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Lula rushed outside to my Jeep Cherokee and claimed the front passenger seat before Bob had a chance to get in. Bob didn’t look like he cared too much. He jumped into the back and snarfed around, looking for yesterday’s crumbs.
“Where’s this loser live?” Lula asked.
“Carlory Street.”
“That’s just past the junkyard,” Lula said. “There’s some good real estate possibilities there if you don’t mind living by a junkyard on one side and the power substation on the other.”
For the most part, Trenton is chockablock with houses. Carlory Street not so much. It’s a little over a mile long and it’s sprinkled with empty lots and houses in various stages of neglect. The vegetation is overgrown, the street is dotted with potholes and abandoned cars. Feral cats outnumber humans by about ten to one.
“If you’re going to kidnap some woman and chain her to a doghouse, Carlory Street is a good place to do it,” Lula said. “I imagine nobody there pays a lot of attention to dogs barking or people yelling.”
I bypassed the center of the city and came at Carlory Street from the substation side. There were no names or numbers on driveways, but Google Earth gave me a picture of the dirt driveleading to Trundle’s house, and the GPS lady told me I was at the right spot.
“I guess this would be considered rural in Trenton,” Lula said, “only it’s not the scenic kind of rural. It’s not Vermont, if you see what I mean.”
The house was hidden from the street by a weathered privacy fence and small shed. Vines grew over the fence and tangled in brush that was partially obscured by weeds. I slowly drove down the short driveway. A cat streaked across the driveway in front of me and Bob sat up in the back seat and woofed.
I stopped just short of the house. It was all on one level with mold on the roof and rot in the wood window trim. No car on the property. No sign of activity.
“He could be hiding out in there pretending nobody’s home,” Lula said. “We could be walking into a dangerous situation. Good thing we brought an attack dog with us. I say we send him in first to scope things out.”
I checked Bob out in the rearview mirror. His big brown eyes were focused on me. His soft, floppy ears were perked up, listening. No way was I sending Bob into the house first.
“It looks deserted,” I said.
“Yeah, but what if it isn’t deserted?”
“We’ll have a reasonable conversation with Mr. Trundle.”
I didn’t really believe anyone could have a reasonable conversation with Farcus Trundle, but it was one of those things you told yourself, so you didn’t prematurely hyperventilate.
Lula, Bob, and I walked to Trundle’s front door, and I knocked. No one answered, so Lula looked in the front windows.
“I don’t see anyone in there, alive or dead,” Lula said. “There’sa roach, sneakers up, on the window ledge. Are we going to bust the door down and look around?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said.
“Good call,” Lula said. “I only want to see the doghouse anyways.”
We walked around the side of the house to the backyard. A rusted-out Weber grill was next to the back door. The yard was mostly hard-packed dirt. A prefab igloo-type doghouse was at the back of the area designated as yard.
“That dome thing must be it,” Lula said. “It doesn’t look big enough for an old lady and a dog. And I’m thinking that it had to be alittleold lady. Even then she’d have to curl herself up in it.”
“The police report said the woman was chained to the doghouse, but I don’t see a chain,” I said to Lula.
“There’s also no dog.”
Bob was beside me, looking bored, leading me to believe that there hadn’t been a dog here in a long time.
I looked in the windows in the back of the house. I tried the back door. Unlocked. I hadn’t intended to do a house search, but this was tempting. I stepped inside and shouted for Farcus. No answer. I was in the kitchen and there wasn’t a lot to see.
“This house smells old,” Lula said. “And the kitchen doesn’t look like it gets a lot of use.” She opened the refrigerator door. “He’s got an onion and a squeeze bottle of mayo in here. There’s not even any beer. Hard to believe a man with a name like Farcus could get along without beer.”
We did a quick walk-through and left.
“He didn’t even have a lot of clothes there,” Lula said. “A winter jacket and some boots. So, what’s up next?”
“I want to talk to the victim.”
