McBride smacks the fuck out of my back again.“Good job, rook. Unlike the others, I never doubted you.”
Leveling him with a warning glare, I cough and sputter from his physical assault.
What thehellare they feeding the boys over in bum fuck Texas? Damn sure more than corn to get jacked like that. I don’t consider myself a weak man, but he could put me on the ground with little effort. While I typically rely on speed and agility when I need to get physical, this fucker is brute strength.
After rolling out my shoulders, I take two steps to the right. I’m done being in the cowboy’sback patrange. “With that out of the way, what did I miss this morning?”
Finally done obsessing over the dye-marking rings, Grant sets the bag on the table. “The recently deceased Troy Hartley wasn’t some innocent victim. Based on the ME’s measurement, he matches our height and weight estimates of the male assailant who carried out the home invasions.”
Proving a dead man guilty of those crimes isn’t satisfying enough for me. I really wanted it to be Silas or Riddick, so I could pile on the charges and ensure they never see the light of day again.
I brush off the twinge of disappointment. “Height and weight isn’t enough evidence. Is that everything?”
“Not at all.” Hemsley flashes his eyes like he’s about to drop the hammer. “Ballistics on the gun we found under his bed match the warning shots they fired into the walls at every single scene.”
“Nowwe’re getting somewhere. However, I’m still not certain that’s enough to rule out Riddick for those jobs. What if he planted the gun there when he was there to murder Hartley?”
“We ain’t done yet.” McBride takes over. “Romero got Hartley’s time sheet from the auto body shop. He was either out sick or on personal leave for each of the out-of-state home invasions.”
“Not the local ones?” I ask.
Hemsley shakes his head ardently, jumping back in. “No. But they happened at night when the body shop was closed. With only a few hours’ drive time, he didn’t need to miss work for them.”
I point out a discrepancy in his justification. “What about the Janet Ross home invasion here in Tampa? It happened in the morning. Was Hartley working when that house was hit?”
Grant’s eyes flash with excitement. “Nope. He didn’t clock in until after lunch that day.” He flicks my upper chest with the back of his hand. “And as if that wasn’t enough to blow your socks off, we’ve also got evidence that puts himneareach scene.”
He pauses with his brows arched high as if seeking an appreciative reaction.
Unwilling to stroke his ego, I nonchalantly prod him to continue. “Oh, do go on.”
Grant rolls his eyes at me, then takes a sip of coffee.
Clearly impatient with the delay, McBride urges him on. “Tell him ‘bout the calls,G Man.”
Apparently, this country fucker gives everyone a nickname.
Grant doesn’t flinch at his dumb new moniker. “Based on phone records, Hartley always kept his location tracking turned off. Likewise, the vehicle registered to Riddick doesn’t have GPS enabled.”
“I hope this story gets to the point soon,” Bianca mumbles.
Hemsley’s nostrils flare, and his upper lip curls into a snarl. “However, immediately after each job, Hartley made a phone call. Did it after every single job, never missing one. Same number each time.”
“Andthat’show you got his location?” I ask, trying to vault to the point.
Grant nods, his excitement dwindling. “His post-crime victory calls pinged off a tower in close proximity to the victim’s residence. Time and locations matched to every single case.”
I click my tongue, scolding the idiot even though he’s dead. “The random stupidity of otherwise savvy criminals never fails to surprise me. Hartley was smart enough to ensure no location tracking. Yet he made a call before leaving each scene. What a fucking genius.”
“Yeahhh, buddy,” Luke drawls in what I’m beginning to think is his fucking catchphrase.
Carson adds another wrinkle for us. “Unfortunately, we don’t know who Hartley called since it was another burner. It pinged off a different tower in Florida for each incoming call. Tracking that location retrospectively is infinitely harder.” She raises her brow at me. “Incidentally, it’s a different burner than the one Silas uses to communicate with Lila. It might not be him.”
As per tradition, Hemsley has a counterpoint. “It could still be Silas. Criminals often use multiple burner phones to conceal their activities.”
“Oh, you don’t say?” Carson jests, her expression drenched in ten tons of sarcasm. “Wow. I bet you feel so tall after pointing that out.”
Grant rolls his shoulders back and turns toward her. “You don’t?—”
