had an idea, and immediately looked for Detective Holker. She couldn’t see him, so began walking around the side of the house, towards the front drive where they’d left their car. Cops milled around, some working search grids in hope of finding evidence, but there was little hope. Bryony felt they were all wasting their time here, when the gang was already long gone.
‘Interesting,’ she told Hunter as she walked.
‘There was something weird about the incident,’ Hunter went on.
‘I hear you, Joe. It just doesn’t add up.’ She still couldn’t see Holker. ‘Give me what you have and I’ll issue a BOLO.’
Hunter described Clayton’s attacker, the same height and build as he had the person he’d seen scaling the wall. ‘He was wearing a dark coverall and wool hat with a peak. Couldn’t see his hair this time, but I got more of a look at his face. Definitely a white guy in his late thirties or early forties. Nothing distinctive about him though, except Clayton tells me he noticed a tattoo on the guy’s right hand. Spider web on the flesh between his thumb and index finger.’
‘Clayton didn’t recognise him, then?’
‘Claims not to, but I don’t buy it.’
‘And he didn’t say why the guy assaulted him?’
‘Another lie,’ Hunter said. ‘Supposedly the guy presented himself as a delivery driver, then when Clayton went out to meet him at the gate the guy accused him of murder, then punched him in the jaw.’
‘You witnessed the assault?’
‘I did, from a distance and through pouring rain, but to be honest I’d say my mother hits harder than that guy does. He dropped Clayton on his arse in the mud, but caught on the right spot it doesn’t take much doing, I suppose.’
Bryony rubbed a hand over her face. She had to ask the inevitable question. ‘Did this guy give any hint he’s the one that murdered Ella?’
‘Couldn’t say,’ said Hunter, ‘and now Clayton isn’t speaking to me. Maybe if you come over he’ll speak to you…’
‘Can’t, Joe. Like I said it’s kind of hectic right now. We’ve had another home invasion.’ She scanned the nearby faces for Holker, and though she recognised a few of her fellow officers, her partner wasn’t among them. ‘Before you ask, they got away. But at least this time nobody was hurt.’
‘That’s one good thing at least,’ Hunter agreed, though his tone implied differently. ‘Something I have to throw by you about that,’ he went on.
‘Not now, Joe. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.’
‘I hear you. That BOLO you mentioned putting out? The guy was driving a dark blue Toyota, a Corolla maybe, with Florida plates. It was a little beaten up and had bumper stickers: one of them said WPB, another said “Southern Fried Florida Native”, and was set against a confederate flag.’
‘WPB,’ Bryony ruminated. ‘West Palm Beach, you reckon? So the guy’s an out-of-towner?’
‘Or his car is,’ Hunter said. ‘Doesn’t prove who he is, but it’s something that might help identify the car.’
Bryony heard her name called. She turned and saw Holker walking out the front door of the house, accompanied by another man, this one tall, and square shouldered, with a mop of dark curls crowning his long face. She recognised Kyle Mercer, a District 3 detective who’d also been seconded to the task force. It appeared from Holker’s grateful handshake that Mercer had accepted the lead investigator role on this aborted home invasion. As Holker clipped down the steps towards Bryony, Mercer offered her a “ WTF?” expression. She’d seen similar on the faces of many of her colleagues since arriving late to Sunset Park: raised eyebrows and a tight-lipped grimace.
‘Joe, I gotta go,’ she said into the phone. Without waiting for his answer she ended the call. Holker was almost upon her.
‘We’re wasting time here,’ he said, echoing her feelings. ‘Let’s go.’
Their car was at the end of the drive; thankfully it wasn’t
‘Interesting,’ she told Hunter as she walked.
‘There was something weird about the incident,’ Hunter went on.
‘I hear you, Joe. It just doesn’t add up.’ She still couldn’t see Holker. ‘Give me what you have and I’ll issue a BOLO.’
Hunter described Clayton’s attacker, the same height and build as he had the person he’d seen scaling the wall. ‘He was wearing a dark coverall and wool hat with a peak. Couldn’t see his hair this time, but I got more of a look at his face. Definitely a white guy in his late thirties or early forties. Nothing distinctive about him though, except Clayton tells me he noticed a tattoo on the guy’s right hand. Spider web on the flesh between his thumb and index finger.’
‘Clayton didn’t recognise him, then?’
‘Claims not to, but I don’t buy it.’
‘And he didn’t say why the guy assaulted him?’
‘Another lie,’ Hunter said. ‘Supposedly the guy presented himself as a delivery driver, then when Clayton went out to meet him at the gate the guy accused him of murder, then punched him in the jaw.’
‘You witnessed the assault?’
‘I did, from a distance and through pouring rain, but to be honest I’d say my mother hits harder than that guy does. He dropped Clayton on his arse in the mud, but caught on the right spot it doesn’t take much doing, I suppose.’
Bryony rubbed a hand over her face. She had to ask the inevitable question. ‘Did this guy give any hint he’s the one that murdered Ella?’
‘Couldn’t say,’ said Hunter, ‘and now Clayton isn’t speaking to me. Maybe if you come over he’ll speak to you…’
‘Can’t, Joe. Like I said it’s kind of hectic right now. We’ve had another home invasion.’ She scanned the nearby faces for Holker, and though she recognised a few of her fellow officers, her partner wasn’t among them. ‘Before you ask, they got away. But at least this time nobody was hurt.’
‘That’s one good thing at least,’ Hunter agreed, though his tone implied differently. ‘Something I have to throw by you about that,’ he went on.
‘Not now, Joe. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.’
‘I hear you. That BOLO you mentioned putting out? The guy was driving a dark blue Toyota, a Corolla maybe, with Florida plates. It was a little beaten up and had bumper stickers: one of them said WPB, another said “Southern Fried Florida Native”, and was set against a confederate flag.’
‘WPB,’ Bryony ruminated. ‘West Palm Beach, you reckon? So the guy’s an out-of-towner?’
‘Or his car is,’ Hunter said. ‘Doesn’t prove who he is, but it’s something that might help identify the car.’
Bryony heard her name called. She turned and saw Holker walking out the front door of the house, accompanied by another man, this one tall, and square shouldered, with a mop of dark curls crowning his long face. She recognised Kyle Mercer, a District 3 detective who’d also been seconded to the task force. It appeared from Holker’s grateful handshake that Mercer had accepted the lead investigator role on this aborted home invasion. As Holker clipped down the steps towards Bryony, Mercer offered her a “ WTF?” expression. She’d seen similar on the faces of many of her colleagues since arriving late to Sunset Park: raised eyebrows and a tight-lipped grimace.
‘Joe, I gotta go,’ she said into the phone. Without waiting for his answer she ended the call. Holker was almost upon her.
‘We’re wasting time here,’ he said, echoing her feelings. ‘Let’s go.’
Their car was at the end of the drive; thankfully it wasn’t
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