“Yeah. Smart answer for everything.” Rena pointed to a line. “Here’s where Doug asks him about his son. Oh my. Coyote. His son is named Coyote.”

“Franklin did say it was odd. But Christ, with a last name of Frogg, don’t you think the parents could have gone with Mike or Jim? The kid was going to have to endure enough.”

“Appears that he was nineteen, living at home, working a part-time job at a burger joint. Not much else here.”

They flipped through the remaining pages and finally he closed the file. “I got the day care director’s name. Brenda Owen. We’re going to need to see if she’s still around.”

Rena picked up her phone. In a couple clicks, she showed A.L. an address. “I’ll bet this is her. We’ve got time to drive by her house. See if she’s home.”

“Let’s do it.” A.L. sighed. “I didn’t see any obvious misses.”

“Me, either,” Rena said. She sat back in her chair and stretched her neck. Then leaned forward, her forearms on the table. “Do you think it’s possible that someone was so successful in their first attempt to grab a child that ten years later, they come back and replicate the crime?”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to ask for some assistance from the state. I want to see every abduction or attempted abduction involving a day care center in the entire country for the last twenty years.”

“Probably a good idea,” Rena said. “Like Doug Franklin said. A missing kid. You do everything and then one more thing.”

“In that vein, let’s get going. We’ll try Brenda Owen’s house. That should be fairly fast. And then head over to the Antlers’. It would be good to get back to Baywood then, because I think we ought to talk to Elaine Broadstreet again tonight.”

Brenda Owen lived less than ten minutes away from the police station. On the way, they passed through the heart of Dover, which wasn’t much. The downtown was a three-block-long Main Street. A.L. counted five bars.

But Brenda’s house, which was two blocks off Main, was on a sweet little tree-lined street with lots of story-and-a-half Cape Cods. They found her address and knocked. A woman, early sixties, answered the door.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Rena said. “Are you Brenda Owen?”

“Yes.”

“The Brenda Owen who was a director of a childcare center here in Dover about ten years ago?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Morgan and this is Detective McKittridge.” They held out badges. “Can we have a minute of your time?”