The man said, “Bullshit! I’m calling the cops!” and slammed the inner door.
Through the screened windows, they heard a woman ask, “Mitch, who was it, Mitch?” and Mitch said, “Some fake cops. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
Lucas had his cell phone on, turned to the speakerphone, and Bob said, “I heard that. I’ll call nine-one-one and get back to you when it’s straightened out.”
Lucas stood on the porch and Rae stood back at an angle. A woman peered out of one of the screened windows and said, “If you’re fake, you better go away, the cops are gonna be coming.”
“We’re federal marshals, so the cops are already here, as your husband will probably find out in a minute or so,” Rae told her.
The woman said, “Oh,” and looked back to where her husband was on the phone. “I think they might be real, Mitch.”
Lucas’s phone buzzed and Bob said, “We’re clear with nine-one-one.”
A minute later, Mitch came to the door, red-faced and apologetic, and said, “Sorry about that. We’ve had some problems in the neighborhood. Got my mail stolen last month.”
“By a tall white guy wearing a suit in the middle of the night?” Rae asked from behind Lucas’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Lucas said, patching things over. “Sorry if we startled you. We need to ask about the man who lives in the back...”
“D.D.? What’d he do?”
His wife had moved up to his shoulder and muttered, “I told you he was trouble.”
“He hasn’t done anything as far as we know,” Lucas said. “We’re asking about an old friend of his.”
Mitch said, “Well, he’s back there. Feel free.”
“Has he been in any trouble with the law, that you know of? Or any trouble at all?” Rae asked.
Mitch shook his head. “We don’t see him that much. He works at a gentlemen’s club during the day, sometimes he’s got a girl who stays over. Most of the time he’s back there alone with his bird.”
“His bird?”
“Yeah, you know. He’s got a bird. It’s like a parrot, sort of,” Mitch said.
“Cockatoo,” the woman said. “Real pretty, all white. He calls it ‘Angel.’ It does look like an angel. A small one.”
“Don’t call him and tell him we’re here,” Lucas said.
“Sure won’t,” the man said.
—
THE HOUSEin back showed light at three windows; two of the windows were closed, and the third was occupied by a humming window air conditioner. Through the closed door, they could hear Florida Georgia Line’s “Get Your Shine On,” played loud. Lucas pushed the doorbell. When there was no answer, he said, “Music’s too loud,” and banged on the door with his fist.
The music was turned down and a minute later a man in a sleeveless shirt, shorts, and flip-flops came to the door. His upper bodywas the size of a garbage can, and not all of it was fat, though some of it was. He squinted nearsightedly at Lucas, then at Rae. “Who are you?”
Lucas’s badge again: “Federal marshals.”
“Why? I haven’t done nothin’,” the large man said, though a thin trail of marijuana smoke had accompanied him to the door.
“We need to ask you about an old friend of yours,” Rae said. “So we’re coming in.”
“You got a search warrant?”
Rae shook her head. “I hate to tell you this, D.D., but smoking weed is still a federal crime, and from where we’re at, we can smell it.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
