“Maybe it’s the maid’s week off.” He continued to the next doorway.
“Week? Try century,” I groused. “Anything?”
He shook his head, and I stepped around him to the next closed door.
Twisting the knob, I gingerly pushed it open, only to revise my opinion. “Okay,
there’s one thing that grows just fine here.”
He came up behind me and we stood there, surveying a very expensive grow
room. Looked like Tito enjoyed horticulture.
The window was blacked out with a thin layer of plywood. Grow lights lined neat rows of dark green, spiky-leafed plants of varying heights. There were timers on each row. Probably for the automatic watering system. A homemade ventilation system was rigged against the far wall. Close to the door, a table contained a couple of scales, plus a small pile of empty baggies.
Kayden let out a low whistle. “Do-it-yourself dealer?”
A small laugh escaped. “Chances are, he’s got himself a grower’s card and he’s supplying his patients.” I used air quotes on the last word.
“Patients?”
Turning out of the doorway, I patted him on the arm. “Welcome to Arizona,
where marijuana can cure your ills.”
“Stupid to leave this unguarded,” he murmured behind me.
“Mmm,” I answered noncommittally. “Tito doesn’t strike me as a corporate
shark.”
The last room was Tito’s bedroom. A queen mattress lay on the floor, taking
up most of the floor space. Something from his time in the Corps must have stuck because the bed was covered in a light blanket, the corners folded with military precision. A small lamp and dirty ashtray sat on the floor next to it.
There was a pile of clothes in the corner.
Walking over to the closet, I slid the door open.
T-shirts hung in a neat row above a shelf holding folded, faded jeans and some sweats. The most interesting items in the closet rested on the floor. A small
collection of semi-automatic weapons was lined up against the back wall.
Tito’s private armory was worth more than what grew in the other room.
There was an AK-47, an AR-15, an M16, and more surprising, a DPMS .308
Mark 12. That pretty piece alone cost close to eighteen hundred dollars. In the corner on a shelf, a box of nine-millimeter ammo meant we might be missing a
gun. Or two. Guess Tito had his home security covered.
In the back corner of the closet, where the light had a difficult time reaching,
a dress uniform hung, and below it sat a battered footlocker.
Together, Kayden and I dragged it out into the open. Once again, he brought
out his set of picks and went to work. Much quicker this time, the lock popped
open. Flipping the lid revealed folded BDUs, worn boots, a battered helmet, and various duty accessories. Kayden carefully moved them aside, uncovering a
couple of battered notebooks. He pulled them out, flipping through them.
“Anything?” I asked, feeling antsy about going through Ramirez’s locker,
even knowing why it was necessary.
“Looks like a journal, could be useful.” He set it on the floor and rummaged
a bit more. He came back with a small, blue spiral notebook wrapped in a couple
of rubber bands. He handed it to me, so he could continue his search.
I pulled off one of the rubber bands, and it was so brittle, it broke. There were loose pieces of paper tucked in the notebook, so I tried to go through it without dropping anything. A few pages in, I let out a low curse.
Kayden looked up. “What?”
“There are names in here.”
