26
Fitzgerald had lived in an upscale neighborhood near Pima Road north of Chaparral Road. The trees were mature, lawns manicured and green, the houses well-kept. Like something out of Leave It To Beaver, only in this scenario, Eddie Haskell was a pedophile r****t.
The house sat on the corner with a driveway and garage on one street and the front door on the other. The mailbox was shaped to look like a church. What a joke!
A late-model Buick sat in the open garage. Someone was home. My hope of sneaking in unnoticed evaporated. I parked past the driveway, next to an orange tree covered with star-shaped white blossoms.
“Did Fitzgerald have a roommate?” asked Byrd.
“Nothing in the paperwork mentioned it. I guess we’ll go say howdy.”
My phone started playing the Game of Thrones ringtone.
