A dark vehicle with its lights off slides down the block, passing Mr. Johnston’s house but not stopping. I can’t make out the license plate, but I can see that the car is an SUV because one of the streetlamps provides a touch of illumination. Right near the end of the clip, it’s slowing down, creeps almost to a stop, and most likely halts beyond the camera’s view.
“Looks like it’s pulling over, about to stop,” I say. “Probably didn’t want to be directly across from my sister’s. What are your neighbors’ names?”
“The Harmses.”
“Do they use a camera system, too?”
Mr. Johnston smiles. “They certainly do. Ol’ Artie always needs to one-up me with everything. I bought a Trager last year, and he got one a week later. When I installed my cameras, I could’ve set my watch to him. He did the same within days. Only thing Art hasn’t been able to keep up with is the fact that I have a hot new girlfriend and he’s stuck with Louise.” Mr. Johnston chuckles.
I smile politely, surprised he’s trashed his neighbor’s wife like that, but thank him, give him my email address, and ask him to send the video to me.
Art Harms is the opposite of Mr. Johnston in about every way. He’s round, sweaty, and reeks of nicotine.
He’s wearing a T-shirt that was once white but has turned the color of tobacco.
When he answered his door, a woman’s voice—Louise’s, I presume—called from deeper inside the house, asking who it was, saying something about the UPS guy leaving treats for Malley. Mr. Harms now picks up a yapping chihuahua into his arms. Malley, Isurmise, seasoned detective that I am. I wonder if Mr. Johnston got Osso first, and Arty could only talk Louise into a lapdog.
At first, Mr. Harms is leery about my request, but when I tell him that his neighbor happily assisted, he thinks on it for a moment. “Wait here,” he says.
I stand in the entryway. Harms doesn’t seem to mind that the door is wide open. When he returns without Malley, he’s got his smartphone and a pair of readers. Louise appears behind him and she’s holding the dog. I say hello and do my best to keep my face averted.
“Not quite sure how this thing works,” Art says, peering through his glasses at his phone. “To be honest, I’m not sure we even need the damn thing. All it does is notify us every time a deer or a mountain lion traipses through in the night. I had to turn the notification ding off so we could get some sleep, which kind of defeats the purpose.”
“May I?” I hold out my hand. “I’m pretty good with these.”
The screen shines with grease and grime, and I already want to wash my hands. I pull up the Ring app and find the images from the front camera. Bright sunlight shines across the front yard, taking in the entire lawn and the curb at the very edge of the frame. My heart sinks, because even though the curb is visible, the camera is poorly aimed. It’s not going to pick up much other than possibly tires and the vandal’s shoes.
I scroll until I get to 2:38 a.m. The front and back tire of the left side of the SUV come to a halt by the Harmses’ curb. I watch intently. All is still. No feet emerge from the vehicle. After about a minute, the door swings open. Ankles and shoes only. Dark tennis shoes. They head to the back of the car, which would be the direction to Jess’s.
Art pesters me if I see anything, and I tell him there is a car and that I need to wait to see if I can catch the license plate when it drives off. I can already see, though, that I won’t be able to. The best I can hope for is another view of the guy’s shoes. Also, with better technology, the FBI wizards should be able to identify the make and year of the vehicle by its wheel wells.
I’m patiently waiting for the night stalker to return when Louise says, “Now wait a minute.”
Out of the corners of my eyes, I can see that Louise is examining my profile.
“Now hold on,” she says, louder. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” I say, still staring at the screen.
“I know you,” she says. “We know you.”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “I’ve been in the neighborhood before.”
“Oh, so we’ve met?”
“No, I don’t think we have, but I come around a lot to visit family. I’m sure you’ve probably seen me around.”
“I see.”
I’m pleased to have dodged that one, but within seconds, Louise says, “Wait, no.” She’s a dog with a bone, and I’m the bone. “It’s more than that. You’re that girl. The one in the sketch. You’re her, aren’t you? Artie, isn’t it? It’s her, right?”
Art tilts his head down to look over his readers to study me, too, but I keep my face lowered because while they’ve been figuring out who I am, the black tennis shoes have come back across the screen. The door opens and one foot goes into the car.
Louise is closing in on me, studying me like a bug pinned to a science fair exhibit. She smells like cheap perfume and a different but no less pungent flavor of sweat. I can feel her breath on my cheek. But I don’t budge. I’m intent on the screen.
Right before the other shoe follows, and I assume he’s going to shut the door and drive off, a small object—maybe the marker he used—drops to the sidewalk.
“Youarethe one, aren’t you?” Louise breathes excitedly onto my face. “That’s how I know you. Girl, you’re alloverthe news these days. You’re a national phenomenon!”
