Whitcomb is not that common a surname. I search on our DMV database and find the one closest to the Burbank home; in fact it’s only three doors down.

Next, I dig up their phone number. That’s easy. Just a click away. I feel like I’m the best clicker in the world. That if there was a prize for that expertise, I’d be up for it.

I dial the number.

Troy Whitcomb answers, and I tell him I’m looking for his daughter. His voice is clipped, suggesting that he’s had similar call encounters with law enforcement.

“What has she done now? Do we need a lawyer?”

“Oh no,” I tell him. “Nothing at all. I’m looking into the Burbank case up here and I want to talk to her about Ellie.”

I hope he doesn’t know the geography of the state that well because Jefferson County has no jurisdiction in the Burbank drownings. That’s Clallam County’s domain. Most Seattle area residents don’t think beyond their immediate vicinity. Everything outside of Seattle is either the Olympic peninsula or the other two thirds of the state, eastern Washington.

“Oh that,” he sighs. “That was a tough one. Tyra and Ellie were very close.”

“That’s what I understand,” I say.

From Facebook, I don’t admit.

“I’m a couple hours away,” I say. “I have errands to run in Seattle. I thought I’d call ahead to see if she was available to meet. Tonight?”

I was lying about the errands. I just wanted Mr. Whitcomb to say yes, as though the need to see Tyra was merely a formality.

“To tie up loose ends,” I say, to fill the dead space on the line.

He’s thinking it over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think it would be a good idea. Tyra needs some closure. This has been eating at her for a long time. Not the same girl since it all happened.”

“How so?” I ask, before quickly adding, “Besides losing her best friend, of course.”

He sighs. “The usual. Kids today have so many more chances to screw up than in my day.”

“That’s for sure,” I say, looking at the time. I have a semi decent chance that I could make the ferry from Kingston to Edmonds, just north of Seattle. That’s no easy feat, to be sure. Puget Sound traffic is a nightmare that just gets worse and worse.

“I’ll be there around eight, Mr. Whitcomb. Will Tyra be available then?”

“She’d better be,” he tells me in that clipped voice of his. “Or she’s broken curfew for the very last time.”

I grab my keys and fly out of the office, telling Sheriff that I’m heading out to talk to a friend of the missing Burbank girl.

“Not our case,” he says.

“Could be,” I tell him.