Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,101

“Ready for you, sir.”

“He owns a house,” Croft muttered under her breath as they walked through the kitchen.

“He was the only one to leave—” Tom stopped himself from saying Eden. “Looks like he kept a separate life.” But sterile. There were no photographs or any personal belongings.

“But why?” Croft pressed. “Did he just flop here on the weekends?”

“Maybe.” On a hunch, he checked the corners of the ceiling. Yep. That was what he’d thought. “But look at that.” He pointed to a camera, similar to the one they’d found in Mrs. Ellis’s house.

“Why?” Farley asked. “Was someone spying on him while he was spying on the old lady?”

Tom remembered what Dixie Serratt had said about DJ’s boss. “Or his boss distrusts him.”

Farley gave him a sharp look. “Care to explain that?”

Croft had made the connection. “We have information that the suspect has a Chicos tattoo.”

Farley blinked. “Oh shit. That drug gang is here? In my town?”

“So it would seem,” Croft said. “And his boss is not a kind individual. I’d have your Latent team dust every damn inch of this place. You might get a lucky hit.”

“I will,” Farley said grimly. “Thank you. Let’s check out his bedroom.”

The first bedroom had a queen-sized bed that appeared to have been slept in recently, but the closets were empty.

Like Liza’s closets. Tom’s chest squeezed hard. Dammit. Not now. He forced thoughts of Liza from his mind. Focus on your damn job, Hunter.

Tom took the second bedroom, which appeared to have been used as an office. There were three dust-free areas on the desk. Two were about the size of a printer, and the third might have been a laptop. “He took his electronics with him.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

Croft inhaled through her nose, then frowned. “Waffles?”

“It’s the 3D filament,” Tom told her. “It’s derived from corn. Smells like waffles.”

“So your theory about the license plate holds water.” She smiled at him. “Nice job, rookie.”

“It also means that he was running the 3D printer recently. Maybe last night. He’s probably made new license plates.”

“I figured he would,” Croft said grimly. “The BOLO on the box truck is worthless now.”

“Sergeant Farley.” One of the uniformed officers was standing in the doorway. “There’s something in the basement you want to see. Or not see. Maybe just smell.”

Tom had followed Farley one step down the basement stairs when he smelled it. “Whoa.” The skunky odor of weed became stronger as he descended the stairs. But the basement was empty. “They moved it out.”

“It was on pallets,” the officer said, shining his flashlight at the disturbances in the dust. “Looks like they had a significant stash, even if the pallets were only stacked one high. But there are scrapes along the walls where a second level of pallets might have sat.”

“Good work,” Farley said. His phone buzzed. “Excuse me. I need to take this. It’s my clerk.” He walked toward a door to the side yard, checking his signal. “Yes?” he answered, then listened. “You got a warrant started?” Then he smiled. “Good job. Yes, I’ll bring you a milkshake. Yes, it’ll be chocolate.” He ended the call and returned to Tom and Croft. “The house next door is owned by an Oakland couple. Their tenant’s name also is Mr. Derby, and I have a very smart clerk. When she saw the name, she immediately started another warrant.”

“Then she deserves a chocolate milkshake,” Tom said.

“There’s a path between the house next door and this one,” Farley explained as they ascended the stairs. “Not a paved path, but one beaten into the dirt. Lots of foot traffic between this place and the one next door. Like boxes being carried, maybe?”

“You’re thinking a grow house?” Croft asked.

Farley nodded. “I was afraid this would sprout back up. You Feds took out so many of those grow houses a few years back. The part of me that still believes in the Easter Bunny hoped that would be the end of it.”

His officers broke through this door as they had the last one, and Tom whistled from the threshold, because there was no real floor to walk on. “That is a lot of weed.”

The floors were covered in dirt, and marijuana plants grew in neat rows. A watering system hung from the ceiling and grow lights were positioned at regular intervals, bolted to the walls. Extension cords ran every which direction.

Crouching down, Farley pulled a leaf from the plant closest to the door. “Ready to harvest.” He stood