Vivien gestured toward the small black devices tucked under the eaves of the porch roof. Easy to miss unless you already knew where to look. Security system. Motion activated. Highdefinition audio and video both.
Everything that's happened in this yard for the last 15 minutes is already stored permanently somewhere you can't touch. It was true, though not quite in the way the officers below might have imagined. Their father had installed those cameras years ago. Quietly after a string of small troubles nobody in the family had ever fully explained to Norah or Vivien. Neither sister understood yet just how far back that story went.
That would come later. For now, the cameras were simply doing what they'd always done, watching, recording, remembering, patient in the way only machines and stubborn old men know how to be patient. Hutchkins ended his call and strode back toward the porch, his face set in hard, angry lines. He'd clearly heard Vivien's mention of the cameras. Boyd, he barked.
Those cameras might contain evidence of the burglary. Find the recording system inside the house. Boyd's eyes lit with sudden understanding. He moved toward the front door with purpose, boots heavy against the porch boards. Norah stepped directly into the doorway, filling the frame with her body.
You are not entering this house. I've got reasonable suspicion that recording equipment inside contains evidence of criminal activity, Hutchkins declared. You have no warrant, Norah said. You have no exigent circumstances. You have no legal authority to enter this property.
Hutchkins's face darkened further. I've got plenty of authority. This is a criminal investigation. This is a fishing expedition. Norah shot back.
And walking into that house without a warrant is going to create a federal problem far bigger than the one you already have. The sound of tires on pavement broke the standoff. An unmarked sedan pulled up behind the two patrol cars. Engine ticking softly as it cooled. The driver's door opened and a tall man stepped out somewhere in his late 50s.
Gray hair combed carefully, his white shirt crisp despite the heat of the day. Lieutenant's bars caught what little light was left on his collar. Warren Voss took in the scene with eyes that seemed to miss nothing at all. The two women on the porch, his officers arranged below them, tense, uncertain. Hutchkins's rigid posture, the kind that only comes from a man who already suspects he's made a mistake, but hasn't yet admitted it to himself.