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of a preview, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I came all this way and I’ve got nobody to hug.”
    “Sounds like a country song. Then your truck breaks down and your dog dies.”
    I tried the bell again. No response.
    “We should look for a vehicle,” Summer said.
    We found one in a closed two-car garage standing separate from the house. We could see it through the window. It was a Mercury Grand Marquis, metallic green, as long as an ocean liner. It was the perfect car for a general’s wife. Not new, not old, premium but not overpriced, suitable color, American as hell.
    “Think this is hers?” Summer asked.
    “Probably,” I said. “Chances are they had a Ford until he made lieutenant colonel. Then they moved up to a Mercury. They were probably waiting for the third star before they thought about a Lincoln.”
    “Sad.”
    “You think? Don’t forget where he was last night.”
    “So where is she? You think she went out walking?”
    We turned around and felt the breeze on our backs and heard a door bang at the rear of the house.
    “She was out in the yard,” Summer said. “Gardening, maybe.”
    “Nobody gardens on New Year’s Day,” I said. “Not in this hemisphere. There’s nothing growing.”
    But we walked around to the front anyway and tried the bell again. Better to let her meet us formally, on her own terms. But she didn’t show. Then we heard the door again, at the back, banging aimlessly. Like the breeze had gotten hold of it.
    “We should check that out,” Summer said.
    I nodded. A banging door has a sound all its own. It suggests all kinds of things.
    “Yes,” I said. “We probably should.”
    We walked around to the rear of the house, side by side, into the wind. There was a flagstone path. It led us to a kitchen door. It opened inward, and it must have had a spring on the back to keep it closed. The spring must have been a little weak, because the gusting breeze was overpowering it from time to time and kicking the door open eight or nine inches. Then the gust would die away and the spring would reassert itself and the door would bang back into the frame. It did it three times as we watched. It was able to do it because the lock was smashed.
    It had been a good lock, made of steel. But the steel had been stronger than the surrounding wood. Someone had used a wrecking bar. It had been jerked hard, maybe twice, and the lock had held but the wood had splintered. The door had opened up and the lock had just fallen out of the wreckage. It was right there on the flagstone path. The door had a crescent-shaped bite out of it. Splinters of wood had been blown here and there and piled by the wind.
    “What now?” Summer said.
    There was no security system. No intruder alarm. No pads, no wires. No automatic call to the nearest police precinct. No way of telling if the bad guys were long gone, or if they were still inside.
    “What now?” Summer said again.
    We were unarmed. No weapons, on a formal visit in Class A uniform.
    “Go cover the front,” I said. “In case anyone comes out.”
    She moved away without a word and I gave her a minute to get in position. Then I pushed the door with my elbow and stepped inside the kitchen. Closed the door behind me and leaned on it to keep it shut. Then I stood still and listened.
    There was no sound. No sound at all.
    The kitchen smelled faintly of cooked vegetables and stewed coffee. It was big. It was halfway between tidy and untidy. A well-used space. There was a door on the other side of the room. On my right. It was open. I could see a small triangle of polished oak floor. A hallway. I moved very slowly. Crept forward and to the right to line up my view. The door banged again behind me. I saw more of the hallway. I figured it ran straight to the front entrance. Off of it to the left was a closed door. Probably a dining room. Off of it to the right was a den or a study. Its door was open. I could see a desk and a chair and dark wood bookcases. I took a