"The vehicle is registered to Evelyn Ellington,” Erickson said.
One of the forensic guys found her purse in the passenger seat and dug out her ID from her wallet. He displayed it to us. “I’d say that's Evelyn Ellington, alright."
By this time, Paris Delaney and her news crew were on the scene.
Evelyn wore an expensive watch, had a sparkly necklace dangling around her collarbones, and a fat wad of cash in her purse.
This wasn't a robbery.
"Let's figure out what this woman has in common with the dead bunny," the sheriff said.
"She might not have anything in common with the dead bunny," I said. “It could be a case of mistaken identity. I think the shooter was after the previous employee.”
My phone buzzed with clips of the security footage. I scrolled through and found an angle of the man suffering from satanic panic. I took a screenshot, then I snapped a photo of Evelyn and texted the images to Isabella to see what she could find out.
When I stepped away from the scene, Paris Delaney approached. The camera closed in, and a fluffy boom microphone hovered overhead. I made a call for witnesses to contact the department, but I didn't expect to hear from anyone.
“Did you find anything in the plant box?” I asked Jack.
He frowned and shook his head.
When we finished at the mall, we returned to the station to fill out reports. Then we set out to find Cody's parents and break the bad news.
10
Cody’s mother lived in a quaint little cottage home on Sea Drift Lane with teal siding, white trim, and a picket fence.
Jack parked at the curb, and we hopped out and pushed through the gate. We strolled the walkway past the perfectly manicured lawn and stepped onto the veranda. I rang the video doorbell.
A figure approached a moment later and asked, “Who is it?"
"Coconut County, ma’am,” I said.
A woman in her mid-40s with short, curly brown hair pulled open the door. She looked at us with weepy eyes. By that time, she'd already heard the bad news.
"I'm afraid we have—" I said.
"I know. I just spoke with my brother." She paused, sniffled, then blotted her eyes with a crumpled tissue. She stepped aside and held the door open. "Please come in.”
We walked inside, and she escorted us through the foyer to the living room and offered us a seat on the sofa.
"Can I get you anything to drink?”
"No, thank you."
She sat down and grabbed another tissue from a box on the white wicker coffee table.
French doors opened to the patio, and Florida sunshine spilled in.
"What exactly happened? I just don't understand."
I recapped the situation.
The tears flowed, and she sobbed. Mrs. Griggs eventually pulled herself together long enough for us to continue.
"I know this is a terrible time, but I need to ask a few questions.”
She nodded.
