“Probably about 7:30 that night. No one was there then. But by then we’d all heard the Amber Alert and knew that the father ran Garage on Division. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone. Fortunately, I’d had them put my keys under my floor mat.”

Christ, this was one big bust. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Shepherd.”

“Sure.” She hung up.

Was this why Troy had seemed more relaxed about the request this morning? Had he realized that A.L. was going to run into a dead end?

There was one more person to call. Peitra Jonet. He dialed the number. It rang four times and went to voice mail. He left a brief message, asking for a return call. Then he sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the scarred wood.

“Any luck?” Rena asked, coming back to her desk.

“Got the information off the computer system easily enough but didn’t get anything helpful from two of the three customers I needed to talk to. Waiting to hear from the third.”

“Okay. I managed to connect with the beat cops who cover the area where Coyote Frogg and his friend got off the bus. They told me that Frogg first showed up about a month ago. He’s peddling for sure. They’re watching him, trying to figure out if he’s an independent operator or part of an established network.”

From his early days on the force, he knew that was a fairly common approach. The opportunity to catch a bigger fish was not one to be squandered. “We definitely need to talk to Coyote’s mother in Vegas. Ferguson tracked down her number for me. She’s still in Las Vegas. I may just be spinning my wheels.”

“Is that anything like getting your tires rotated?”

A.L. rolled his eyes. “Garage humor? Really, Morgan. That’s the best you can do on a Sunday morning?”

“I didn’t get breakfast. Let’s go to Pancake Magic. Maybe Traci is working?”

It was always a good day when he could see his kid and surprise her with a twenty under his plate as an extraspecial gratuity. “Let me call Dusty first.”

“It’s still early in Las Vegas.”

“Maybe she’s an early riser,” he said. He looked up the number on the email that Ferguson had sent. He dialed. Like with Peitra Jonet, the line rang four times before it went to voice mail. “Getting to be old shit,” A.L. murmured.

“You’ve reached Dusty. Leave a message or don’t. It’s all good.” The beep sounded. He left his name and number and asked for a call back.

“She sounds chipper,” Rena said.

“I do love chipper,” A.L. said. “Let’s go.”