by Beverly Long
“No. I’m confident of that.”
“Okay. One last question, do you know Elaine Broadstreet?”
“That’s Emma’s grandma, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“I don’t know her but I’d recognize her. She’s always very friendly.”
“Do you recall seeing her on Wednesday morning?”
“I never saw her or Emma.”
Rena thanked the woman and hung up the phone. She tried to hang on to what A.L. had said, that they perhaps couldn’t see incremental gain but with every conversation they had to be getting closer. But it was hard. It seemed as if Emma Whitman was truly just gone.
She drew in a breath and looked up the next number.
* * *
A.L. called Rena from his vehicle. “How’s it going?”
“I’ve managed to get ahold of four of the five parents who dropped kids off around the same time as Emma,” she said. “I didn’t get anything from anybody.”
“There’s always one more.”
“Actually two. There is one parent who didn’t indicate a drop-off time who we should probably contact.”
“Okay. I can work on those. But for now, I want to swing by and pick you up. We need to visit Garage on Division.”
“I was hoping I could go home smelling like oil tonight. People really don’t realize how glamorous police work is,” Rena said.
“And they don’t give a shit,” A.L. said. “See you in fifteen.”
Rena was standing outside holding two cups of coffee when A.L. pulled up. She got in and handed A.L. one.
“Thank you,” he said.
“How were the Whitmans? Leah videotaping or sabotaging anybody new?”
“She thought she heard Emma crying in her room last night.”
“Christ. Sorry, it was a bad joke. I hate this.”
“I know. I’m not sure Troy is in much better shape. He’s literally shaking. But I think he has more support than Leah seems to. At least his friend was over at the house.”
“Who’s that?”
“Steven Hanzel. He started the fund-raising site. I guess it’s going well.”
“One good thing about the internet and social media. Somebody in Utah who has never met you can push a button and money comes from their account into yours. Magic.”
“Makes the old days when we circulated printed flyers when somebody was missing seem pretty archaic,” A.L. said.
“Not so archaic. I saw volunteers out this morning, tacking up posters of Emma onto telephone poles.”
“Do everything you can and then one more thing,” A.L. said. “Speaking of which, I didn’t get a chance to call Dusty Frogg yet.”
“She’s probably not our highest priority.”
“I did, however, speak to Roger Martin. He’s a neighbor who appears to encourage his dog to shit in the Whitmans’ yard.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. He thinks Troy tried to gouge his wife, Lois, on some repair work.”
“You think he has anything to do with Emma’s disappearance?” Rena asked.
“Nope. But he made sure I knew that Troy Whitman leaves his house late at night sometimes.”
Rena shrugged. “Gabe and I sometimes go out for breakfast at midnight at the diner on Forest View. It’s not a criminal activity.”
A.L. nodded. “Especially if you’re getting the biscuits and gravy. That place knows what they’re doing.”
He turned and pulled into a space to the side of Garage on Division. There were two other cars parked nearby, both empty. The building had three bays and all the doors were up, probably to let some fresh air in. He could only see one car about four feet in the air, supported by a hoist. The other two bays were empty. He didn’t see any people working. “Speaking of knowing what they’re doing, this place doesn’t seem to be doing much.”
“That looks like the office,” Rena said, pointing to a door at the far end of the building.
“Yeah.” It was difficult to see through the mostly closed blinds but he caught a shadow of something or somebody. “Let’s go,” he said.
A bell rang when he opened the door. There was a chest-high counter with a computer and a printer on it. Also a landline phone and a potted plant that looked as if it hadn’t been watered for a while. Behind the counter were two old-looking office chairs. In front of the counter and to the left was a small waiting area with three equally old guest chairs, the folding variety type, and a water cooler with a sleeve of paper cups on the table next to it.
“Hello,” A.L. called out.
“Hey, there,” came the response from somewhere in the back. It was a man, his voice a little gravelly. “Be out in a minute.”
It was probably less than that when a man hurried through the back door. “Afternoon. What can I do for you, folks?”
“I’m Detective Morgan and this is my partner, Detective McKittridge.” They both held out badges. “And you are?”
“Davy Grace, ma’am.”
She really hated being called ma’am. Made her feel about eighty.
The man was late twenties with a wiry build. The thumb on his right hand was badly bruised. Rena noticed that as he wiped his hand on a dirty rag before offering it to her and then A.L. “Thanks for making some time for us,” Rena said.
“Never had the police come see me at work before,” he said.
“Just a few questions,” Rena assured him.
“Can we do this outside?”
“We can,” she said.
He led them out to the side of the building, where he promptly lit up a cigarette. They were facing west and the late afternoon sun beat down on them.
“I think I know why you’re here,” Davy said. “We all feel horrible about what’s happened. Emma is one of the sweetest little girls I’ve ever met.”
“How long have you worked here, Mr. Grace?” A.L. asked.
“I been here going on seven years.”
“So you were here when Troy Whitman bought the business?” Rena asked.
“Yes, ma’am. And I was damn glad that he did. I live less than a mile from here and I like my commute, if you know what I mean.”
There wasn’t much bad traffic in Baywood but Rena did understand. Gabe had said something very similar recently now that he had quit his job as a financial consultant where he might put on hundreds of miles a week and become a full-time student again. He only had to be on campus two days a week. Everything else was done online.
“How would you characterize your relationship with Troy Whitman?” Rena asked.
“He’s the boss. I respect that.”
“Respect him?” A.L. asked.
“Uh...sure. Of course. I mean, he’s made some mistakes. We all have. But I’ve known Troy my whole life. We were in school together. Hell, I was the one who told him the garage was for sale.”
“Troy told us that there’d recently been a situation where a couple was very upset because the wife brought her car in, you worked on it, and then later that afternoon, it stalled out on the highway.”
Davy’s eyes darkened. “He told you about that, huh?”
“Only because we asked him if there might be any customers who were upset with him or the garage.”
“Well, okay then.”
Davy was a little touchy. “Do you think Mr. or Mrs. Thompson might have been angry enough to do something to hurt Troy Whitman or his family?”
“They said they were going to sue. I don’t think that’s happened. Least I haven’t heard anything. But if you’re asking if I think they would have hurt Emma, well, that just doesn’t make sense. Only an asshole would do that and while they were both upset, I didn’t get the impression that they were that kind of people.”
“We’d like their home address,” Rena said. “That
would be on their paperwork, right?”
“Yeah.” Davy took one last puff off his half-smoked cigarette and threw it to the ground. He put it out with the heel of his work shoe. “We can get it inside.”
When Rena saw the address, she didn’t recognize it. “Where is this?” she asked, as she copied it down.
“It’s way out there, in the county, in one of them new houses that they’re building around Lemming’s Lake. I hear some of the houses are going for a million dollars,” Davy said.
It would be more than a forty-five-minute drive. Long way to come to get a vehicle serviced. Although to be fair, there probably weren’t that many other full-service garages that would have been closer for them. “Thank you,” she said. “Were you here at the garage this past Wednesday?”
“Uh...no. I was out of town, at a funeral.”
“Where was the funeral?” A.L. asked.
“Dover. It’s north of here.”
About ninety-seven miles, to be exact. She’d never been to Dover, never heard much about it. Until Emma Whitman had gone missing. Now it seemed to be popping up everywhere. “Whose funeral?” she asked.
“My uncle’s.”
“His name?” A.L. asked.
Now Davy frowned at them. “I don’t see...”
“Just making sure we’ve got full information,” Rena said pleasantly.
“Burt Chrysler.”
“Like the car?” A.L. asked.
“Just like it,” Davy said. “People always ask that. He used to kid around, tell people that his other house was in Detroit. I used to love to see their faces. Spent almost every summer with Uncle Burt when I was a kid.”
“In Dover?” A.L. asked.
“Of course. He didn’t really have a house in Detroit.”
A.L. pressed his lips together.
“You were in Dover all day?” Rena asked.
“Couple hours. There was a nice lunch after the funeral.”
“What did you do the rest of the day?” A.L. asked.
“Drove around. I like to do that.”
“Was anyone with you?” A.L. asked.
“No. I asked my cousin to go but I guess she didn’t feel quite the same about Uncle Burt.”
Maybe hadn’t wanted to be in a car with Davy for any length of time. “Mr. Grace, do you know a Coyote Frogg from when you visited the Dover area?”
Davy shook his head.
“He has memorable red hair,” Rena said.
“I like redheads,” Davy said, looking at Rena’s hair.
Gross. “Mr. Grace, are you the only one working today?”
Davy shrugged. “Yes. Both Pete and Cory got some kind of flu. Or so they say.” He smiled.
“You think that might not be true?” A.L. asked.
“They’re probably fishing. They know that Troy has his head somewhere else so there’s little danger of it catching up to them.”
A.L. had said that Troy had known Pete Seoul and Cory Prider for a long time. But now they were potentially goofing off while Troy was dealing with something horrific. With friends like that, who needed enemies? “You happen to have phone numbers for Pete and Cory?” Rena asked.
“Cell numbers,” Davy said.
“Good enough,” she said. They would call and ask the two to come to the station to answer some questions. That should get their attention.
* * *
Pete Seoul and Cory Prider had indeed been fishing. Pete’s nose was sunburned and Cory’s pants looked as if he’d fallen in. They both looked to be in their early forties. They took Cory first.
“You got a Coke or something?” Cory asked as he leaned back in his chair.
Rena started to get up but settled down as A.L. said, “No.”
“Water?” Cory asked.
Rena didn’t budge. She knew what was coming. A.L. had made up his mind. These guys were pieces of shit.
“No,” A.L. said. “You were absent from work today?”
“Yeah.”
“Sick?” A.L. asked.
Cory shrugged, maybe a little sheepishly. “Mental health day.”
If he’d needed fresh air, he could have joined the volunteers searching for Emma. “I imagine Troy Whitman’s mental health isn’t all that great right now,” she said. “Probably doesn’t need to be worrying about his business.”
“We did him a fucking favor. If we don’t work, we don’t get paid. And quite frankly, there is barely enough to keep Dutiful Davy busy.”
“You don’t like your coworker?” Rena asked.
Cory shrugged. “He’s...let’s just say that he’s a simple guy. And sometimes that can get on a person’s nerves.”
“Not enough work. Not crazy about your coworker. Doesn’t sound as if there are great benefits. I guess I’m curious why you stay,” A.L. asked.
“Some work is better than no work. And I like Troy Whitman well enough. I feel damn sorry for him. A missing kid is bad.”
“You have children, Mr. Prider?” Rena asked.
“No wife, no kids. That I know about, anyway.” He smiled without showing any teeth.
Neither A.L. nor Rena smiled back. “Walk me through your day on this past Wednesday.”
Prider let out a loud sigh. “I left my apartment around 6:30. Stopped at Pancake Magic for breakfast like I usually do, and got to work about 7:15. I was the first one there. I unlocked the doors, made the coffee and finished a brake job on a car that had been left overnight.”
“Who got to work next?” Rena asked.
“Shit, I don’t know. Davy or Pete. One of them. I was busy, you know, and it ain’t my job to babysit them.”
“You’re sure they were both at work that day?”
Prider leaned back and looked at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “Now that I think about it, Davy wasn’t at work that day. So it was Pete. But don’t ask me what time he got there. I don’t fucking know.”
“Do you recall what time Troy came to work that morning?” A.L. asked, his voice hard.
Cory scrunched up his forehead. “I think he was there by 9:00.”
“Is that earlier or later than usual?” Rena asked.
“Later,” Cory said. “Lots of mornings, he’s there when I arrive. Already has the coffee made.”
“Did the two of you happen to talk about why he was later than usual?” A.L. asked.
“No,” Cory said. “He’s the boss. He can come in whenever he wants. None of my business.”
“Have you talked to Troy in the last couple of days? Since Wednesday?” A.L. asked.
“No. I sent him a text when I heard the news about his daughter. Just told him we were all pulling for him.”
“Did he respond?” Rena asked.
“I think so. He said thanks or something like that.”
“When you’re absent, do you call in before your shift?” Rena asked.
“Sometimes. But I didn’t want to bug him today. We do time sheets. That’s how he knows what days to pay us for.”
“Do you know Leah Whitman?” Rena asked.
“Of course. She comes by sometimes. Calls the business phone when Troy isn’t answering his cell.”
“Does he not answer his cell often?” A.L. asked.
“Only when he doesn’t want to talk to his wife,” Cory said, once again doing the weird smile with no teeth.
They needed to end this. Before she got sick. It was way worse than Davy saying he liked redheads. Rena stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Prider. If you should think of anything that might help us find Emma Whitman, we’d appreciate a call.” Both she and A.L. passed over cards.
“Sure,” he said.
Rena escorted the man out of the building, using a door that didn’t require her to pass by Pete Seoul, who was still waiting. Wh
ile Cory Prider had given them nothing that was especially helpful, she still didn’t want the two of them comparing stories.
Once she deposited Prider on the sidewalk, she returned to the conference room where A.L. sat. He was reviewing his notes.
“If he’s a regular at Pancake Magic, Traci probably knows him,” Rena said.
“I’m going to pretend that I have no knowledge that the likes of him has any intersect with my daughter. Do you feel as if you need a shower?” A.L. asked.
“Sort of. What do you think Troy Whitman was doing between 7:15 and 9:00? His house is only a fifteen-minute drive to Garage on Division.”
“I know. That’s what I was checking in my notes. He said that he was anxious because he doesn’t generally do mornings, that Leah did them. That meshes with Prider saying that Troy is usually the first one in.”
“But not on Wednesday,” Rena said. “We’re going to need to ask him.”
“Yeah. Let’s finish up with Pete Seoul first.”
Rena fetched the man from the waiting room. He was probably about the same age as Cory Prider but he carried some extra weight in his belly and his right knee looked a little stiff when he walked.
“Mr. Seoul, we’d like to talk to you about your job at Garage on Division,” Rena said.
“Okay.”
“How long have you worked there?” she asked.
“Twenty years.”
“You’ve seen some changes I suspect,” she said.
“More than some.”
“Help me understand that better,” she said.
“Simple. Used to be I could tell you what was wrong with a car by listening to it. Now I got to hook it up to a machine that tells me.”
He didn’t sound angry. Just matter-of-fact. “So you were employed at the garage when Troy Whitman purchased it.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“Okay.”
Rena smiled at the man, trying to remember that honey could be better than vinegar. “What’s your relationship with Troy Whitman?”
“He’s my boss.”
“I understand that,” she said. “Are you friends outside of work?”