“Coyote Frogg was the only child of Trapper Frogg and his wife, who were married late 1980s and divorced in the late 1990s when he was ten. Trapper Frogg died three years ago. Coyote was mentioned in the obituary but there was no other family. Although I think I did see a note that the ex-wife was living in Las Vegas. I don’t think Doug talked to her. Can’t remember her name.”

“Dusty,” A.L. said. “That was his wife’s name. You’re right, Franklin didn’t talk to her. I think because Trapper told him that there’d been no contact between her and either Trapper or Coyote for many years.”

“Why do you ask me when you already have all this in your head?”

“Testing you,” he said.

She raised her middle finger in a friendly salute. “Test this.”

He smiled. “Faster wants us to wrap this up with a bow.”

“Did you see the front page of this morning’s paper?”

He had. The headline had been Fund-raising Site Established for Missing Child. He’d skimmed the article. It had given a basic update on continuing search activities and then devoted three paragraphs to how people could donate to the Whitman family. “I imagine the money will flow in,” he said. “By Monday, the headline is going to be Baywood Cops Can’t Find Their Own Asses.”

“Which explains Faster’s motivation. The press is still playing nice but it won’t last. The mayor is already calling him.”

“Can you text Brent Smoke and ask him to pull Trapper Frogg’s last address?” A.L. asked.

“Why? I thought you said that Coyote hadn’t been seen or heard from since 2017. You don’t think he’s hiding out at his dad’s old house, do you?”

“No. But prior to dropping off the grid, he had a checking account. Ferguson was able to find a deposit for forty-seven thousand dollars.”

“Chump change in the drug world,” she said.

“Right. But this was a wire transfer, from one bank to another. I’m betting it was legitimate money from the sale of his dad’s house. We’re going to go talk to the buyer. See what he or she knows.”

She picked up her phone. Touched some numbers. “I’m sort of disappointed in you that you can’t remember the address. It was probably mentioned at least once in those hundred pages or so that we reviewed. Perhaps your memory isn’t that good.”

“I’ll remember forever that you’re a pain in the ass. I know that it was Cleveland Avenue but I don’t want to waste time circling the block.”