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.