I stood for a moment looking down the hall, at its line of uniform doorways. I walked past the room from which Arno had emerged, stood by the front door, dialed Elsa.

“Cal.”

“How’s Licia?”

“Grimly pious. It’s freaking Vee out. How’s Bror?”

“He invited us to dinner tonight,” I said, loud enough for him to hear.

She laughed.

“I think we should accept.”

Shouting on the line. Vee’s voice.

“One moment,” said Elsa. I heard the phone hit a solid surface. I heard Vee shout. I heard Franklin cry. I heard Elsa remonstrating with Vee, and Franklin’s rising wail.

I walked toward the door from which Arno had emerged, turned to face the kitchen. Bror was speaking Norwegian, all rising and falling tones. Milla was replying in monosyllables.

I leaned gently backward, felt the door slide open behind me. I turned.

Inside was a wooden table, and on that wooden table was a leather sports bag, brand-new. On the floor beyond were seven identical bags.

I knelt beside the table, put my phone on the floor, slipped the catch on the bag. A short-sleeved shirt, light blue in color. I removed it from the bag, found the police badge on the sleeve. I put the shirt down on the table, reached into the bag, pulled out the regulation black trousers with the checkerboard reflectors.

Blood pulsing in my ears, I stepped toward the open door. I looked toward the kitchen. Milla was speaking in long sentences, her voice flat and monotonous.

I took a photo of the uniform. I put the phone on the floor. I refolded the shirt, returned it to the bag, clicked the catch shut.

“Cal?” Elsa’s voice, tinny and distant. “What’s going on?”

I picked up my phone, spoke very quietly. “Elsa, whatever happens, I need you to stay on the line.”

I heard her begin to reply.

“Please, love,” I said. “I’ll explain. Stay on the line.”

I knelt on the floor, popped the catch on another bag. Another light blue shirt. Another pair of checkerboard trousers. The standard summer uniform of the police. I closed the bag, listened.

Milla was speaking in the kitchen.

The next bag I checked also contained a uniform. And the next.

Each bag had a single side pocket, zipped, flush to the surface. I slid my hand into a pocket. Nothing. I ran my finger along the inside seam, found something small and hard-edged.

I drew out the object. A microSD card, unlabeled. The same in the next pocket I checked. And the next. I took a card, pushed it into the slot on my phone.

There was a briskness to Bror’s voice now; he was ending the conversation.

I could feel my pulse in my throat.