The Renegades

12

Hood’s phone rang early the next morning, not long after he’d let himself into the Hole.

“Latrenya changed her story,” said Bentley. “Now she says Londell was gone all night-business down in South Central. She didn’t see him until morning. She said she lied to us because Londell threatened to kill her if she told the truth. She got Tawna and Anton in on the plot, too. But Londell beat up Latrenya on an unrelated matter-something about her gaining weight. ER called us. Latrenya wouldn’t press charges but we sent two uniforms over to arrest Londell. He maced them. Now he’s in the wind and he looks a little better for Terry’s murder. We’re searching Londell’s Oasis pad in ten minutes. You are cordially invited.”

Hood, Bentley and Orr crammed into the small outer office of the Oasis manager, Sanjay. Sanjay was a young Indian man who smoked eagerly and said he wanted no trouble. He said Londell Dwayne was rude but always paid his rent, though never on time. And he played his music loud.

The men climbed the wobbly stairs and walked single file to the front door of Dwayne’s apartment. It was quiet now-no Londell and no Latrenya and no music. Orr knocked. Hood noted that the foil on the window had been tattered by the last storm.

Sanjay stomped out his cigarette, then unlocked the front door. When the lock disengaged, Bentley gently but firmly moved the manager back and away and told him to stay outside for now.

With his sport coat open and one hand on the butt of his automatic, Bentley turned the knob and pushed open the door. “Sheriffs,” he called out. “We’re coming in.”

The place was small and smelled of reefer and bacon. The carpet was dirty and there were yellow stains on the popcorn ceiling. The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and the refrigerator hummed loudly. There was a counter between the kitchen and the living room and on it were dinner plates with old food on them, and plenty of King Cobra empties.

Orr slipped down the hallway with his weapon drawn and went into a bedroom. Hood walked past him, gun at his side, went into the next room and flicked on the light.

It was a small room, with small windows up high. It was cold and it reminded Hood of the Hole. There was a mattress on the floor in one corner, with some sheets and blankets wadded up on top. There were dirty clothes in another corner. Hood spotted a Detroit Tigers hoodie. Down deeper in the pile were two red bandanas. Hood saw that one of them had been worn pirate-style, rolled on one edge and knotted, with a loose flap on top. He set them on the floor next to the black sweatshirt.

There was a chest slouching against one wall, drawers hanging open. On top of it were two empty cigarette hardpacks, four gun magazines and a blackened hash pipe. The closet doors hung askew but Hood got one open enough to see in: a few wire hangers, a few shirts, some beaten sneakers on the floor.

Hood went through the dresser looking for black gloves but didn’t find any. There was nothing under the bed. He stood looking down at the Detroit sweatshirt and the bandanas.

Then he heard Orr’s voice from the other bedroom. “Gentlemen, we have something here.”

The room was close and crowded by a king bed. The mattress had been swiveled out from the springs. Bentley and Orr stood in the cramped space between the bed and the closet. Hood joined them and looked down on the M249 SAW set into a crude cutout in the box spring. The mesh material had been cut open and a yard-long section of one of the slats had been broken out. The gun was jammed into the space. Orr replaced the flap that was cut in the cover material, hiding the weapon, then lifted it open again.

“Dead man,” he said.