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“Yes, that’s what I told the other officer. She and her husband got a divorce and he moved away.”
“Boyfriends?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t really pay much attention. It was only by chance that I happened to step out of the house when I did. I was on my way to the driving range. I retired a couple of years ago. I worked for the city, maintaining and servicing traffic lights. If a traffic light went out, I was the guy they called.”
“What do you know about Ms. DiCarlo?”
“We talked occasionally. She works at a fitness center. I think she used to be a personal trainer but now she’s—she was in the office, I believe. And she was involved in various things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Theater, for one. Community theater. She told me the other day they had a play coming up. She had a juicy part in it. She loved that.”
“What’s the name of this theater group?”
“The Stamford Players, I think. Sometimes, my wife and I, we’d go to their shows, to be supportive, you know. Saw her a couple of days ago, she said we should get tickets because they were in rehearsals for a new show.”
Hardy had taken out a small notebook and pen to scribble a few notes. Then, suddenly, as if a light bulb had come on over her head, she stopped writing and froze briefly.
She turned, slowly, and looked at the car sitting in the driveway of Candace DiCarlo’s home.
A black Volvo wagon.
“Mr. Hunt,” she said, “is that Ms. DiCarlo’s car? I’m assuming it is, but we haven’t actually checked.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “She’s had that for a few years.”
“Stay here,” she said.
Hardy walked over to the car, slowly circling it, careful not to touch it. She peered through the windows, looking inside, then stood in front of the car, examining the hood. She dug into her pocket for her phone, opened up the photos, and found the one she’d saved of the Volvo in the driveway from Saturday morning.
The car in the picture appeared to have a dimple in the hood, about halfway between bumper and windshield, on the passenger side.
Just like this car.
Then she examined the license plates, front and back. She noticed traces of what looked like mud on the edges, as though they’d been dirty, but someone had cleaned them off recently, at least well enough to avoid getting a ticket.
She went back over to continue her questioning of Gifford Hunt.
“Can you describe this person you saw leaving Ms. DiCarlo’s house?”
“Slight, and young. Just a teenager. Longish hair. And he had blood on his hands. I could see that. But he was riding his bike pretty fast.”
“A motorcycle?”
“No, a regular bicycle. But like I said, he was going pretty fast, so I didn’t get a long look at him. But I got a shot of him riding away.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Hunt took his phone from his pocket. “I’m not really much of a techie, and it’s not like me to think fast enough to do something like this, but I guess today I was a little more on the ball than usual.”
He opened the photo app and brought up the snippet of video. “It’s not very good,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t think to try and zoom in or anything.”
“May I?” Hardy asked, holding out her hand.
Hunt gave her his phone.
She tapped the triangular play button and watched the few seconds of the cyclist racing off down the street. She replayed it several times. Then, the final time, she paused the video and used her fingers to enlarge the image.
