The door slams. Ames gives her a sympathetic glance over the cruiser before he slides behind the wheel. The two cruisers weave out of the neighborhood while Mr. Gibbons watches from his front lawn. Gibbons meets Darcy’s eye and turns away, locking his door behind him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“How could you let them arrest Hunter?” Jennifer grabs Darcy by the arms. Her nails leave sickle moon shapes below Darcy’s shoulders. “You just stood there and let them take him away. Do something!”
Bronson lays a consoling hand on the girl’s shoulder. She shrugs him off and falls wailing into Darcy, Jennifer’s words drowned by sobs, though Darcy hears Amy’s name.
She imagines Amy, the beautiful girl a daughter to Darcy, butchered on the cove, Hunter locked in a cell and charged with the murder.
“Who’s the best criminal defense lawyer in Genoa Cove?” Darcy asks over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Better yet, give me someone from Smith Town, someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”
Bronson rubs his chin.
“Breck Appleton is good. I’ll get you the number.”
When Darcy, Bronson, and Jennifer arrive at the police station, a female news reporter with an audio recorder in her hand darts between the cars.
“Shit,” Bronson mutters. “The Standard already heard.”
Darcy recognizes Gail Shipley from her photograph on the newspaper’s website. The middle-aged woman wears her blonde hair teased in a bob. Though she’s a writer, her makeup job is to television standards. Her heels click against the pavement as she rushes toward them.
“When did you find out your son murdered Amy Yang?”
Bronson throws his bulk between two SUVs to block Shipley as Darcy locks elbows with her daughter and rushes into the police station. The woman’s hysterical questions chase them through the entry doors.
Inside, a drunk woman curses while a small, female officer leads her down a hallway adjacent to the front desk. A buzzer sounds, and the door at the end of the hallway unlocks and opens. The male officer manning the desk looks like he chose the wrong career after high school and spent the last twenty years regretting it. His shirt wrinkled, face long and dragging, he grimaces at Darcy and Jennifer before he spots Bronson. His mouth hangs open for a second before he clicks a stack of papers on the desk and files them in a folder.
Another officer, a graying man with a mustache, eyes Bronson from the hallway.
“Hey, give me a second,” Bronson tells Darcy.
Bronson confers with the officer while Darcy sits on an uncomfortable wooden bench with Jennifer slumped against her shoulder. Bronson leaves for fifteen minutes, and when he returns, he gestures Darcy toward the far corner of the room. Jennifer gets up, but Darcy raises a hand and tells her to stay put.
“What do they have on Hunter?”
Bronson glances around Darcy toward the officer at the front desk, who watches them from the corner of his eye.
“As long as Hunter keeps his mouth shut until the lawyer gets here, they’ll let him go.”
Darcy falls back against the wall and touches her forehead.
“Finally, some sanity.”
“The evidence is circumstantial. None of it would hold up in court. But I should warn you, the police have damning information on Hunter.”
“Such as?”
“The police found Nike shoe prints along the beach that match the pattern Hunter wears. Ames can demonstrate the size is the same, but there’s no way to prove he’s the only person in town who wears that style and size.”
“Okay, what else?”
“The police say Hunter met Amy before she moved in with you.”
Darcy hears Rivers’ voice again. Hunter found Amy online and stalked her, and when terrorizing Amy didn’t satisfy Hunter, he murdered her.
“No, they never met. I never took the kids to see Amy after she called.”
“Not even online? A message board, perhaps.”
“It’s possible. How can they prove Hunter knew Amy?”
“A phone call. Ames got hold of Hunter’s phone. Hunter allowed him to examine the phone, figuring he had nothing to hide. The call log shows Hunter phoned Amy at 4:05 PM on the twenty-first of October. This was prior to Amy moving in, correct?”
Darcy’s mouth goes dry. What is she missing?
“Yes, but I don’t see how Hunter could have known Amy. They lived in separate towns. Wait…I called Amy, not Hunter. My phone wasn’t working, so Hunter gave me his to borrow.”
“You’ll want to tell the lawyer as soon as he arrives. Did you take your phone to a repair shop?”
“Yes. I have the receipt and work order.”
“Good. But, Darcy…Are you aware of a band called Angel Devoured?”
Darcy scrunches her brow.
“Should I be?”
“Hunter is a fan. Ames talked to Coach Morgan at the high school, and Morgan says Hunter wears an Angel Devoured t-shirt, so often he needed to speak to Hunter.”
“The shirt and tie fiasco. I remember. But listening to hard rock doesn’t make you a violent person. They’re grasping at straws.”
A female officer walks past with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Bronson waits until she moves on.
“Ames found a picture on the back of the band’s last album. It appears to be the same image the Full Moon Killer uses to brand his victims. The same mark they found on Amy Yang.”
Darcy turns toward the wall and cups her mouth with her hand.
“It’s still not enough to pin Amy’s murder on Hunter. They can’t think he’s worked with Rivers since the incarceration. Hunter was only fifteen.”
“Your lawyer will have a field day with Ames, but the evidence might be sufficient for them to hold Hunter until morning.”
“No. I won’t allow them to lock Hunter in a cell all night. I want to see Ames.”
“That’s not a good idea. Wait until Appleton arrives.”
It’s too late for Bronson to change Darcy’s mind. Detective Ames appears in the hallway where he confers with a police officer holding a manila folder. When Ames turns around, Darcy stands in front of him.
“I want to see my son.”
“You will.”
“You’d better not be interviewing Hunter without a lawyer present.”
“When his attorney arrives, you’ll be the first to hear.”
“You’re making a big mistake, Detective. You can’t believe Hunter committed these crimes.”
“I gather evidence, Ms. Gellar. The court will decide if Hunter is guilty.” Suspicion narrows Ames’ eyes when he glances at Bronson. “But you wouldn’t know anything about the evidence. Right, Ms. Gellar?”
“If you hold Hunter overnight, I’ll sue the village.”
“Why don’t you come back to my office?”
“Is that a nice way of placing me under arrest?”
“Consider it a courtesy.”
Darcy looks at Bronson, who raises one shoulder as if to say, it’s up to you.
“Fine, then. Let’s talk.”
Bronson sits with Jennifer, the teenager groggy and subdued. The glares of the other police officers are accusatory, palpably aggressive. For some insane reason, they’re all convinced Hunter murdered Amy.
Ames’ office is small and cluttered. A beige coat that has seen better days hangs from a rack. Two photographs on the desk lend the only splashes of color inside the gray and brown rectangle—a picture of the ocean at sunrise, and the rolling green hillocks of a golf course. Darcy notes Ames doesn’t have pictures of a spouse or family, no birthday cards or children’s drawings thumb-tacked to the wall.
Ames slides a stack of folders and papers aside so he can see her across his desk. He slips a pair of reading glasses on and examines a note. He scowls and tosses the note into the trash, setting the glasses on the desk.