Now Coyote was frowning at him. “I don’t hang around with five-year-old girls,” he said. He looked first at A.L. and then Rena. “This is just like what happened to my dad. Just like it. Christ, what is it with you cops?”

“Have you read a newspaper or heard the news lately, Mr. Frogg?” Rena asked.

“No. I’ve been gone. I told you that.”

“Mr. Frogg, we have a report of you and Peyton Dowl driving a white Jeep last week and stopping to...help a woman and her two children on the side of the road. Is that correct?”

“Is that what this is about? That woman was a bitch. All we were trying to do was offer a helping hand. Pierce had let us borrow his ride to move some things.”

“Mr. Frogg, we have some video of you on Wednesday afternoon,” Rena said. “You and Peyton Dowl are wearing exactly the same outfit that was purchased that day from a store outside of Baywood. What can you tell me about that?”

“I don’t want to say anything about that.”

“Why is that, Mr. Frogg?”

“Because I don’t think it’s any of your business and it would not be in my best interest.”

Twenty-One

“Mr. Frogg, it is definitely in your best interest to give me a reason why you purchased those clothes on Wednesday,” Rena said.

“Somebody told me that they got drug-sniffing dogs at the train stations. Now, I’m not admitting to anything along those lines, but let’s just say that I felt better if Pey and me were wearing something new.”

A.L. pushed back his chair. “Will you excuse us for a minute, Mr. Frogg?”

“I got nothing but time, I guess.”

When they were both in the hall, A.L. said, “We’re wrong. We’re chasing a damn dead end.” He stopped. “You don’t disagree?” he grilled Rena.

“No.”

“We need to get statements from Peyton Dowl, Pierce Dowl and whoever Peyton’s girlfriend is. If those match up, we need to admit defeat,” A.L. said. “We got nothing here.”

“I know. The train station will have video. We can take a look at that, too.”

“Probably should,” A.L. said. “Can you believe it? Drug-sniffing dogs. No DNA. I really don’t think he has a clue who Emma Whitman is.” He slammed his hand against the wall in frustration.

“I’ll finish this up, A.L. Take a walk. Get a cup of coffee,” Rena said.

“No, I’ll...” He stopped. “Yeah, that’d be good. We’ll catch up later.”

She found him more than ninety minutes later. It was dark outside. He was sitting on a bench outside the building, staring at a lighted water fountain that some charitable organization had decided would be just the thing to beautify downtown Baywood.

“The story checks out. They’re gone,” she said.

“Thank you.”