Clarence Underwood lives in a downtrodden neighborhood of circa-1960s bungalows interspersed with double-wide trailer homes. A robin’s-egg blue water tower stands sentinel, bracketed on one side by the railroad tracks, an abandoned gas station on the other. The best feature of the subdivision is the trees, a virtual forest of stately elms and maples, but any semblance of beauty ends there. Gettysburg Avenue is a narrow, pitted strip of asphalt with broken sidewalks and potholes deep enough to break an axle. A mishmash of vehicles, many of which are nearly as old as the homes, makes the street seem even narrower. To my right, someone has set up a basketball hoop in an abandoned lot, and six preteen boys eye me with suspicion as I idle past. I smile and wave, and I try not to notice when a kid with scraggly blond hair in baggy jeans jabs his middle finger at me.

Glock’s cruiser is parked a few houses down from Underwood’s place. I pull up behind him and hail dispatch. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Lois know we’ve arrived on scene.

“Ten-four.”

I get out and meet Glock on the street. “So what’d he do now?” he asks.

“Nothing that we know of.” We amble to the buckled sidewalk, and I tell him about my conversation with Sue and Vern Nolt.

“You think Underwood had something to do with Leroy Nolt’s disappearance?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time drug money has come between friends.”

We ascend the porch steps. The rail to my right is missing, the posts broken off at the base. The wood-plank floor creaks beneath our feet as we cross to the front door. It’s older and bracketed by narrow sidelight windows. Standing slightly to one side in case some paranoid freak decides to shoot through the door, I knock.

I hear the blare of chainsaw rock coming from inside, the bass drum loud enough to rattle the glass in the window. I wait a full minute and then use the heel of my hand to knock a second time.

“Police!” I call out. “Clarence Underwood? Open the door, please!”

The door squeaks like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, and opens about halfway. I find myself looking at Underwood. He’s in his mid-fifties now, with a full beard sprinkled with gray. He’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, faded jeans, and a scuffed pair of Doc Martens. He’s thin, but the T-shirt is stretched taut over a generous belly. His eyes are a striking blue, electric and intelligent, but they’re shot with red and hostile when they land on me.

I pull out my badge and hold it up for him to see. “Mr. Underwood?”

“That’s me.”

“I’d like to ask you some questions,” I say. “May we come inside?”

Bloodshot eyes sweep from me to Glock and back to me. “What about?”

“Leroy Nolt.”