“The chief said he’d send Ferguson and Blithe,” Rena said. “Faster wants us to focus on figuring out what happened this morning and let the two of them coordinate with the FBI on the search.”
That would work. They were both solid detectives. A.L. trusted them. Not as much as he trusted Rena, but neither of them had been his partner for five years.
Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it. “Amber Alert is approved,” she said, looking up at him.
“Okay.” She knew as well as he did that once the social media post and/or the Amber Alert went, the press would be on this story like flies on shit. But it would also bring in the volunteers. And they were going to need them for any substantial search activity.
“I want to talk to the parents before we push both the alert and all other social media. Tell them we need five minutes.”
Rena typed as they walked down the art-lined hallway. They’d had a box—hell, Jacqui might still have it—of similar masterpieces that Traci had created. Every night before he’d left for work—he’d been doing nights in those years—he’d made a big deal out of what Traci had produced that day.
What the fuck would he have done if one of those days she simply hadn’t come home?
He knocked on the classroom door before pulling it open. Leah Whitman was perched awkwardly on a small plastic chair. Troy was in the far corner of the room, his back to the door, his cell phone at his ear. He turned when he heard the door and ended his conversation. He put his phone in his pocket as he crossed the room. He was wearing matching blue work pants and shirt and he smelled faintly of oil and sweat.
“Any word?” he asked, looking at Rena.
“No, sir,” she said. “This is my partner, Detective McKittridge.” She turned to A.L. “Troy Whitman.”
A.L. stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, sir. But we’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter.”
Now the woman stood. “I’m Leah Whitman. This is just terrifying.”
“It’s crazy,” Troy said, in a tone that sounded as if he was correcting his wife.
Terrifying? Crazy? For more than ten hours, a five-year-old had been unaccounted for. It was no time to quibble over words. A.L. flipped open his notebook. He wrote the date and by habit, looked at his watch. Notes were always dated and timed. It was twenty-three minutes after six, or 18:23 in military time. Then he did the math, using seven fifteen that morning as the floor. That’s when the clock had started clicking. Didn’t matter that they’d just heard about it. What mattered was how long the child hadn’t been seen. They were somewhere near the start of hour twelve and that’s what he wrote on the second line.
Behind before they’d barely gotten started.
“Can you walk me through your day?” A.L. asked.
“It was just a day, an ordinary day,” Troy Whitman said.
“A few details would be helpful,” A.L. said, looking up. “Either one of you can start.”
“I left the house early,” Leah said.
“What do you do, Mrs. Whitman?” Rena asked.
“I’m a paralegal at Bailey Shepherd.”
The law firm of Bailey Shepherd was located just down the street from the police station. On the rare days that he took time for lunch, he passed it on his way to his favorite diner. “Why did you leave the house early?”
“I had...a meeting.”
“Where?”
“Madison.”
“And what time did it start?”
“Why does that matter?”
It wasn’t a hard or tricky question. A.L. kept his gaze steady.
“Eight o’clock,” Leah said.
“Thank you,” A.L. said. “What time did you leave your house?”
“Six thirty. Maybe even a few minutes earlier. Emma was still sleeping when I left. The last thing I did was look into her room.” She turned to her husband.
He took the ball. “I woke her up about 6:45. She got dressed and ate a bowl of cereal. She watched a little television while we were waiting for Leah’s mom to pick her up.”
“She was late?” Rena asked.
“No. We were early. I guess I was anxious to get going. Leah normally takes care of mornings. I do afternoons. Anyway, Leah’s mom got there and she brought Emma here.”
“Anything odd or off about the pickup?” A.L. asked.
“No. I mean, I saw her pull up and Emma and I met her at the car. She made a comment about it. That I hadn’t even given her a chance to come inside.” He looked at his wife.
“My mom...repeats herself,” Leah said, almost apologetic. “I guess I’m used to it, but it drives Troy crazy.”
“I needed to get to work,” Troy said, his tone testy. “I have to work. Especially...” His voice trailed off.
A.L. gave him a minute.
“Especially now. We’re busy,” he said.
Definitely some tension between Troy and Leah. A.L. had a feeling it wasn’t the first time they had argued about her mother. It was the kind of argument he was familiar with. His ex-wife had been a daddy’s girl and her dad had been a pompous ass that got in A.L.’s grille whenever possible. But A.L. had generally bit his tongue. Even now, on the rare occasions when the whole family gathered, he tried to remember that whatever immediate pleasure might be derived from going toe-to-toe with the man would quickly dissipate if Traci felt torn between her father and her grandfather.
His ex-wife had never been very good as peacemaker and he wasn’t quite sure yet if Leah Whitman was giving it a go. A.L. focused on Troy. “So she and Emma drive off. What do you do?”
“I went to work.”
“Where do you work, Mr. Whitman?” A.L. asked.
“Garage on Division. It’s my business.”
A.L. caught a shift in Rena’s eyes. Brief. Nobody else probably saw it. He made a mental note to ask her later. Garage on Division had been a Baywood landmark since the sixties. It had changed hands some years back. That must have been when Troy Whitman had purchased it. “You worked all day?” A.L. asked.
“Yeah. Until I knocked off and drove here. At first, I was just pissed that the door was locked. And then I was told that all the children had been picked up. I figured that Leah had gotten off work early and picked her up. So I called her. She was still at work. Then I called Elaine.”
Rena had already told him the next part but he wanted to hear it again. “Walk me through that conversation,” he said.