Curtains in the window to the right of the front door flickered, and Jordan’s hand automatically went to her sidearm. She crossed the porch, knocked on the door, and stood to the side.

A chain scraped on the inside, and a couple of locks clicked. The door opened to an elderly woman. She was heavyset, had pinned her white hair back in a thin bun, and wore a blue housecoat. “You with the cops, ain’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jordan removed a card from her back pocket and handed it to the woman. “Detective Jordan Poe. I’m investigating the crime scene across the street. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Ruth Penn.” The woman dropped her gaze to the card and flicked the edge with a bent finger. “They were supposed to fix that house up in a week or so. We’re all glad. It’s nothing but a rattrap for druggies.”

“How long have you lived here, Ms. Penn?”

“Forty-seven years. Lived here with my husband for most of ’em. We raised five kids here.”

“And your husband passed?”

“Two years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The old woman shrugged. “We had a good run.”

“Did you see anything at that house that might have caught your attention?”

“People come and go out of there all the time,” she said. “Even when they put up the ‘No Trespassing’ signs, no one cared.”

“Anyone been there two to four days ago?”

“I saw a car circling the block about that time. I’d never seen it before, so I kept an eye out. Driver circled a few times and then left.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“He was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, so it was hard to tell. But I did get the license plate.”

“Did you?”

Mrs. Penn nodded, proud of herself. She reached in the pocket of her housecoat and pulled out pink readers before turning to a stack of papers by the front door. She riffled through the advertisement flyers, store receipts, and bills. “I know I wrote it down.”

“Take your time,” Jordan said.

Mrs. Penn hunted through the bits of paper, scratched her cheek, and adjusted her glasses. Finally, she produced a short grocery store receipt with numbers and letters scribbled along the margin in red ink. “Here it is.”

Jordan accepted the slip of paper printed at the corner store down the road. Milk, a candy bar, a pack of cigarettes, and the scribbled license plate. She read the scrawled handwriting and the three letters and three numbers. “Is that an eight or a three?”

Mrs. Penn homed in on the number in question. “An eight. I’ve never been good at closing those loops.”

“What kind of vehicle was it?”

“A blue pickup truck. It was an older model. Had a big scrape down the side.”

“Why did you think it didn’t fit in this neighborhood?”