“They had horrible teeth. You know, the kind that meth users have.”
A.L. allowed himself to wonder how many meth users Gi-Gi Thompson encountered on a regular basis.
“I saw Breaking Bad,” she added. “Every season.”
There it was.
“If Barrett hadn’t come when he did, there’s no telling what might have happened. I mean, they were looking at my kids and it was giving me the chills.” Gi-Gi stopped. Put her red-painted index finger into the air. “I just thought of something. What if... Oh, I can’t even say it.”
“Just say it, honey,” Barrett said.
“What if those two men are behind Emma Whitman’s disappearance? What if they took her? Oh, Barrett. Doesn’t that just make you sick?”
Barrett Thompson looked at A.L. “My wife isn’t accusing anybody but I’ve learned over the years not to dismiss her ideas. She’s generally spot-on.”
“Can you describe the men in greater detail?” he asked, looking at both Gi-Gi and Barrett.
“White,” Gi-Gi said.
“Hair and eye color?”
“One had brown hair and the other had red hair. I don’t remember their eyes. Creepy, if that’s a color.”
“Height, weight?”
Gi-Gi looked at Barrett. He was evidently the height and weight expert.
“They were both kind of wiry. The redhead, I’d guess five-ten, maybe one fifty,” Barrett said. “The other was taller, could have been six feet. But not more than a hundred and seventy pounds.”
“Any distinguishing marks or tattoos?” A.L. asked.
“Not that I saw,” Gi-Gi said.
Coyote Frogg had a sleeve tattoo. Hard to miss unless he was wearing long sleeves. “Do you recall what they were wearing?”
“Dirty jeans. Shirts. Nothing memorable,” Gi-Gi said.
“Long sleeves?” A.L. asked.
“Yeah, I think so.” She smiled. “I guess that’s sort of weird. It’s been hot.”
“What were they driving?” A.L. asked.
“An old Jeep. The kind where the sides come off,” Barrett said.
“Color?”
“White. It was filthy, though,” Gi-Gi said. “Looked as if it hadn’t seen a car wash in several years.”
“Noticeable dents or marks?” A.L. asked.
“Not that I noticed,” Barrett said.
“Did you get a license plate?” A.L. asked.
Gi-Gi snorted, a most unladylike noise. Even Barrett looked surprised. “We were a little busy, Detective,” she said.
He’d had enough of these people. But he had one more question. “When they drove off, what direction did they go?”
“North,” Barrett said. “Away from town.”
North. In the direction of Dover. A.L. stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
* * *
It was almost 9:00 p.m. by the time A.L. drove back to the police station, the conversation with the Thompsons running through his head. The physical description was close enough to what Mr. Gibacki from Panini Playground had given them to call it the same.
When he got back to his desk, Rena was at hers. He quickly brought her up to speed on his conversation with the Thompsons. “Now, what did you find out about the funeral in Dover?”
“There was one. Burt Chrysler at the Smithe Funeral Home. No church service, everything at the funeral home. I reviewed the obituary and there was no specific mention of Davy Grace, although the obituary did say numerous nieces and nephews.”
“Cameras at the funeral home?” A.L. asked.
“Yes. I’m going to go look at the relevant footage once they email it.”
“You think it’s worth it?” A.L. asked.
“I do. I can’t explain it but I think Dover is important.”
“You think we’ve got a serial kidnapper?”
“I’m not saying that,” Rena said. “But I’m not going to ignore any Dover connection.”
“You’ve got a good gut,” A.L. said. “I think—” His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “McKittridge,” he said. He listened. “I’ll be right out.” He carefully put the phone back in its cradle.
“What?” Rena asked.
Her damn gut. He held his cards close but still, she knew that shit was blowing in the wind. “Nothing,” he said, his tone dismissive. Then realized that since he sucked at things like this, he might want to make good use of her gut and general knowledge of all things female. “Tess is in the lobby. Wants to see me.”
“About?”
He didn’t know but he didn’t think it was good. They’d been seeing one another for months and she’d never felt the need to visit him at work. Now it was late on a Friday evening. “I’m not a fucking mind reader,” he said.
“Well, then, I guess you’re going to have to go talk to her,” Rena said. She picked up her coffee and took a sip. She was enjoying this.
“I will.” He pushed his chair back. The walk to the visitor lobby was short. And there she was, perched on the edge of the cheap vinyl-and-aluminum chair.
She stood up. Didn’t smile. “I’m sorry to bother you at work,” she said.
Something was definitely not right. “Not a problem. There’s a conference room back here that we can use.” He held open the door. She passed in front of him. She smelled good. He wanted to reach out, give her a hug, bring her body in close to his, but he kept his hands to himself.
“What’s up?” he said, once the door was closed.
She licked her lips. “I got a call from Marnee. Guess who she ran into at her school dining hall?”
He had no fucking idea and wasn’t sure he cared. But that clearly wasn’t the right answer. “You tell me,” he said.
“Your ex-wife.”
“Jacqui?”
“You have more than one ex-wife?” she asked.
Of course not. “That’s odd,” he said. It was the best he could come up with. And it only came to him because Rena had said it earlier about the storage shed.
“Odd,” she repeated. “It’s not odd, it’s damn ridiculous. And I won’t have it, A.L. I won’t have Marnee pulled into your ex-wife’s drama.”