Across town, on a street of tidy medium income houses, sat a house farther back from the street than most. A white painted cinderblock house with a green gabled roof. Inside that house the phone rang.

He glanced at the clock on the mantle and frowned. It was after eleven, late for a caller. He set his glass of Francis Coppola, Claret 2005, on the side table and lay his book in his lap.

“Hello,â€? he answered quietly, so as not to wake his wife. He listened for several minutes, before he spoke, “I see. And who were these boys that called the police? Well, find out if you can. I will make some adjustments here. Keep me apprised. Good night.â€?

He scratched his head in thought, then drinking the remains of the wine in his glass he turned out the light and went to the garage. “First things first,â€? he thought.

In the garage he struggled into a pair of dark blue cover-alls. Then dug a black ski mask from a box of winter furniture covers. Kneeling down behind the black sedan he removed the license plate.