“Can you track it down?”

“Not from this kitchen.” He tucked the pencil behind his ear.

“I can with a warrant, and a warrant takes a judge.”

We went back to the hallway, with the lights on this time.

Bell rested his hand on his belt and studied the padlock.

Brass, heavy, the shackle as thick as my little finger.

Two screws in the strike plate, driven from the outside, and a strip of torn paint where the drill bit had slipped.

“They put it on backward,” I said.