The Second Girl(2)

Most of the leaves have fallen from the few trees that hang tough on this block. The largest one, an old oak, with roots like fat, arthritic fingers reaching over the median, stands tall, anchored defiantly in front of their house.

The sidewalk and the walkway leading to the front porch are littered with dead leaves, crunching under my feet.

If I’m walking like I belong, why try to walk quietly? That wouldn’t be natural. It’s the way I look and dress, the way I carry myself, that means the most. Those years on the job stay with you, and I learned well. A commanding exterior presence. The inside, well, maybe not so much.

An empty bottle of Cuervo 1800, spent containers of sports drinks, cigarette butts, and scrunched-up red plastic cups are piled in a corner of the patio, in front of a couple of fold-up chairs. The black security gate is aluminum; the front door’s wooden, and there’s one dead bolt above the doorknob. Old, just like the house. You’d think based on what they do for a living they’d have more sense and give the front door an upgrade, invest in a steel door with a stronger frame. Maybe they’re just too f*cking confident. They’ll know better soon.

I pull a pair of latex gloves out of the front pocket of my pants, put them on. I ring the doorbell a couple of times. I hear it chime, muffled through the wooden door, wait a few seconds and ring again. No answer. No barking dog, but I never saw them with a dog, so I don’t expect one.

I look behind me, scan the block, unshoulder the backpack, unzip one of the pockets, and grab a large screwdriver.

I wedge the tip between the door and the frame to the right of the dead bolt, find the spot where the bolt meets the metal, then slam the screwdriver with the heel of my palm. It doesn’t take more than a couple of hits.

Another quick glance behind me, and I pry the door open and enter, closing it behind me. It swings open a bit ’cause it won’t latch. I notice a single tennis shoe on the floor, grab it, and push it against the door so it stays partly open. Push back my suit jacket and remove my Glock from its holster. I tuck it to my side.

The smell inside the house is like ripe armpit mixed with cheap old liquor. I’ve been in worse places, though. More shoes on the floor, discarded shirts on two stained sofas, empty bottles of liquor, beer, cigarette butts falling out of ashtrays, beer cans replacing ashtrays, brand-new flat screen on an old coffee table against a wall.

It doesn’t matter how much preparation you put into a spot before you go in. Unless you can see through walls, you never know what you’re going to find. Fortunately, this is a small house, so there are not a lot of rooms to clear. No basement either, so one of the upstairs bedrooms is more than likely the spot I’m looking for. I’ve got a feeling Shiny likes to keep the stash close, so after I clear the house, the room I believe he beds down in is the one I’ll tear up.

The kitchen is littered with pizza boxes, more empty beer and liquor bottles. There are a few power tools—circular saw, drills, tile cutter, and so on—lined up against a wall near the rear door. Doesn’t look like they do much cooking. There are a couple of nearly full bottles of Cuervo on the counter. I’ll give it a more thorough search after I check the rooms on the second floor.

The wooden staircase leading to the second floor is narrow and creaky, the railing flimsy. I grip my gun with two hands and keep it at the ready.

Move up the steps.

An equally narrow hallway with wood floors, an open door to a bedroom straight ahead. Two other rooms, one of the doors open, separated by a bathroom. A linen closet with a slightly open door is across from the bathroom, past the flimsy metal banister rails.

I clear the room ahead of me first and then the next one. I’ll make my way back to search both rooms after I clear and search the master bedroom.

The closed door should be the main bedroom. Probably Shiny’s. I swing it open.

It’s the master bedroom. One window with drawn blackout curtains and a large king-size bed against a wall. A soccer ball’s in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dirty laundry and a black garbage bag stuffed with more dirty laundry. A portrait representing Christ, eyes toward heaven, hangs on the wall over the bed. Graffiti, as if they’ve been practicing their craft, on the other walls. There’s a small walk-in closet and another closed door with a latch and a padlock on the outside. I like padlocked doors.

I pull the curtain open enough to peek out. The old oak directly ahead. My Volvo across the street half a block down. Same cars that were parked there earlier. An old black man walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

The padlocked door has to be a bathroom. It’s an obvious first choice to search.

I position myself to the side of the door and put my ear against it, give it a bit of a push, then turn the knob. I hear what sounds like a chain or a leash scooting on the floor. Sounds like I might have gotten the dog ownership thing all wrong. The last thing I want is an underfed pit bull jumping out at me after I open the door. All the time I’ve been sitting on this place I’ve never seen them with one. Sometimes they’ll keep them locked up and secured inside where they keep the stash. The dogs get meaner being confined like that. If it is a dog, it might think I’m its master and won’t attack until after I break off the latch and it suddenly realizes I’m not. Dogs don’t scare me, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with one right now. I put my ear against the door again, push at it. Nothing this time, not even a low growl. But there’s definitely something in there. If it’s a dog, I’m hoping it’ll be crated.