“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?”