“We’d like your help,” Kozak said, showing him a picture on her tablet. “Is this you?”
It was a tightly cropped shot of Clayton in the bar.
Clayton nodded.
“And this is Greg?” She showed him a frame of just Greg Griffin.
“Right,” Clayton said.
She showed him another cropped photo of just Clayton and Griffin with the big TV screens with games in the background.
“Do you know when and where this is?” Kozak asked.
Clayton scratched his beard.
“In the Mulberry Bar in Depew.”
“When?”
Clayton hesitated, looked at the detectives.
“The night Jenn disappeared. Why?”
“And who’s this?” She showed him a photo, tightly cropped, of the mystery woman in the bar.
Clayton looked at it.
“Brooke Bollman.”
“And who is she?”
Clayton hesitated, then cast a glance to the extreme end of the job site, where a mixing truck was signaling to turn.
“She runs a food truck company, has about half a dozen trucks. Why?”
Kozak then showed the full sequence of photos, showing Bollman, Clayton, and Greg, ending with Bollman’s hand under the table on Greg. Clayton leaned in, understanding what was happening in the images.
“How would you characterize the relationship between Greg Griffin and Brooke Bollman, the woman you identified in these photos?”
Clayton looked at Kozak and Carillo, then glanced toward the approaching mixing truck.
“This is the first time I’ve seen these pictures. How do I know they’re even real?”
“They’re authentic. Our forensic people confirmed it,” Kozak said.
“You’re making me a little nervous. Maybe I need a lawyer or something.”
“All you need to do is tell us the truth,” Carillo said. “If you are concealing evidence, or mislead us, it could be construed as obstruction, and that includes keeping our conversation confidential.”
Clayton’s face whitened.
“Look, as far as Brooke and Greg and those pictures go, I don’t know a damned thing and that’s the truth. Brooke hangs out with the crew sometimes after work.”
The rattle and growl of diesel grew louder as the mixing truck lumbered nearer. Clayton waved it closer to the lots.
“What’s the name of Bollman’s company?” Kozak asked.
“Excelsior,” Clayton said. “I have to go.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Carillo said.
The investigators stepped clear as Clayton talked with the truck driver, then the crew in the foundation. They got busy with the operation, reversing the truck, its back-up beeper bleating, inching it carefully into place as the mixing drum turned, then positioning the chute.
While watching, Kozak went online and found a site for Excelsior Rapid Food Truck Service. Bollman’s picture was on the About Us page. As Clayton and his crew worked, the discharge began with the scraping rush of concrete into the foundation of #975.
Stepping away and turning from the roar, Kozak called the cell number for Brooke Bollman.
Thirty-Five
East Aurora, New York
Polly and Vic’s Café was at the edge of town near the expressway.
The sign in the window said: Today’s Special: Polish Potato Pancakes $4.99.
The place had eight booths, a wraparound counter with twelve stools, and an ever-present aroma of deep-fried food, onions, and garlic.
“Hey, Vic.” Carillo waved to the man in the kitchen with a white T-shirt and apron, who waved back.
Brooke Bollman had agreed to meet Kozak and Carillo at the café. The investigators got there early, took a booth, and had ordered coffee when Kozak’s phone rang with a call from Lieutenant Phil Becker.
“Sent you a summary update on material FIU extracted from their phones and computers so far,” Becker said.
“Anything there?” Kozak opened her tablet, then the new attachment.
“Not much from Jennifer,” Becker said. “But look at those highlighted texts Greg received. Especially the one sent to him about an hour before she was last seen at the Korner Fast.”
“I see it.” Kozak raised an eyebrow. “And I see who sent it.”
“More forensic results are coming, but I wanted to get this to you. Could be something there, Claire.”
“Could be. This is good timing, Phil. And what about security cameras at the Mulberry Bar?”
“Poor quality, nothing on the angles we need. We don’t know who sent us those photos. Gotta go.”
Polly brought the coffee and started pouring.
“You make the best coffee in the state.” Carillo winked at her.
She waved off his compliment. “Oh go on, Ned.”
As they started on their coffee, Kozak turned her tablet to Carillo and they reviewed the new information.
“Interesting,” he said.
For some twenty minutes, in lowered voices, they discussed the investigation when Kozak glanced out the window. A white van parked, and she recognized Brooke Bollman as she got out and walked into the diner. She stood in the doorway wearing a formfitting Bills T-shirt and jeans, sunglasses perched on her head. One hand held the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
Kozak caught her attention, and she joined them.
Bollman was tall, shapely, had long black hair and a bright smile. After quick introductions, Carillo requested her driver’s license, confirming her identification and photographing it before giving it back to her.
Bollman asked the first question.
“Have you found Jennifer? Oh my God, everyone’s so scared for her.”
“No,” Kozak said. “Tell us, how do you know her?”
“I don’t know her. I’ve seen her briefly, casually, a couple times, you know, at job sites. That’s how I know Greg. Why did you want to talk to me?” She looked up at Polly. “Just diet Pepsi for me.”
“We only have Coke.”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
Kozak resumed. “And how well would you say you know Greg?”
“Casually, from meeting him on construction sites for a few years. I guess we have a professional friendship.”