““Within minutes, they pulled up to the address on record for Henry Anderson. It would be generous to call the domicile a house—it was little more than a shack, the roof sagging, the windows boarded with cardboard. They could see muffled bits of the Cumberland River beyond the property. The likes of Anderson wouldn’t be accepted in a neighborhood that had expectation. Anderson wasn’t living large. The money he was pulling in from the pornography obviously went toward something else, Taylor speculated. Drugs, perhaps. The house looked like it could double as a meth lab. Baldwin had gotten quiet as they pulled up. She put the car into park and raised an eyebrow at him. “This place is a dump,” he said. “Surely a criminal mastermind isn’t living in this hell. What’s he doing with his money?” “Funny, you read my thoughts. Let’s go see.””
