The deputy who stepped out of the cruiser was perhaps thirty-five, with tired eyes and the cautious movements of someone who had already spent half his shift answering calls that should never have been calls. His nameplate read SALAS. He stopped at a reasonable distance, looked from the truck to the open front door, and then back at me. He did not put his hand on anything except the small notebook clipped inside his vest.
"Afternoon, sir," he said. "We received a report of a suspicious man looking through a vacant property. Mind telling me what you're doing here?"
I glanced at the box of towels. "I'm moving into my house."
"This address?"
"Fourteen Larks Lane."
He let his eyes travel over the open garage, the stacks of cardboard visible through the front door, and my truck bed full of lamps. "Do you have anything showing that? A closing statement, maybe?"
"I do." I could hear the careful neutrality in his voice, and for that reason I answered without making his job harder. "Give me a moment."
The closing packet was still in the glove compartment. I had been carrying it everywhere since the signing, partly because utility companies kept asking for proof of ownership and partly because a piece of paper can make a man feel secure even when the world around him has not yet caught up. I brought the folder back, placed it on the tailgate, and opened to the recorded deed and settlement documents. The deputy read the first page, checked the address, and looked toward the mailbox.
Something changed in his face.
Not surprise. Recognition.
"Mr. Hale," he said, handing the packet back, "I'm sorry for the interruption. You're fine."
"Can you tell me who called?"
He looked toward the colonial with its white columns. The woman was still filming, perfectly still except for the movement of the lanyard in the faint wind. Salas considered my question for a second, then said, "I can't discuss everything about a dispatch call out here. But I can tell you this is my third visit concerning this address this year."
I stared at him. "The third visit to a house I only bought eleven days ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"Has anyone told the callers that?"
His silence was an answer, although perhaps not the one he intended. "You can request the public records through the department," he said finally. "Take care moving in. It's hot out here."
He touched the brim of his cap, returned to the cruiser, and drove away. The emergency lights went dark halfway around the cul-de-sac. The man across the street started his mower again, and the woman with the hose remembered to turn off the water. Next door, the woman filming lowered her phone, met my eyes without even attempting a neighborly smile, and disappeared through her front door.
I stood beside my truck for perhaps a minute.