We got out and climbed the steps. Slidell rang the bell.
It took roughly a decade for the door to open. When it did, I understood why.
Gracie-Lee Widget’s hair floated wispy white around a face shriveled by a thousand wrinkles. Scarecrow lips suggested edentulous jaws. But age wasn’t the woman’s most striking feature.
Gracie-Lee had one arm. That’s it. No other limbs. Her left shoulder was outfitted with an elaborate apparatus ending in two opposable hooks, and she rode a motorized chair that looked like something out of
Gracie-Lee scowled up at us, clearly not pleased.
“Detective Slidell.” Slidell badged her. “We spoke on the phone.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
Gracie-Lee snatched the badge. Drew it close to her face. Made a sound like
Slidell produced the warrant. Gracie-Lee shooed it as she might flies from a cake.
“Mr. Evans isn’t here.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It’s not right invading a man’s home.”
Slidell held out a hand. “We’ll be real careful.”
Gracie-Lee didn’t move.
“Ma’am?”
“Tcht.” The hook rose and dropped a key into Slidell’s palm.
“Don’t harm none of that nice young man’s belongings.”
With that Gracie-Lee pressed a button on her armrest. The chair swiveled, and the door slammed.
Slidell shook his head as we descended the steps. “Glad I don’t face that every year over Thanksgiving turkey.”
“She’s old.”
“She’s mean as a snake.”
The coach house was a two-story frame affair across a patch of grass at the end of a gravel drive. Double garage down, living quarters up. The second floor was accessed by an exterior wooden staircase.
Ancient myrtle grew thick at the back of the property. Though dusk was fading fast, through the foliage I could see what looked like a vast, sweeping lawn.
“Well, ain’t that sweet. Evans lives at the ass end of Charlotte Country Club.”
Slidell’s voice dripped scorn. For golf? For being on the wrong side of the course? For those rich enough to belong to the club?
I said nothing.
We passed a koi pond that was green with algae. A brick planter overflowing with dead leaves. A birdbath lying in two pieces on the ground.
As we walked, Slidell’s hand drew up to his gun butt. His eyes roved our surroundings. Neck tension suggested alert listening.
At the coach house, Slidell gestured with a downturned palm. Sensitive to his body language, I froze.
Through a dirty window I could see that the garage held only garden equipment, a wooden ladder, and a set of wrought-iron lawn furniture. A door opened from the back wall, I guessed into a small work-or storeroom.
“No Chevy Tahoe,” Slidell mumbled, more to himself than to me.
“Where is CSS?”
“They’re coming.”
Typical Slidell. Giving himself a window alone at the scene.
Slidell moved to the stairs, but must have seen something he didn’t like. Squatting, he inspected the first step. Then he rose and stepped high onto the step above.
I looked down.
A wire stretched low across the riser. I nodded that I’d seen the trap.
On the top landing, Slidell waved me behind him with another palm gesture. Then he banged on the door. “Glenn Evans?”
A train whistled somewhere very far off.
“Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police. I have a warrant to search these premises.”
No answer.
Slidell drew his gun and leaned close to the door. After turning his head left then right, he stood back and banged again.
“I have a key, Mr. Evans. I’m coming in.”
The door opened easily.
Every shade was down. A floorboard creaked, otherwise the interior was deathly still.
Slidell flicked a wall switch.
The kitchen was European modern. Black and white floor tile. Sleek black cabinets with lots of glass. Stainless steel appliances.
No freezer large enough to hold a body.
“Stay here.” Gruff.
Glock double-fisted beside his nose, Slidell strode to an open door opposite the entrance and pressed his back to the wall. I darted to his side.
Slidell whipped my way and glared. I raised my hands in acquiescence. I would stay put.
Slidell disappeared through the doorway.
I peeked around the jamb. Darkness.
Drawing back, I waited. It was so quiet I could hear my breath rising and falling in my throat.
Finally, a second light went on.
“Clear,” Slidell said.
I stepped from the kitchen into a short interior hall. Doors opened on the left, the right, and straight ahead. Slidell was banging drawers beyond the latter. I joined him.
“Real palace, eh?” Slidell’s tone was once again dialed to disparaging. “Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. Guess Lingo don’t overpay his staff.”
I looked around.
The room set a new standard for understatement. Beige walls, furniture, drapes, and carpet. White ceiling and woodwork. No funny coasters or pillows. No snapshots of dogs or friends in bad party hats. No trophies, photos, mementos, or artwork.
A brass floor lamp rose from behind the couch. A flat-screen TV occupied the top shelf in a set of recessed shelving. To the left of the recess was a series of built-in drawers. That’s where Slidell was searching. To its right was a cabinet.
The shelves below the TV held scores of DVD’s. Pulling on latex gloves, I walked over and ran through the titles.
“Evans likes action,” I said.
Slidell slammed a drawer and yanked out another. Rifled with one gloved hand.
I opened the cabinet. Liquor.
“He isn’t a teetotaler.” I checked labels. Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch whiskey. Evan Williams twenty- three-year-old bourbon. Belvedere vodka. “The guy drops some bucks on booze.”
I looked around. Slidell was on the bottom drawer. Seeing nothing else of interest, I moved on to the bathroom.
Clean enough. Old-fashioned pedestal sink and commode. Black vinyl shower curtain. Black and white towels.
On the toilet back were a boar bristle brush, a Bic razor, a can of Aveeno shave gel, and a Sonicare toothbrush in its charger.
The medicine cabinet held the usual. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Aspirin. Pepto. Nasal spray. Band-Aids. A tube
