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“Maybe he’s trying to avoid infections.”
“You mostly get that if you’re sharing needles with someone else.”
After a thorough searchthey turned up a few more items: a bottle of antiseptic wipes, two cell phones, a list of phone numbers written out on paper. And, cleverly hidden behind a cut-out panel under the sink where the pipes went into the wall, they found the pot of gold.
Or drugs, rather.
Fifty baggies of powdered coke, twenty vials of liquid heroin, and ten rocks of crack, along with a roll of cashrubber-banded together, and a loaded Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with the serial numbers filed off.
“Decker, this guy’s not a user. He’s a dealer.”
Decker didn’t answer because he was staring at something on the floor.
Jamison looked at the spot. “It’s a narrow line in the dust,” she said. “Like something was dragged over it.”
Decker got down on his kneesto examine the mark more closely.
He stood and looked at Jamison. “What do you want to bet the person staying here won’t be coming back?”
“What do you mean?”
“That mark isn’t from something being dragged over the floor. It’s from abiketire. I think we just found Michael Swanson’s final place of residence.”
