“I don’t get it,” Jake said. “In a town like this, I would have expected that property destruction would be exactly the kind of crime that would get the community worked up. There are a lot of beautiful homes around here to protect. But I haven’t heard a peep about it in town. It’s like it never even happened.”

“It might be different if it happened to a family from around here,” Murray said. “But the Jensens are out-of-towners. No one here is going to put their kid’s future on the line to do right by someone they’ve never even met.”

Jake shook his head. “But we know those kids were there.”

“Oh yeah, they were there,” Murray agreed. “And I haven’t run out of leads to try to prove it.”

Murray’s next stop was Mason’s Liquors. Murray wasn’t holding out much hope the owner would help him, but he wanted to check it off his list. He pulled one of the boxes he’d found at the house out of the trunk of his car and went inside.

Mr. Mason sat behind a long wooden counter stacked with wine bottles. Murray flashed his badge and Mr. Mason gave him a sly grin. “A little early in the day for drinking on the job,” he said. “But who am I to judge?”

“It hasn’t come to that quite yet,” Murray said, playing along. “But give it a few hours.” He put the box on the counter. “Recognize this?” He’d picked one of the boxes from a more obscure whiskey distillery in the hopes that Mr. Mason might remember packing it up.

“Sure do,” Mr. Mason replied, and for a second, Murray’s pulse quickened. “It’s a whiskey box.”

“Ask a stupid question,” Murray said with a smile, staying cool. “Know who you sold it to?”

Mr. Mason waved his hand dismissively. “I reuse the boxes. Makes it easier for the customers to carry out big orders.”

Murray tried a different angle. “I’m looking for someone who might have made a big purchase on Friday. Someone on the younger side.” Murray was careful not to say underage. It was an open secret in town that Mr. Mason wasn’t too picky about who he sold to. He’d gotten into trouble a few times with the cops on the Jersey side, but it wasn’t Murray’s problem today. Today he just wanted to find out who had supplied the alcohol for the party. If he found that, he’d be a long way toward making a case that would stick.

“There’s always a lot of big orders on Fridays,” Mr. Mason said. Murray thought back to the scene when they’d shown up at the house. “Absolut Vodka, Southern Comfort?” He listed off the bottles he’d seen strewn around the kitchen and smashed in the sink. “A keg too. Probably something cheap?”