TERF Wars

Chapter 3

3

I pulled off the Black Canyon Highway at Happy Valley Road and turned south into a residential area after a few miles. Rodeo helped me navigate through a labyrinthine neighborhood filled with McMansions.

Naomi Hoffman, who owned the house, worked as the creative director of a media marketing company. Must’ve made some serious bank, because no way Marshall could’ve afforded a place like this running a nonprofit. Not unless she was earning serious money under the table somehow.

I blocked off the driveway with the Gray Ghost to prevent an escape. It wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined. The crushed-rock landscaping that was ubiquitous throughout the valley didn’t have any large cactuses or palm trees to keep Marshall from cutting across it, but it might discourage her.

When we stepped out of the SUV, I adjusted the straps on my vest, unsnapped the retention strap on my ankle holster, and double-checked my Taser. I’d once forgotten to put on a fresh cartridge and nearly got my clock cleaned by an ill-tempered fugitive.

“SOP,” I said to Rodeo. “Go around back. Keep an eye out for dogs. I’ll take the front.”

“Copy that.” He tilted his Stetson to block the sun from hitting him in the eyes and grabbed the beanbag shotgun along with a two-foot pry bar from the back of the SUV.

I pulled out a thirty-pound battering ram, closed the truck, and turned on my two-way radio. “Channel four as usual.”

“Roger.” He turned his on and crept around the house to the gate that led to the walled-off backyard.

When I reached the front door, I called on the radio. “Front door ready.”

“Back door ready. There’s a doggy door in the back but no sign of a pooch.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Watch yourself.”

I pounded on the front door, punched the doorbell a few times, and shouted, “Bail enforcement. Open up now!”

I waited, but there was no response. It was nearly three on a Wednesday afternoon. Most people working a nine-to-five weren’t at home. Which didn’t necessarily mean Blair Marshall wasn’t in there hiding.

“No answer,” I said into the radio.

“You think she’s inside?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I tried knocking and rang the doorbell a few more times. When I was convinced no one was coming, I hefted the ram and pounded the door. It cracked on the first hit. The second blow splintered the frame and knocked it open.

“Front door breached.”

A series of clunks came from the back of the house. Rodeo prying open a sliding glass door, no doubt. His voice crackled over the radio. “Back door breached.”

According to a U.S. Supreme Court case from way back, bounty hunters were allowed to enter a fugitive’s home without a warrant because, even while on bail, they were still considered in custody.

I lay the ram by the doorway, drew my Taser, stepped inside, and saw a kitchen to my left, a living room to my right. On the wall, a security system touch pad indicated an open front and rear door, but no alarm was triggered. Either someone was home or Marshall and Hoffman had forgotten to set the alarm.

I turned to the kitchen and began my search. Fugitives were remarkably creative in choosing places to hide. I’ve found people in kitchen cabinets and tucked into closet shelves, laundry baskets, and attics.

Based on the physical description and mug shots in her file, Marshall could probably squeeze into some tight spots, so I checked in cabinets high and low, as well as in the walk-in pantry. No joy.

“Arizona room clear,” Rodeo said over the radio.

I replied a moment later, “Kitchen clear.”

We proceeded through the house systematically. I explored the living room, checking under couches and chairs, under tablecloths, and behind the entertainment center.

When the living room was cleared, I joined Rodeo in the bedrooms. He’d already cleared the master bedroom and bath. I took the guest bath, checking behind the shower curtain and the cabinets under the sink.

“One side of the master bedroom closet is empty,” Rodeo said as we met in the hallway. “Looks like someone packed up some clothes and moved out.”

“Or wants us to think she did. Check the third bedroom.” I pointed to the trapdoor in the ceiling that led to the attic. “I’ll take a peek up top.”

“Copy that.”

I pulled down the trapdoor and unfolded the ladder. My pulse accelerated. Checking attics was dangerous with violent suspects. Sticking your head up into the dark made one a prime target for someone with a weapon.

There had been no indication that either Marshall or Hoffman was a registered g*n owner, but they could have bought one from a private dealer. Or Marshall could be lying in wait with a baseball bat or other weapon.

I grabbed a flashlight from my utility belt, climbed a few steps, and made a quick assessment of the dark expanse. Wooden struts, stacks of boxes, and other personal belongings provided a playground of hiding places that stretched the length of the three-thousand-square-foot house.

I mounted the remaining steps, scanning the attic for movement and keeping an eye out for anything that seemed out of sorts. I drew my revolver, since my Taser was limited to a thirty-foot range.

The air was stuffy and warm. Dust motes floated in and out of my flashlight’s beam. The plywood floor creaked as I stepped onto it. It wasn’t secured to the crossbeams. One wrong step and I’d go plunging through the main floor’s ceiling.

I approached a cluster of camping gear next to boxes marked with the words “Naomi’s china” in permanent marker. Didn’t find anything of interest except a pissed-off family of roof rats that went scurrying away into the dark.

Despite the high intensity of the situation, the hunt was my favorite part of the job. And I was good at it.

When I’d checked out every shadowy corner, my instincts were telling me no one was home.

“Attic clear,” I called into the radio.

Rodeo replied, “Third bedroom clear except for a very frightened little Chihuahua.”

“Remember, Rodeo, they’re only Chihuahuas if they’re from Chihuahua, Mexico. Otherwise, they’re just yappy ankle-biters.”

“Good one, boss.”

I climbed back down to the main floor and found Rodeo rechecking one of the bedrooms.

“Looks like no one’s home,” I said.

“Copy that. What’s our next move?”

I wanted to call it a day, but I also wanted to find Marshall before I left in the morning.

“The nonprofit hate group that Blair Marshall runs is down on Camelback and Third Street. Let’s go say hello.”

Something outside the window caught Rodeo’s attention. “Uh-oh. Looks like we got company.”

“Whoever’s here, I’m calling the cops!” called a female voice from the entryway.

“Go right ahead,” I replied when we found a stocky woman in her forties with shoulder-length hair standing by the shattered door. I flashed my bail enforcement badge and ID. “We’re here to enforce a judge’s order.”

She held up her phone in such a way that it was clear she was video recording our presence and the damage to the door. “What the hell’s going on? Why are you in my house?”

“You’re Naomi Hoffman, right?” I asked.

She turned the phone toward me. “Who’s asking?”

“Ballou Fugitive Recovery. We’re looking for Blair Marshall.”

“She’s. Not. Here.” Hoffman enunciated each syllable.

“Where is she?”

“Why should I tell you? You people broke down my door. And I’m recording this to show the police.”

“Be my guest. The judge revoked Marshall’s bail. Assurity Bail Bonds hired us to return her to custody. So, where is she?”

She shrugged unconvincingly. “How should I know? I just got back from a dentist appointment.”

“You live with her. I’m guessing you’re in a relationship, judging by the portraits in the hallway. If anyone knows where she is, it’s you.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I recognize you. You’re that tranny bounty hunter who was featured in Phoenix Living a few years back.”

Ugh. One of the worst mistakes in my career as a bounty hunter was being interviewed for the weekly alternative newspaper’s cover story. I had no idea at the time that the journalist writing the story would out me. We never discussed my being trans. But he’d dug it up, nevertheless.

“You put your home up for collateral. If she fails to surrender herself, you lose your home,” I replied, refusing to take her bait. “And for harboring a fugitive wanted for murder, you could face a hefty prison sentence yourself. So, go ahead and call the police. We’ll wait.”

“She’s not here. Just leave.”

“Tell us where she is.”

“I’m not telling you anything, sir!” She glared at me. “Now get out of my house.”

Rodeo put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go, boss. She’s not here.”

“Suit yourself. Maybe after Assurity Bail Bond takes your house, I’ll buy it.” I walked out the broken front door. “Though I’d want to get rid of the roof rats first.”

“You’re going to pay for my door!”

“Tell us where Blair Marshall is, and I’ll consider it.” I waited as she glared at me. “No? Okay. Later.”

“b***h!” she shouted as we strolled to the Gray Ghost.