by Beverly Long
He opened the door of his apartment building and walked down the hall. Stopped when he was four feet from his door. There was a square box, maybe twelve inches wide, on the floor. There was an envelope taped to the top. He took one more step.
Smiled. It was Tess’s writing.
He pulled off the envelope and opened it. Inside was a card, with a silly-looking photo of a cat hanging from some draperies, looking really happy. No words. But inside, Tess had written a note.
Able: Thank you for the flowers, they are beautiful. You continue to surprise me. I’m sorry for barging in to your work. I’ll try not to make a habit of it. I’m especially sorry that I insinuated that my daughter was more important to me than Traci is to you. That was ridiculous and I’m glad you called me out on it. I know you’re working hard. Perhaps this will come in handy as a late night snack. Tess.
He opened the box. Cherry pie. His favorite. Maybe he’d mentioned that a time or two to her when they’d gone to the county fair in August.
He unlocked his door, then carefully picked up the box. He set it down on the counter, grabbed a plate from the cupboard and a knife and fork from the drawer. Then he cut himself a big slab and sat down in his favorite recliner to enjoy a piece.
He did all this before he ever turned on a light.
There was something very nice about eating a surprise piece of cherry pie in the dark. He picked up his cell. It was now almost midnight. Too late to call or text.
He finished his piece and closed his eyes. Leaned back in his chair.
Went to sleep thinking about Tess.
* * *
Gabe wasn’t home when Rena got there. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and put on a T-shirt to sleep in. Then she crawled into bed.
She was still awake when Gabe got home an hour later but pretended to be asleep. He was quiet as he got ready for bed. When he sat down and swung his legs in, she opened her eyes. They were both lying on their backs. “Oh, hey,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No problem. Have fun?”
“Yeah, it was okay,” he said with no real enthusiasm. There was a long moment of silence.
“Listen, Rena,” Gabe said. “I get where you were coming from earlier. I do. And I’m not happy about Shannon’s husband. It just seems to me that ever since we agreed to go down this path and selected Shannon, you’ve been looking for a reason to get out of it.”
The bedroom was dark and she was grateful for that. She’d never had a great poker face and now she was confident that he’d know that he’d hit close to home. Gabe had always known her best. And right now, he deserved honesty.
“You might be right,” she said. “I’m sorry about that. Because it’s taken time and money. But the closer we got, it just...didn’t seem right. Not for us.”
“I don’t care about the time or the money. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“Not everybody has to have a child,” Gabe said, his voice gentle. “We will be happy still.”
He was right. Of course. But under the covers, she slid her hand so that it rested on her abdomen. The emptiness seemed to radiate through her entire body.
“What do you say that we wait, put this discussion on hold for at least six months?” Gabe suggested.
It wasn’t forever. But her eggs would be six months older.
Why couldn’t this be easy for them? It was for so many people.
But those thoughts swamped her with guilt. Life wasn’t easy for Troy and Leah Whitman right now. Or Elaine Broadstreet. Or Alice Quest. Or anybody even remotely connected to Emma Whitman.
Life was just hard sometimes. And feeling sorry for yourself wasn’t helpful.
She turned on her side to face him. Could feel him shift, too. And when she was in his arms, knew there was no place she’d rather be. “We’ll be okay,” she said, her mouth close to his ear. They would be. Could be.
“Damn straight,” he said as he bent his head to kiss her.
* * *
By seven on Sunday morning, A.L. and Rena were at their desks. Blithe and Ferguson were also in. Faster’s office was empty. The chief was likely on the golf course.
“I got the list of all other abductions or attempted abductions at or near day care centers from across the United States for the last twenty years,” A.L. said. He tossed it across the desk.
“That’s a lot,” she said. “More than I expected.”
“Yeah. Here’s the list if we filter out those that were known to be committed by biological or adoptive parents,” A.L. said.
Less than half a page. She tossed it back to him. He left it on his desk where it landed. “Wow. So we were right to give Troy and Leah Whitman a close look.”
“Speaking of close looks, I’m meeting Troy at Garage on Division at 8:00 to look at his service scheduling records. Getting a technical assist from Shawn.” Everybody in the Baywood Police Department knew Shawn. Data forensics was becoming a bigger part of every investigation and Shawn Moby was a fucking magician when it came to ferreting out information that lived in the cloud.
“What are you looking for?” Rena asked.
“Troy says that he was at work early on Wednesday, contrary to what Pete and Cory said.”
“Not a very big place,” Rena said. “You think they’d run into each other if they were all there.”
“Yeah. He said he was in the office area and they were working in the bays. That sort of matches up to what Cory Prider said. He got to work first and then finished up a brake job that had been started on Tuesday. Pete Seoul said he got to work at 7:30 and I guess it’s safe to assume that he started working on a vehicle.”
“Why don’t we just ask them whose vehicles they were working on?” Rena asked.
“Because I don’t really want to talk to those two idiots again and I don’t trust their memory or their intent. Remember how Pete sent us scurrying to Alcamay Corners? I think it’s better to review the records. Plus I wanted to send a message to Troy. That any unexplained absence on Wednesday was going to get critically reviewed.”
“Depending on when the brake job got finished, you’re assuming that maybe that customer would have seen Troy? Or maybe the driver of the vehicle that Pete Seoul was working on.”
“Bunch of maybes but then again, maybe we’ll get lucky. I’d better get going.” His cell phone buzzed. He picked it up. Read the message, then tossed his phone aside.
“What?” Rena asked.
“That’s Troy. Said he couldn’t be at the garage at 8:00. There’s something he has to do.”
“What could be more important that cooperating with the detective who is investigating his daughter’s disappearance?” Rena asked. “I think he needs to—”
She saw Ferguson, who was across the room at his desk, lean back in his chair and point the remote control in the direction of the television that was mounted on the wall. “Hey, guys,” the detective said. “You got to see this.”
This was At Seven on Seven, a one-hour news show on Sunday mornings on the local CBS affiliate out of Madison. It was hosted by Caroline Jensen, who was tall, thin, blond and blue-eyed. Made for television, one might say. She was also articulate and smart, which had helped attract readers to the program.
The show was coming back from a commercial break and it took A.L. and Rena just seconds to realize what had been more important to Troy Whitman. To both the Whitmans, who sat opposite Caroline.
“Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?” A.L. said.
“Shush,” Rena said.
“...being here,” Caroline said. “As I mentioned in the lead-up, Emma has now been missing for four days. Please, help us understand what that’s like.”
“It’s the most terrifying experience of our lives,” Leah said. “A nightmare. But we haven’t gi
ven up hope that our little girl will be returned to us.”
“Truly every parent’s worst nightmare. At Seven on Seven attempted to talk with Alice Quest, the director of Lakeside Learning Center, where Emma disappeared from, but she declined our invitation for an interview.”
“One sane person,” A.L. muttered.
“We are aware that both she and the rest of the staff have been questioned by the police,” Leah said. “This is something that a parent doesn’t expect to happen in a place that is supposed to be safe.” With a quick swipe, she wiped at the corner of her eye.
“There’s been no ransom demand?” Caroline asked.
“No,” Troy said.
“And have the police shared with you any information that might suggest that they have a suspect?”
“No,” Leah said. “We understand it’s difficult for the police to share much, but the not knowing doesn’t help.”
Caroline looked into the camera. “Searchers continue to examine the area east of town this morning, focusing on the land between Kissimee Road and Portage Creek. FBI at the scene were unavailable to provide comment but did confirm that this continues to be a search effort and not a recovery effort.”
Caroline turned back to Leah and Troy. “What is it you’d like our viewers to know this morning?”
“Just that we appreciate all the help people have given, all the time. And that we need everyone to keep looking, to not stop,” Troy said. “To call if you see anything.”
“I understand there is a fund-raising site that concerned viewers can go to,” Caroline said.
“Yes,” Leah said. She rattled off the website and repeated it just as it flashed across the bottom of the screen. “We’re incredibly grateful to Steven Hanzel from the Baywood Bank for assisting with that.”
“Thank you, Leah and Troy. I know the whole community joins you in hoping that Emma is found safe and sound. And now, At Seven on Seven looks at how recycling is becoming big business in western Wisconsin.”
Ferguson flipped off the television. “Could have been worse,” he said before turning to look at his computer.
“He’s right,” Rena said. “They didn’t say we were a bunch of clowns.”
“Leah threw Alice and the rest of the staff under the bus,” A.L. said.
“She’s hurting,” Rena said. “Her child is gone.”
“She sounded as if she was a fan of Steven Hanzel. I didn’t get that impression before.”
“Did she say something about him?” Rena asked.
“No. But there was something in her tone when she told me that Troy and his friend Steven were in the garage. Anyway, that probably doesn’t matter. What matters is that Hanzel’s supervisor is going to blow a gasket because it really made it sound as if Baywood Bank was behind the fund-raising idea.”
“Yeah, gave it real legitimacy. I suspect people who might have been on the fence about contributing will be opening their checkbooks.”
“Maybe that was the point,” A.L. said.
Nineteen
It was after ten before A.L. and Shawn Moby entered Garage on Division. Troy was standing behind the counter. A.L. made the introductions and then asked Troy to show Shawn the basics of their computer system.
The flow seemed pretty straightforward. A customer contact led to a work order. Work was dated and timed. Parts and services were billed separately and taxed differently. Monies were received in various forms—cash, check, credit card—and applied to the work order. Notes could be entered at any part of the process. It wasn’t a full financial review, but merely a medium dive into a subset of the business. But it gave A.L. what he was looking for. And if Troy had been bothered by the request initially, he seemed fine with it now.
Maybe he was busy thinking of other things. At no point did either A.L. or Troy mention the television interview.
Once Shawn was able to download the data, they left. When they got back to their office, it took Shawn six minutes to find what A.L. was specifically looking for. There it was. Harvey Pointe’s 2018 Chrysler Pacifica had come in on Tuesday and was finished at 8:22 on Wednesday by Prider. Then he’d moved on to J.A. Shepherd’s 2012 Ford Focus that was serviced between 8:36 and 10:03.
Peitra Jonet’s 2017 Honda Pilot had been serviced between 7:42 and 9:24 by Pete Seoul. No doubt she’d been charged for the fifteen minutes for Pete’s 9:00 break.
The work order had a spot for customer name, address and phone. Very helpful.
He looked around for Rena but didn’t see her. He might as well get to it. He dialed Harvey Pointe.
“Hello.”
“Is this Harvey Pointe?”
“I’m not interested.”
“Wait,” A.L. said quickly. “This is Detective McKittridge of the Baywood Police Department.”
“I don’t give donations over the phone.”
“Sir, I’m not looking for a donation. I’m calling because you had your vehicle serviced at Garage on Division this past week. Is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“According to the records I’ve reviewed, sir, I believe you took your car in some time on Tuesday and then it was finished on Wednesday.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t crazy about that.”
“What time did you pick up your vehicle on Wednesday, sir?”
“Shortly after they called me. My wife dropped me off.”
“Do you recall the time?” A.L. asked.
“It was shortly before 9:00 because I heard the nine o’clock news on my way home. I remember because I had to change the station back to the one I always listen to. Don’t know why they have to change your radio station when you’re getting a brake job.”
“Do you recall, sir, who was in the office area when you paid for your vehicle?”
“I didn’t go to the office. When Cory called me and told me the vehicle was done, I asked for the total. Told him that I would bring him a check. Then I wrote my check and drove to the garage. Cory was working in one of the bays. I gave the check to him. He marked Paid on the invoice and gave me a copy of it.”
“Do you recall seeing anybody else at the garage?”
“I saw that Pete guy but I don’t care for him so I cut a wide path around him.”
“No one else? Not Troy Whitman, the owner?”
“Nope. Didn’t see Troy. I like Troy. I’d have chatted with him a few minutes if he’d have been there.”
But Harvey Pointe had not gone to the office.
“Thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful,” A.L. said.
“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t hang up on you.”
A.L. dialed J.A. Shepherd, not knowing if it was a male or female. But a woman answered. She sounded young.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Shepherd?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective McKittridge with the Baywood Police Department. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about a visit you made to Garage on Division this past week.”
“Uh...okay. I’m at work, though. I just have a few minutes.”
“Where do you work?”
“Baywood Memorial,” she said. “I’m a nurse in the emergency department.”
Kara’s Wiese’s husband was a nurse in that same emergency room. “I’ll be brief,” he said. “I have information that says your vehicle was serviced on Wednesday. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall what time you dropped off your vehicle?”
“Before my shift started. So probably about 6:30.”
“Was there anyone at Garage on Division at that time?” A.L. asked, already getting a bad feeling that J.A. Shepherd wasn’t going to be any help.
“No. They have a lock box for your keys.”
“What time did you pick it up?”
“Probably ab
out 7:30 that night. No one was there then. But by then we’d all heard the Amber Alert and knew that the father ran Garage on Division. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone. Fortunately, I’d had them put my keys under my floor mat.”
Christ, this was one big bust. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Shepherd.”
“Sure.” She hung up.
Was this why Troy had seemed more relaxed about the request this morning? Had he realized that A.L. was going to run into a dead end?
There was one more person to call. Peitra Jonet. He dialed the number. It rang four times and went to voice mail. He left a brief message, asking for a return call. Then he sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the scarred wood.
“Any luck?” Rena asked, coming back to her desk.
“Got the information off the computer system easily enough but didn’t get anything helpful from two of the three customers I needed to talk to. Waiting to hear from the third.”
“Okay. I managed to connect with the beat cops who cover the area where Coyote Frogg and his friend got off the bus. They told me that Frogg first showed up about a month ago. He’s peddling for sure. They’re watching him, trying to figure out if he’s an independent operator or part of an established network.”
From his early days on the force, he knew that was a fairly common approach. The opportunity to catch a bigger fish was not one to be squandered. “We definitely need to talk to Coyote’s mother in Vegas. Ferguson tracked down her number for me. She’s still in Las Vegas. I may just be spinning my wheels.”
“Is that anything like getting your tires rotated?”
A.L. rolled his eyes. “Garage humor? Really, Morgan. That’s the best you can do on a Sunday morning?”
“I didn’t get breakfast. Let’s go to Pancake Magic. Maybe Traci is working?”
It was always a good day when he could see his kid and surprise her with a twenty under his plate as an extraspecial gratuity. “Let me call Dusty first.”