Matheus double-parked next to a late model Chevy Malibu. He looked out the window at Zeb’s house, then back at Quin.
“Here?” he asked. “The guy lives here?”
“Yes,” said Quin. “Why?”
“I used to walk down this way,” Matheus said. “I called this the hoarder-house.”
“You’re not that far off.” Quin exited the Mercedes, nicking the Malibu’s paint with his door. He didn’t leave a note, but Matheus doubted Quin bothered with things like insurance anyway. The man didn’t even have a phone, for Christ’s sake.
A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded Zeb’s house; various talismans and bric-a-brac hung in chaos on the wire. Matheus recognized protection symbols from a half-dozen religions and mythologies. Strings of beads wound around the gate, bright, cobalt blue. As Matheus got closer, he realized they were Turkish evil eyes. He’d never gotten a good look at the house before, usually in a hurry to reach the coffee shop before the morning rush.