“What we just heard wasn’t these doors shutting,” he decides. “If someone had just gone out this way they wouldn’t be locked. Not with the key still inside. And rain would have gotten in. There’d be water and dirt that washed in from the flower bed.”

Not if the person cleaned up afterward.

Marino holds his Glock in his right hand, the barrel pointed down as he walks to another door, this one in the far wall, a normal pedestrian door painted white. He climbs the four stone steps leading up to it.

“Locked and dead bolted.” His Tyvek-covered feet make a slippery sound on stone as he returns to me. “I don’t know why the hell this light was moving unless something ran into it, maybe flew into it. This joint probably has bats.”

“We definitely heard what sounded like a door shutting, and we’ve heard it more than once today. Are you suggesting bats are responsible for that too?” I say as my phone rings, and I’m surprised I have a signal down here.

I look at the display. It’s Jen Garate. She’s parking on the driveway and I tell her to meet me at the top of the steps near the supercans at the east side of the house.

“Why is there a roll of crime scene tape in the flower bed by those big wooden doors?” she asks. “I assume you noticed it?”

“Stay away from the front of the house,” I tell her. “Meet me exactly where I just told you and don’t touch anything.”

I USE TYVEK as an umbrella, holding a disposable lab coat over my head as I step outside on the landing. The rain is steady but not as hard, the sky lighter to the south.

I block the open door. I hope if we stay out here we won’t be overheard by any interior surveillance devices that might be hidden somewhere. Beyond that there’s nothing I can do, and it’s not the first time I’ve worried about drop cams, nanny cams and other home security devices that are increasingly common and easy to use. When I work a crime scene these days it always enters my mind that what we do and say may not be private.

Jen Garate climbs out of the CFC SUV she’s parked in front of my truck. Dressed in rain gear she trots toward me, her rubber boots splashing through water as if she’s having great fun. She’s loud on the wooden steps. She’s excited as we exchange keys, her wet fingers fumbling and pushy.

“Don’t go into the back of the truck except to remove the packaged evidence,” I instruct her, and I’m not friendly or about to let her into the house.

That’s what she wants. It’s obvious she’s desperate to come inside.