Head to Head by Linda Ladd Page A

trailers. The teeter-totters teetered and tottered on their last legs. The slide looked lethal. The whole place looked dangerous. Three little girls about seven sat in the dirt under a rusty swing set sans swings. One was wearing a red two-piece bathing suit, one had on blue baby-doll pajamas, and one had on dirty white shorts and no shirt. It was a pathetic place to raise kids. Unfortunately, I’d seen other places just like it or even worse in my line of work.
    “Jeez, what a dump,” Bud said.
    “Over there, under the oak tree. The silver one.”
    A man wearing jean shorts and a red T-shirt that said SCREW YOU , LADY , PLEASE ? saw me looking and ducked back inside his house. “What’d you bet crank rocks and quarter bags are hitting the toilets all over this place?”
    Bud said, “Yeah, we oughta cruise through here once a week. Drug control without leavin’ the car.”
    We pulled up near the nasty little trailer. “Tell me, Morgan, how’s our boy finance a snazzy trailer like this on busboy’s pay?”
    “It’s better than the rest of them. His wife’s a cocktail waitress at the Blue Pelican Country Club. She makes good tips.”
    “Yeah? She oughta take them and get the hell outta here.”
    By the looks of the front yard, it appeared that Inman tossed all his garbage and beer bottles out the window instead of paying for trash service. I searched dingy windows for signs of life.
    “Park down behind those bushes, and let’s walk up. It’d be better if he didn’t see us coming, especially if he’s been hitting the booze.”
    I climbed out, unsnapped my shoulder holster, just in case. Inman was a big, mean guy with a temper—a real charmer. He messed with me last time, and I’d busted my hand breaking his nose. I listened. Everything was quiet except for the voices of the little girls under the torn-up swings. They were playing red rover. A little hard to do with just the three. Maybe they had imaginary friends.
    Bud came up beside me and spoke in a low voice. “You ready?”
    “You take the back, in case he runs. I’ll take the front.”
    “Listen, Claire, don’t go in alone if there’s trouble. Wait for me.” Bud looked at me as if he expected me to agree to that. Bud thought I took chances.
    I said, “No sign of his truck. Maybe he’s not here.”
    Bud slipped around behind some thick forsythia bushes. I took a deep breath and sidestepped garbage and other junk all the way to the front door. The soles of my sneakers crunched on hundreds of rotten acorn shells. I hoped all the beer bottles scattered around didn’t bode ill for this takedown. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet, as if nature were holding its breath to see if we could surprise Inman. Even the birds had shut their beaks, probably irked by Bud’s less than stealthy trek around back. The sixth sense that served me well quivered, and I drew my Glock and held it down alongside my right thigh. I edged up on the little porch, keeping my body to one side of the door.
    “Open up, sheriff’s department.”
    I hit the aluminum screen door with a doubled fist. It rattled like crazy but brought nothing alive inside. I tightened my grip on my weapon. “If you’re in there, Inman, open up. Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
    No answer. Cautiously, I opened the screen door and found the scarred door ajar. I pushed it open with my toe. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale body odor hit me in the face. Inch by ugly inch, Inman’s home materialized. A ragged, overturned brown recliner. Broken dishes scattered around on the filthy green shag carpet. A woman lying on her back, arms outflung, blood all over her face. A broken Budweiser bottle lay beside her head.
    I checked out behind the door, eased in with my back flat against the wall. Gun ready, nerves on edge, I surveyed the place. Kitchen empty and in a shambles. The blood spatter visible on greasy white cabinets looked like three scarlet carnations overlapping each other. He