I thought about coffee. Black. Extra sugar. I was about to put my keys in the ignition when a red Dodge Charger pulled up in front of the address. Same model as Marvin’s, but four decades later.

A teenager got out. He wore skinny jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and had one of those winter caps on that looked more like fashion than function.

He walked cautiously up the stairs. Leaned in to ring the bell and then thought better of it. Knocked instead.

The door opened, and a woman stood there in one of those silk-type Japanese robes. It was yellow with purple hyacinths on it, and she glared at the kid. Asked him something. I couldn’t hear them from across the street, but the kid grabbed at his wallet. Pulled it out and handed her a single something.

His identification?

She shut the door, and the kid turned, but didn’t leave. His eyes raked the street, and I grabbed binoculars from my glove box.

The door opened again, and I held the binocs to my face, scanning the front porch.

If the woman was Maria Evans, she was late fifties with olive skin and unkempt brownish-gray hair. A small sign stuck into the dirt outside her door read Manager.

The woman made what looked like small talk with the kid, who just nodded. Then she pulled a number ten envelope from the pocket of her kimono. The kid looked inside.

His head started bobbing, and he grabbed something from his pocket. Handed it to her.

My eyes moved to the woman then, who counted a wad of cash. Fives and tens. Maybe a hundred bucks in total.

There was no paperwork exchanged, so it didn’t feel like how you’d take an apartment deposit.

Opioids? The epidemic had been declining, but wasn’t over. Then again, you didn’t see drugs being delivered in business envelopes.

I reminded myself that I had to be careful here. The fact that the Golden Oaks had been demolished meant that Hartley knew Remy and I had been down there. I couldn’t have Hartley find out that I came here next.

The kid walked down the steps to the muscle car. He fired up the Charger, and I did the same with my truck, letting him pass me before I turned the corner and began following him.

Two blocks down, I grabbed the portable siren from my glove box. I tossed it onto my dash and flicked it on, hitting an air horn that I’d installed when I bought the truck.

The kid slowed and pulled over.

I walked along his driver’s side, real slow like, sweating him.

As I came by his window, I held my badge out. Told the kid to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

“Was I speeding?” The kid looked up, a chin pocked with acne.

Closer now, I could see he was seventeen at most. Lanky arms that took up space, but were skinny. Wavy blond hair poking out of his ski cap. Freckles. The envelope was lying on the passenger seat three feet to his right.