The light was in a kitchen window, and a moment later a blond woman opened the refrigerator and took out something. He had caught a glimpse of her through the crack of his study door when the couple had come to look at his house. They must have liked the neighborhood, he thought.

He got his throwaway cell phone, looked up the number for the sheriff’s substation in the village, and called. As expected, he got a beep. “There are intruders in the Denton house on County Road 6,” he said into the phone. “I just passed by there and saw somebody inside. Please look into it.” He hung up and hoped the call had wakened the deputy, who would be asleep on the sofa in the squad room.

—

DEPUTY JAMES GARR woke from a light sleep and heard someone recording a message. He got up, went to the machine, and played back the message.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He went outside and started the patrol car, then picked up the radio microphone. “Central, this is car three. Come back.”

“What’s goin’ on, James?” a woman’s voice said.

“I’m leaving substation four. Got a call of intruders at the Dentons’ place on County Road 6.”

“You want backup?”

“Not yet. I’ll call you from my handheld if I do.”

“Sorry they woke you up, James.”

“Screw you, Suzie.” He hung up the microphone and started driving. It took him four minutes to reach the Denton house, and he drove past at thirty miles an hour, then pulled over and turned off his lights. Looking back, he could see the kitchen window, and there was a light on.

He walked back to the house and had a look in the front window; all he saw was the light from the kitchen. He unsnapped the keep on his Glock and walked quietly around the house to the kitchen window. There was an empty recycling bin at the foot of the steps to the back door, and he turned it upside down and stood on it. He took off his hat and peered through a corner of the kitchen window. There was a blond woman in a pantsuit sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. There was a half-empty glass of orange juice beside her on the table.

Now, he asked himself, what would a woman be doing sitting at a kitchen table in a pin-striped suit at one o’clock in the morning? He got down from the bin, reinstalled his hat, walked up the back steps, and rapped sharply on the pane in the door with his high school class ring.

He heard something resembling a scuffle from inside, and the woman called out, “Farrell!” He rapped again. “Sheriff’s office,” he called out. “Open up, please!”

“Farrell!” she shouted again.

Garr tried the door, found it unlocked, and let himself in. “Sheriff’s office!” he called out again, and unholstered the Glock.