Turkin's Garage

351.

In the middle of my thought train she asks; "What now?"

"Let's continue to the address AK gave us and have a quick look-see, since we're almost here." I scramble for my notebook and find the notation. "14786 Sierra St. I'll get a gps fix."

We find the tired, run-down faux ranch-style house a few blocks from the main arterial. There is furniture at the curb, scattered trash and a lawn that has needed mowing since last year. I call Julie for an update and ask her to run the address in our data base as we park across the street and scout the immediate surroundings.

"Owned by a real-estate consortium, POC is a Jules Hampton at 415.332.9439. Taxes up to date, no suspicious notes, but it does look like it has been listed as an Airbnb rental for the last few years, and most likely shuttered at the start of the pandemic," She informs us.

"Thanks, we've been played by Turkin; Phone a burner and no one here for what looks like a long while. We're going in through the back door to have a look, keep Harlan on call in case we need a warrant."

"Copy, be careful."

"Roger on the precautions. Out."

I unlock the gun safe under the back seat and pull the shotgun, checking the chamber and magazine port. As I do I see Mustang check her Sig Sauer. "Let's hope this is routine, nobody home, and we won't need all the hardware."

"Better safe than sorry," she replies, exactly as I expected her to.

We exit the vehicle, I toting the sawed-off alongside my cane to keep any onlooking neighbors from calling the real cops, or worse, community security services.  We walk slowly towards the house, eyes scanning at one-hundred eighty degrees. I remember a saying TOM used in situations similar to this one: 'There is no excuse for inattention.'

We walk to the front door and check for security devices or cameras, finding none. Satisfied, we walk to the side of the house, through a half opened cedar gate, and to the rear of the stucco sided house. Simultaneously we both stop. We are side by side, senses on full alert.

"What's that?" She asks, sniffing into the air in the direction of a detached garage.

I smell it too. "Not sure, but I will guarantee that whatever it is, it has been in decay for a while."

"Should we call it in?"

"Not yet, let's have a look first."

Slowly, we walk towards the garage. There is a side door with a six-panel window above the brass knob assembly. We walk towards it with internal sirens glaring. The window panes are covered by dark gray curtains. I grab my handkerchief, not having a surgical glove handy, and test the door. It is locked.

"Cough loudly in three, two…"

At one I break a pane of glass with the butt of the shotgun and reach inside to open the door.

The smell is overpowering. I find the light switch and flip it on.