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toward the front porch, confident that anyone who might spot her would assume she was a legitimate visitor. Burglars, after all, do not usually wear heels, a skirt, and a turtleneck sweater.
    If questioned by a neighbor who’d been alerted that the owners were off on a trip, she would simply claim to be the niece who’d come to house-sit. That had happened a few times. Usually, they bought the story. If not, Gillian was ready to cover herself. “Uncle Henry insisted that I—”
    “No Henry lives here.”
    She would frown. “Sure. Henry Wadsworth.”
    Assured that no Henry Wadsworth resided here, she would act perplexed and show the suspicious neighbor a slip of paper on which she had written Uncle Henry’s name and address. The neighbor would then explain that she was at the wrong address. “This is 8322, not 3822.” Grateful for having her error pointed out, she would depart.
    Tonight, Gillian had no use for the slip of paper on which she had reversed the first two numbers of this address. Nobody questioned her. She saw no one on her way from the car to the porch.
    The light above the front door was dark. She listened for a few moments and heard no voices from inside. Ringing the doorbell went against procedure. Though that was a good way to make sure nobody was home, the sound of a doorbell could sometimes be heard by neighbors. Also, it went against the logic of her cover, a niece coming to house-sit would hardly ring the doorbell.
    Setting down her suitcase, Gillian opened the mailbox. It was empty except for a flier. She quietly lowered the lid.
    The porch was an L-shaped concrete slab with a waist-high wall, and extended around the corner of the house. Its front was concealed from the street by a pair of geraniums. The house windows that looked onto the porch were dark.
    Gillian carried her suitcase and purse around the comer and set them down. From there, she could see the high redwood fence that ran alongside the property. The next-door house had a single story, and only the very tops of its windows were visible above the fence. Lights shone through the windows.
    It was all right, though. Not only were the curtains shut, but anyone inside would have to stand on a chair to see over the fence.
    After slipping out of her shoes, Gillian stepped barefoot to the low wall and peered down. In the space between the house and the fence was a driveway that extended from the gate to a two-car garage. The porch was elevated leaving a drop of about six feet from the top of its wall to the driveway. There was no opening at the rear of the porch wall. She would have to jump.
    Gillian opened her skirt and stepped out of it. She folded it, set it on the edge of her suitcase, then pulled off her sweater. Shivering in her gym shorts and tank-top, she opened her handbag and removed a small leather satchel. Then she climbed onto the side wall of the porch and pushed off. Her feet slapped the pavement, a quiet sound that could certainly not be heard inside the neighbor’s house.
    She walked quickly up the driveway, noting that all the windows along this side of the house were dark. At the rear was a sliding glass door, then more windows. The concrete slab of the sundeck had a single lounge, a glass-topped table, a Weber grill, and a square platform surrounding the covered hot tub.
    Gillian stepped around the corner of the house. She walked along the dewy grass strip between the wall and the fence, checking the windows and listening for sounds from inside. The last two windows showed light through their curtain, undoubtedly from the same source that illuminated the picture window she’d seen from the street. On this side of the house, there was no gate at the front.
    Completing her rounds, Gillian felt sure that the house was deserted. She returned to the rear deck.
    At the sliding door, she took a small flashlight out of her leather case. Shining its beam downward through the glass, she checked the runner. No rod had been placed