“Can they just take whatever they want?” Lila whispered. “Coming in here like a battalion of goddamned storm troopers? You’re an attorney. Can’t you do something? Isn’t there something in the Constitution about illegal search and seizure?”

“Lila,” Frank said, “I know you’re trying to help, but please, this is what legal looks like. There’s nothing for it but to let them do their job. They can only take what’s specified in the warrant.” He eased the stapled sheets of paper from Emily’s grasp, looked them over, then handed them back.

Emily read the warrant herself. It listed the places the police were allowed to go. The house. The garage. The yard. Vehicles on the property. All in search of any property that is or has been used as a means of committing a criminal offense. What did that even rule out?

Below that, written in by hand, was a list of items. It began, PADLOCK. After that, WOMEN’S CLOTHING PER PHOTO. Stapled to the search warrant was a copy of one of the surveillance stills—the woman in a baseball cap and a Clutter Kickers uniform. Emily wanted to wave the photograph in the face of the lead officer and shout, “See? She’s wearing the wrong shoes!”

A uniformed officer emerged from the front door of the house. He stopped at the back of the police van to write on a clipboard. Frank went over to him and Emily followed, hanging back. The officer kept on writing, a lefty, his hand curled over his letters.

“Officer,” Frank said.

“Sir?” the officer said without looking up.

“This is my house. Are you almost done?”

“We’ll let you know,” the officer said.

Another officer emerged from the basement carrying a medium-sized cardboard box. It looked heavy, from the way he was holding it against his chest. He set the box beside the tarp and exchanged a few words with the officer with the clipboard. The clipboard cop crouched by the box, opened the flaps, and sifted through its contents. He started to write.

Emily drew closer. The plastic label stuck to the side of the box read LOCKS. Inside were old padlocks and hasps, keys and keyhole escutcheons. One padlock was emblazoned with a Celtic cross. Even from a distance, Emily could see these were old, more collectible than functional.

“Those are mine,” Frank said.

Of course they were. But the padlock the police were looking for—the one that had hung outside Mr. Murphy’s storage unit, the one with a flaking 217 painted on it in red nail polish—would have stood out like an ugly duckling in this pack of swans.

“I need you to initial this receipt,” the officer said, walking past Frank and handing Emily the clipboard.