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closer. He hopped the fence. Two decades after making it through the Boston Police Academy, he knew he could still beat most of the younger guys in the obstacle course.
    He moved through the neighboring backyard, which was overgrown with shrubs and briars. According to neighbors they’d interviewed last night, the old house hadn’t been lived in for some time, not since the elderly woman who owned it retired to her summer house down the Cape. Inside, the house was fully furnished as if she just got up one day and left without packing. The exterior of the house showed signs of deterioration, some of the shingles curling up and others rotted off.
    Mooney stood on the side of the house where he had an unobstructed view of Susan McCarthy’s bedroom. It was the perfect place to sit and watch her, completely hidden by the neglected boxwood hedges. From his post, he also had a clear view of the basement door where the criminalists had recovered the shoe print. He focused on the door for a moment, scanning the surrounding area. He knew what he needed to do. Get into the McCarthy house. And he was going in through the basement door.
    Mooney took a step toward the house and someone knocked his legs out from under him, locked both his arms and took him to the ground. A jolt of pain shot through his chest, his face mashed into the moist dirt. He struggled to free one of his arms and managed to land a few elbows. There was the familiar racking of a semiautomatic, and he saw the shadow of a gun aimed at his head.
    “Boston Police. Don’t move!” the man with the gun shouted.
    The first man regained his hold, Mooney’s arms and legs immobilized. He knew enough not to struggle and get himself killed by a couple of overanxious uniforms. And he knew they were uniforms, even though they wore civilian clothing. The one with the gun was wearing black jeans and an oversized black Chicago White Sox baseball jersey. Gang Unit, or maybe the Anti-Crime car from District 5.
    “Morning, guys,” Mooney said, struggling to turn his head toward the barrel of the gun. “Sergeant Mooney. Homicide. Check my pocket.”
    Mooney saw the look on the young cop’s face change. Mooney had never seen the kid before, but the kid now recognized Mooney. Maybe he had seen Mooney at the scene last night.
    “Oh shit, Sarge, we’re sorry,” he said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Jackie, let go of him,” he said to his partner. “It’s Sergeant Mooney.”
    “How do you know? Check his credentials.”
    “Trust me, I know. Just let him up.”
    The big guy let go of him. Mooney stood up, brushed the dirt off and tried to get the circulation flowing in his arms and legs. Maybe he couldn’t compete with these younger guys after all. “I didn’t even know you were behind me. You guys Anti-Crime?”
    “Yeah, we’re in the K-Car on last halves. I’m Mark Greene,” he said, extending his hand to Mooney. “My partner’s Jack Ahearn. Sorry if he roughed you up.”
    “Roughed me up? I didn’t even know what hit me. You guys do a good job. What are you, some kind of judo guy?”
    “Wrestler, sir,” Ahearn said.
    “High school? College?”
    “Both.”
    “You’re pretty good.”
    “I know, sir.”
    “What are you doing out here, Sarge?” Greene asked.
    “Since this is my murder investigation, why don’t you tell me what you guys are doing here?”
    “We just figure sometimes these killers return to the scenes of their crimes. We’ve been sitting on the house since midnight. Came here straight from roll call.”
    “Good thinking,” Mooney said. “Unfortunately, if he was coming back, I’m sure we just scared him off.”
    “Do you need us to help you with anything, Sarge?” Greene asked.
    “I’m trying to figure out how this guy operates. I think I know how he got here undetected and where he hid while he cased the place. Now I just need to get into the house the way he did. I’m pretty sure I’ve solved that mystery. But before I