Hector very patiently guided Jeff and Lisa through creating and entering pass codes in their control panel. He showed them how to arm and disarm the system and monitor all their cameras and control their system on mobile devices. He watched as Vicki and Kyle spiked a security sign into their front lawn and placed stickers on their windows.

“Those security signs alone can be a deterrent,” Dillard said.

“This package also includes alerts to your smoke and water detectors to alert you to a potential burst pipe or flooding,” Hector said, explaining how, when an alarm is triggered, the call center would check with the homeowner in seconds and dispatch a security team or call 9-1-1, depending on the emergency.

He promised to send them an invoice, then turned to Dillard. “Give my best to Nell, Roland.”

After the crew was gone, Dillard pulled out his phone.

“You’ve got a veritable fortress now. Give me your numbers, and I’ll send you mine, so you guys can contact me anytime. If anything happens, you know I live behind you.”

They gave their numbers to Dillard with their thanks.

“Now you can get back to normal.” He smiled at both of them. “Give some thought to joining the watch patrol and reaching out to the folks here. They’re good people.”

“We will,” Lisa said.

Dillard’s phone vibrated, and he checked a message.

“There you go,” he said. “I got nothing on my cameras, but it looks like one of our neighbors captured some security footage of the suspect.”

Dillard showed it to them, a granular, dim image of a figure.

“It’s not too clear, but it’s got to be a break, right?” Jeff said.

“It’s a start,” Dillard said. “The fact this happened in my backyard is something I don’t take lightly. I’ve got contacts in law enforcement and on the street—I’ll be working on this, believe me.” He looked at Jeff, then at Lisa. “We’ll get this guy, folks. You’ll see.”

9

Palm Mirage Creek slept in the still night.

Pretty houses. Well-kept yards.

Then a flash.

A dark figure outlined against a stucco garage wall blazes across the frame.

Then nothing.

Detective Camila Cruz tapped on her keyboard, freezing the surveillance footage image on her computer screen. She leaned closer to study the suspect. The grainy image offered no details.

Shadow Man.

She made a note.

It was the day after the Taylor burglary. Cruz and Reddick were at their desks at Miami-Dade’s Midwest District Station in Doral, a modern-looking building of glass and concrete squares. Through the window, she glimpsed the palms out front nodding in the breeze as she worked. They’d set their ongoing investigations aside, concentrating on the new Taylor case, working well into the night, talking to neighbors, street officers, returning this morning before their shifts to share information at roll call with patrol units.

They didn’t have much.