Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      SCOTT SAT IN his truck outside the two-story house, dictating notes into his iPhone. The front porch boards were rotted and looked as if they’d collapse with the weight from the next snowfall. One window had a black plastic garbage bag taped over the half-broken pane.

      Trent and other cops in unmarked ILPD cars had surrounded the house and blocked off the street. There were no lights or sirens cutting through the night, though in the distance, Scott could still hear the fireworks explosions over Indian Lake.

      “Probably at the Lodges,” he mumbled. Scott was glad he’d downloaded an app for shooting in very low light. He took another photo of Trent and the cops advancing on the house in a semicircle as two other cops raced around the back. They wore black parkas with ILPD emblazoned in bright yellow letters on the back.

      Trent had his gun pulled and at the ready as he banged on the front door and announced, “Police!”

      Scott zoomed in to record the scene. Of course there was no answer.

      Trent tried the door, which was locked. He kicked the flimsy door down.

      Scott heard a woman scream. He guessed it was the woman Ellis had duped into letting him stay with her. She screamed again.

      Scott heard shouting from behind the house. He couldn’t take it. He got out of the truck and inched closer to the house, still recording. Two cops, one he recognized as Sal Paluzzi, were walking a scrawny man, handcuffed now, toward the front of the house.

      The man was cursing and spitting at the cops, trying to wrench himself out their grasp. He kicked Sal, but Sal kept his cool. Scott kept recording.

      Just then, Scott’s phone rang. The caller ID said it was Trent.

      “What’s up?” Scott asked.

      “It’s safe enough now. I think you should come inside.”

      Scott sped toward the front door as Sal and the other cop put Ellis in a squad car. He heard Sal reading Ellis his Miranda rights.

      Scott dodged the rotted steps and hopped up onto the porch, which wasn’t all that stable. He pulled back the screenless screen door and entered the dimly lit living room.

      Sprawled on a dirty couch was a thin woman who looked to be about forty years old. Her light brown hair hung in clumps over her face. She wore a pair of men’s sweat pants and a sweatshirt with the lettering cracked and flaking off. Her head lolled on the arm of the couch.

      “Who’s that?” Scott asked Trent.

      “The landlady, apparently. And if we’re lucky, she’ll be our witness.”

      Scott took another step closer, scrutinizing the woman. Her nails were cracked and stained yellow from nicotine, he guessed, glancing at the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the flowered metal TV tray at the head of the couch. The only other furniture in the room was a floor lamp in the far corner.

      “Are you arresting her?” Scott asked Trent.

      “Right now, we’re taking her in for questioning.”

      “Questioning?” Scott frowned. The woman seemed oblivious to their presence. “Any idea what she’s on?”

      “The guys found heroin and a syringe in the bathroom.”

      Just then Bob Paxton, a member of Trent’s team who had also been a Green Beret like Trent, came in from the hallway. “Detective? I think you need to see this.”