“Poor guy,” I said. “He really had it bad for her.”

Jackson took a step back. “It’s hard to envision a guy who plays with toy trains robbing a bank.”

Hard to envision him getting laid, either. Not that I was trying to envision such a thing.

Though many considered model trains nerdy, I had to admit I found the little people and buildings and scenery cute and quaint. My father always set up his old train set at Christmastime so that it ran in circles around Mom’s miniature snow-covered village. It wouldn’t be Christmas without the sound of Dad’s train making its rounds and eventually derailing when one of Mom’s tabbies wreaked havoc on the city like a feline Godzilla.

The detective pulled out one of her business cards, scribbled “Call Me” on it with a ballpoint pen, and wedged it between the door and frame.

We returned to my cruiser, where we attempted to do online what we’d failed to do in reality. Find Christopher Vogel.

I pulled up his Facebook page and scanned his recent posts. “I don’t see anything on here indicating where he might be today.”

Though Vogel hadn’t posted anything to clue us in on his whereabouts, he’d made dozens of posts in recent weeks. One dated two months earlier included a photo of a trophy that featured a gold-plated antique train engine. The engraving on the plate affixed to the base read FIRST PLACE 2015 HO SCALE DIORAMA COMPETITION. There were also dozens of posts with photos of him and Serena. The two of them smiling as they raised full glasses of beer at a bar, a neon Coors Light sign illuminated on the wall behind them. A full-length photo of Serena holding the roses Chris had given her for Valentine’s Day last month. An off-center selfie of them at the turtle pond in the botanical gardens. The caption for that one read: Do I have the best girlfriend ever or what?

The answer to that question was clear.

Or what.

His most recent post was six days old. It said simply, “Lost my girl. Lost my job. My entire life has derailed.”

“No need for him to be such a sad sack,” Jackson said. “A cute guy like him could probably find a new girl in no time.”

True. The guy might be a model train nerd, but he was undeniably attractive. Dark brown hair cut short on the sides and left longer on top in a trendy style. Vivid blue eyes. A nice smile. He didn’t have Seth’s sexy, muscular shoulders, but he wasn’t scrawny either. Just an average-size guy.

“What now?”

“We’ve exhausted our leads from the bank for the time being,” Jackson said. “Let’s make a run by the city Transportation Authority, check up on their drivers.”

I started the car and aimed for the headquarters for the city bus service, which sat only a few blocks away from the carpet warehouse where we’d been earlier. Not knowing how long we’d be, I brought Brigit inside with us.

Detective Jackson stepped up to the receptionist and flashed her badge. “Detective Audrey Jackson, Fort Worth PD. There someone in charge here we can talk to?”

The receptionist picked up her phone, punched three numbers, and spoke into her receiver. “There’s a detective here from the police department who wants to speak with you.” She paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll send her back.”

The woman hung up her phone and motioned down the hallway to her side. “Last door on the right.”

We made our way down the hall, Brigit’s tags jingling as we walked. We reached the last door, which boasted a bronze nameplate etched with PATRICIA EWING. Jackson rapped once on the door and Ewing called out, “Come on in.”

Jackson opened the door to reveal a tall, broad fiftyish woman with fiery red hair cut in a short, intentionally messy do. We stepped inside, closed the door behind us, and shook hands with Ewing over her desk. She gestured for us to take seats in the two wing chairs facing her desk. Brigit sat at my side, her mouth hanging slightly open as she softly panted.

Jackson leaned forward. “We’re hoping you can help us figure out who robbed the bank and stole one of your buses earlier today.”

“Incredible, wasn’t it?” Ewing said. “I’ve worked for the authority for twenty-two years and never heard of anything like it. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

“Us, too,” I said. I only hoped it stayed that way. As long as the criminals were on the loose, there was always the chance they’d up the ante to physical violence. The pressure was on us to catch these guys ASAP, before they could wreak more havoc or hurt someone. It was a heavy load to bear. A low-stress job pushing paper at an insurance company wasn’t sounding so bad about then.

Jackson pulled out her notepad. “The driver who’d been forced off the bus didn’t see which of our three suspects took the wheel, but he noted that whoever drove the thing off seemed to know how to handle it. ’Course this leads me to believe that at least one of the bus-jackers had some experience with these types of vehicles. We’re thinking he might be, or at some time have been, a bus driver. Anyone here come to mind? Someone with financial problems? A drug or gambling problem? Maybe an axe to grind?”

Ewing raised a finger. “Let me get Denise from HR in here. She interacts directly with the employees and would be more aware if one of them was having an issue.”

Ewing proceeded to pick up her phone receiver with the other hand, and used the finger she’d raised to jab a button. “Hi, Denise. Come on down to my office, please. No need to knock.”

A few seconds later, the door swung open and in stepped Denise, a bony brunette wearing a pantsuit the color of honeydew melon. Ewing gestured at a rolling, barrel-shape chair in the corner and Denise pulled it over.

Ewing introduced us to Denise and explained the reason for our visit.

“Financial problems?” Denise said. “Harry Waltham comes to mind. He had to file bankruptcy after his wife had a prolonged illness. He missed a lot of work. Some of the other drivers complained about having to cover for him. Harry seems like a decent guy, though. Despite his money issues I can’t see him robbing a bank.”

The detective and I exchanged discreet glances. Desperate people sometimes took desperate measures. The police constantly arrested thieves, embezzlers, and con artists whom others had seen as upstanding citizens. Still, if one of the thieves was Harry Waltham, who were the others? Friends of his? Family members? Other bus drivers?

Despite Denise’s sense that Waltham wasn’t our guy, Jackson made a note of his name on her pad, adding his address and phone number after Ewing pulled it up on her computer. Ewing also showed us a photograph of Waltham. The guy was a light-skinned African American with short black hair, a longish face, and a strong chin. He appeared to be in his forties. He fit the general description of the man who’d brandished the rifle on the bus.

Turning back to the HR director, Jackson asked, “What about drug or gambling problems? Any drivers you know of with those types of problems?”

Denise’s face contorted as she appeared to be thinking things over. “We had a driver named Ronnie Butler who used to go to Vegas every time he took vacation. He eventually quit working here when he got a job driving a tour bus to the casinos in Oklahoma. I remember when he turned in his resignation he joked about finally getting his dream job, that he’d be able to gamble on the clock.”

“How long ago was this?” Jackson asked.

Denise sucked her lip in thought. “Two, maybe three months ago.”

Jackson jotted down his name and contact information, too. “What about disgruntled drivers? Anybody get reprimanded or fired and not take it well?”

Denise chuckled. “Does anyone take getting fired well?”

Jackson merely raised an impatient brow in return.

Denise sat up straighter in her chair. “We had to let one of our more senior drivers go recently when we discovered he’d been carrying a handgun on the job. He drove a late shift in east Fort Worth and said he didn’t feel safe without it. I felt bad for the guy, but carrying a weapon is against policy. We also terminated another driver last month. Three women accused him of groping them as he pretended to help them onto the bus. He claimed there was no truth behind their accusations, but when we searched his bus we also found a small video camera taped to the ceiling over the doorway. He said he didn’t put it there, but who else would put a camera on a city bus? Our guess was that he was using it to get a peek down women’s shirts. He’s been a real pain since we fired him. He’s written to the mayor, the city council, even his congressman.”