed my help,” Ray stated brightly.

  “We’re trying to identify a leaf. I understand you have some experience in that sort of thing.”

  “Spent my undergrad days studying botany,” Ray said, “before I moved into geography. For that matter, I also studied zoology and for a brief stint in time, auto mechanics. Seemed kind of funky at the time. On the other hand, when our truck gets stuck out in the field, everyone’s happy to have me along.” He turned toward Kimberly. “Do you talk?”

  “Not before coffee.”

  “You need some java? I brewed the world’s strongest batch in the kitchenette just half an hour ago. Stuff will knock the ZZZs right out of you, while putting some hair on your chest.” He held up both of his hands, which were trembling with caffeine jitters. “Want some?”

  “Mmmm, I think I’ll wait.”

  “Well, suit yourself, but after the first sixteen ounces or so, I’m telling you, it’s not so bad.” His dark gaze rebounded to Mac. “So where’s the leaf?”

  “Actually, we brought you a picture.” Mac dug into his folder and pulled out the piece of paper.

  “That’s all you got? A picture?”

  “It’s a scanned image. Actual size. Front and back.” Ray kept staring at him and finally Mac shrugged ruefully. “Sorry, man. It’s all we got.”

  “A real leaf would be better, you know. I mean, much better. What’s this for again?”

  “It’s a piece of evidence in a case.”

  “Like from a crime scene?” Ray’s face brightened. “If I ID this, can it be used to catch the bad guy or locate a corpse? Like they do on CSI?”

  “Absolutely,” Mac assured him.

  “Groovy.” Ray accepted the paper with more enthusiasm. “A picture is definitely tougher, but I like a challenge. Let’s see what you got.”

  He took out a magnifying glass and studied the image for a second. “Well, let’s start with the basics. It’s an angiosperm—to you, a broadleaf tree. Given the oval shape with pointed tip and coarse-tooth margins, it’s most likely from the Betula family—some kind of birch.” He looked up. “Where did you find this again?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment further on that subject.”

  Ray resumed staring at the picture. He frowned. “This is really all you’ve got? No bark, no flowers, no twig?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, then you also like a challeng
e.” Ray’s desk chair shot back. He jerked to a stop in front of the bookshelf across the way and rapidly skimmed titles. His fingers settled on a big volume labeled Gray’s Manual of Botany. “In the good news/bad news department, birch is one of the larger tree families, with a number of species commonly found here in Virginia. If you’re into history, the old Appalachian mountaineers used to make birch beer from the sap of black birch trees, which tastes a bit like wintergreen. They came close to harvesting all of the black birches in the mountains to make the stuff, then synthetic wintergreen oil was developed, and the mountaineers moved on to making moonshine. All’s well that ends well, you know.”

  He shot back to his desk, propelling his chair as easily as a small automobile, while his fingers rapidly flipped through the thick index guide. Peering over his shoulder, Kimberly saw page after page of tree leaves, all richly photographed and documented with lists of words that appeared to be in Latin. Definitely not a light summer read.

  “Okay, for starters we have Betula lenta, otherwise known as black birch, sweet birch, or cherry birch. Its leaves are approximately three to four inches long. Your picture is closer to two and a half inches long, but maybe our leaf isn’t mature yet, so that’s a possibility.”

  “Where are black birches found?” Mac asked.

  “Oh, a little bit of everywhere. You can find them in the mountains of the western half of the state, or around parts of Chesapeake Bay close to streams. Does that work?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Mac said. Now, he was also frowning. “Other options?”

  “The Betula lutea, or yellow birch, which is found generally higher up in the mountains than the black birch. It’s a significantly larger tree, however, growing up to eighty feet with five-inch leaves, so I’m going to guess that it’s too big to be our suspect here. Let’s see . . .” Ray rapidly flipped through the book.

  “Okay, consider Betula papyrifera, or paper birch. Leaves also grow three inches in length, which is closer in size. It’s also found in the mountains, generally in clear-cut or burned-out areas. Then there’s Betula nigra, or river birch, which is found in low elevations along waterways or around streams, ponds, lakes, etc. It’s also a smaller birch with leaves two to three inches long. So that’s a possibility.” He looked up at them sharply. “You don’t have any catkins?”

  “Cat what?”

  “The flowers that are generally found with the leaves. In birches, they resemble long, conelike structures, dangling down from amid the leaves. Flower size varies dramatically, which would help narrow the scope. Better yet, would be a twig with bark. As you can guess from the names, black versus yellow versus paper, one of the key distinguishing features of birch is the color of the tree’s bark.”

  “I only have a leaf,” Mac said, then muttered under his breath, “because our guy also likes a challenge.” He turned toward Kimberly, the tension building in his shoulders.

  “He wouldn’t use something common,” she said quietly. “No compass, remember? So this time, the clues must narrow down a region. Or it’s really not that much of a game.”

  “Good point.” Mac turned back toward the geographer. “You said birches are commonly found in Virginia. Are there any that aren’t common? Maybe a type that is rare or endangered?”

  Ray’s dark eyes brightened. He stroked his chin. “Not a bad question . . . Nope, this isn’t going to help.” He flipped the book shut, seemed to think for a second, then turned abruptly to his computer and swiftly hit a bunch of keys. “See, what you guys really need is a dendrologist. I’m just a lowly geographer who’s spent some time dabbling with botany. A dendrologist, on the other hand . . .”

  “Has a bigger name?” Kimberly asked.

  “No, is a botanical expert on trees. See, I’m a generalist. Come on, ask me about a flower. I’m really good with flowers. Or ferns, for that matter. A dendrologist, on the other hand, could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about trees.”

  “My God, there is an ologist for everything,” Kimberly muttered.

  “You have no idea,” Mac said.

  “See, you guys have come to the Richmond field office. Here, we’re mostly geographers and hydrologists. Most of us have other backgrounds as well—botany, biology, geology, etc., and we’re happy to help you out, but maybe we’re not as specific as you need. Now, up in Reston at our national headquarters, we got botanists, palynologists, geologists, karst geologists, you name it. That’s where the big dawgs live.”

  “Where is Reston?” Mac asked.

  “Two hours north of here.”

  “I don’t have two hours.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ray’s fingers danced over his keyboard. “Then for the time-conscious researcher, we have the greatest marvel of the twentieth century. Ta dah! The Internet, where for every ology, there is almost always a website. Let’s face it. Geeks love technology.” He hit return, and sure enough, a website of the U.S. Department of Agriculture labeled Dendrology of Virginia appeared on the screen.

  “As I live and breathe,” Kimberly said.

  “And how,” Mac seconded.

  “And we have a final suspect for your consideration,” Ray announced. “Lady and gentleman, may I introduce Betula populifolia, otherwise known as gray birch. This smaller member of the birch family grows only thirty feet high, with leaves of approximately three inches in length. The bark may appear brown in color, but is in fact gray-white. It is also smooth, and not peeling, unlike the yellow birch and paper birch members of the family which, frankly, always look like they’re sporting a bad case of bed head. The wood is light and soft, used mostly for pulpwood spools and fuel. Better yet, it is located in only one area of the state. Huh, well, here’s the kicker. It doesn’t say where that is.”

  Ray stopped, scrunching up his nose and wiggling it from side to side as he continued to study the screen. Mac hunkered down behind the geographer, his face taking on the intent expression Kimberly was coming to know so well.

  “Are you saying this birch could be the one in our picture?”

  “Could be.”

  “And it’s found in only one spot in the entire state of Virginia?”

  “That’s what the dendrologists say.”

  “I need to know that spot.” Mac paused a heartbeat. “Now.”

  “Mmm hmmm, mmm hmmm, mmm hmmm. Well, here’s a thought.” Ray tapped the computer screen with his pencil. “Look at the other ranges of distribution. The gray birch is common in New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. All states north of us. Which means, this tree probably prefers cooler temperatures. So if it’s growing somewhere in Virginia . . .”

  “The mountains,” Kimberly filled in.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Now the question is, which range? Are we talking the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Shenandoah Mountains, the Appalachians? Hang on, I have an idea.” His chair shot across the room again. He found a directory on top of his bookcase, flipped through several pages, grabbed a phone and made a call. “Kathy Levine, please. She’s out? When do you expect her back? I’ll leave a message.” And in another moment, “Kath, hey, it’s Ray Lee Chee from USGS. Got a question about gray birch. Where is it in the state? It’s actually important, very Sherlock Holmes. When you get in, give me a buzz. We’ll be waiting. Bye.”

  He hung up the phone, then met their expectant gazes. “Kathy’s the botanist with Shenandoah National Park. She’s more familiar with the trees in that area and if anyone knows about the gray birch, it’s her. Unfortunately, she’s out in the field right now.”

  “For how long?” Mac demanded to know.

  “Four days.”

  “We don’t have four days!”

  Ray held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Kind of got that. Give her until around noon. Come lunch, she’ll check messages, give me a call, and then I can give you a call. Noon’s only four hours away.”

  “Four hours can be a long time,” Mac said grimly.

  “What can I say? It’s not easy when you only have a picture of
a leaf.”

  “I have a question,” Kimberly spoke up. “From all of your various studies . . . Is there any connection between Virginia and Hawaii?”

  “Virginia and Hawaii?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. Hell if I know. From a plant perspective, I can’t think of a thing. Hawaii’s kind of tropical, you know. And Virginia isn’t. Well, except for this week, of course. We’re always prepared to make an exception.”

  “No other way they might be related?” Kimberly prodded.

  Ray did the nose wiggle again. “You might ask a geologist. We have mountains, they have mountains. We have Chesapeake Bay with its multitude of barrier islands, which might be similar to their barrier islands. But from a flora and fauna perspective, I don’t see a relationship.”

  “And where in this building might we find a geologist?”

  “We don’t have geologists, you’d have to go to Reston. Wait!” He read her expression and immediately held up a hand. “I know, I know, you don’t have time for Reston. Okay . . . Jennifer York. She’s one of our core samplers, and I believe she has a background in geology.”

  “Where’s her office?”

  “Other side of the building, third office on the left.”

  “Okay.” She turned toward Mac, who was looking at her with a puzzled expression. “You heard the man,” she said crisply, “let’s go find a geologist.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Richmond, Virginia

  8:31 A.M.

  Temperature: 87 degrees

  “WHY ARE WE ASKING ABOUT HAWAII?” Mac asked thirty seconds later when they were back in the halls of the USGS building.

  “Because the ME’s assistant said the victim had a travel brochure for Hawaii in her purse.”

  He grabbed her arm and they both came to a sudden halt. Mac looked cool. She was already breathing hard and gazing with lethal intent at his fingers on her wrist.

  “I don’t recall you mentionin’ that yesterday,” he said ominously.