Hell . . . Just hate it when they run. Sachs had been dealt a tall body and bum joints—arthritis—and the combination made running pure misery.

“I’m a police officer. Stop!” She started sprinting after him.

Sachs was on her own for the pursuit. She’d never told Westchester County Police that she was here. Any assistance would have to come through a 911 call and she didn’t have time for that.

“I’m not going to tell you again. Stop!”

No response.

They raced in tandem through the large yard then into the woods behind the house. Breathing hard, a pain below her ribs joining the agony in her knees, she moved as fast as she could but he was pulling ahead of her.

Shit, I’m gonna lose him.

But nature intervened. A branch protruding from the snow caught his shoe and he went down hard, with a huge grunt that Sachs heard from forty feet away. She ran up and, gasping for breath, rested the side of the Glock against his neck. He stopped squirming.

“Don’t hurt me! Please!”

“Shhhh.”

Out came the cuffs.

“Hands behind your back.”

He squinted. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Hands.”

He did as he was told but in an awkward way that told her he’d probably never been collared. He was younger than she’d thought—a teenager, his face dotted with acne.

“Don’t hurt me, please!”

Sachs caught her breath and searched him. No ID, no weapons, no drugs. Money and a set of keys. “What’s your name?”

“Greg.”

“Last name?”

A hesitation. “Witherspoon.”

“You live around here?”

He sucked in air, nodding to his right. “The house there, next door to the Creeleys’.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Why’d you run?”

“I don’t know. I was scared.”

“Didn’t you hear me say I was police?”

“Yeah, but you don’t look like a cop . . . a policewoman. You really are one?”

She showed him her ID. “What were you doing at the house?”

“I live next door.”

“You said that. What were you doing?” She pulled him up into a sitting position. He looked terrified.

“I saw somebody inside. I thought it was Mrs. Creeley or maybe somebody in the family or something. I just wanted to tell her something. Then I looked inside and saw you had a gun. I got scared. I thought you were with them.”

“Who’s them?”

“Those guys who broke in. That’s what I was going to tell Mrs. Creeley about.”

“Broke in?”

“I saw a couple of guys break into their house. A few weeks ago. It was around Thanksgiving.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. I guess I should have. But I didn’t want to get involved. They looked, like, tough.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I was outside, in our backyard, and I saw ’em go to the back door, look around and then kind of, you know, break the lock and go inside.”

“White, black?”

“White, I think. I wasn’t that close. I couldn’t see their faces. They were just, you know, guys. Jeans and jackets. One was bigger than the other.”