The officer slowly nodded, recording something intently in a small battered notebook. “That means this person knew for sure that you remained in the house completely alone. Very interesting and concerning. Opened the gate carefully, walked through calmly, then just as closed the gate back and left. Did not hurry at all, behaved confidently.”
“Officer, what do you think he was doing here at all? Why come at night, walk around the house?”
“That is exactly what we have to find out.” The officer looked at me with a very serious, heavy gaze. “There are several possible options. Maybe he was scoping out what exactly is valuable in the house, preparing for a robbery. Maybe he was checking thoroughly to see if anyone lives in the house, if it is empty, or maybe…”
He significantly did not finish, but I understood perfectly well without words. Maybe this person was preparing for something much worse than a simple robbery—for an attack.
“Do any of your neighbors have security cameras installed?” Purnell asked in a business-like manner, looking around at the neighboring houses.
I thought tensely, remembering. “Mrs. Higgins across the street seems to have a camera. She installed a system last year after the Peterson’s garage got broken into.”
“Excellent! That can help a lot. Let us go to her right now. Ask to see the footage. Possibly the camera captured who exactly came, what car they arrived in.”
We quickly walked out the gate, crossed the empty, snowy road. Mrs. Higgins’s house stood directly opposite. It was neat, well-kept, painted a pleasant light blue, with nice wooden shutters. I rang the doorbell at the gate.
About a minute and a half later, the front door of the house swung open. The hostess herself appeared on the porch, a plump, good-natured woman of about seventy, in a bright floral housecoat, with gray hair neatly gathered in a small bun at the back of her head.
“Alara, honey, what happened? Is something wrong?” Mrs. Higgins squinted anxiously, looking with curiosity at the officer standing nearby.
“Mrs. Higgins, hello. You see, someone strange walked in my yard last night. There are clear tracks left in the snow. Officer Purnell came to sort it out. Can we look at the recording from your security camera? Maybe something important is visible on it.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy!” The neighbor threw up her hands sincerely. “Someone strange walked around at night? And you were alone? Vernon is on a long haul. My God, how scary! Yes, come in quickly. Of course, come in. We will definitely look.”
We walked inside the cozy house, into a small but very clean and tidy living room, densely packed with old, sturdy furniture made of dark wood. A modern flat-screen TV hung on the wall, and beneath it stood a black box for the video recorder with blinking green and red lights.
Mrs. Higgins fussily, a little confusedly, turned on the TV, fiddling for a long time with several remotes. “Here, it seems to be working and showing. Officer Purnell, you figure out this technology yourself because I do not understand it very well. My grandson set it up.”
The officer silently nodded, confidently took the remote control, and began quickly rewinding the recording. I froze nearby, not tearing myself away from the screen, afraid to miss even a single thing. On the black-and-white grainy recording, the street in front of Mrs. Higgins’ house was clearly visible, my own house opposite, the gate of my yard, part of the yard itself.
“You say your husband left the house around seven in the evening?” Gareth clarified, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Yes, around seven, maybe a little later.”
He quickly rewound the recording to eight o’clock in the evening, set playback to normal speed. The picture was not the best quality—grainy, black-and-white, blurred in places due to the falling snow—but on the whole, it was quite possible to distinguish what was happening. The street was completely empty, deserted, snow falling in a thick veil, visibility very poor.
Time on the recording crawled slowly forward: nine p.m., ten, eleven.
“Here, look closely, right here.” Purnell poked a thick finger intensely right at the screen. A quarter to midnight.
On the deserted street, an unfamiliar car unexpectedly appeared, a regular dark sedan. Slowly, leisurely, it drove up and neatly stopped right opposite my house. A tall man in a dark bulky jacket and a knit cap pulled low over his forehead got out of the car leisurely. It was absolutely impossible to make out a face on such a recording.
He calmly looked around, as if checking if there were witnesses, then confidently opened my gate and disappeared behind it, dissolving into the darkness.
“Lord have mercy,” I whispered, feeling my insides turn traitorously cold, my legs going weak.
About ten minutes later, maybe twelve, the man appeared in the frame again. He walked out of my yard, again completely calmly, just as methodically closed the gate behind him on the latch, got into his car, and slowly, without rushing, drove away, disappearing around the bend.
“Pause,” Officer Purnell commanded shortly, hitting the button. He rewound a little bit back, froze the image at the moment when the car was visible best of all. “Here is the license plate. Hard to see because of the snow and darkness, but I think we can try to make out a few numbers. And here on the side door of the car, that is a logo of some company, writing.”
I squinted, staring intensely at the blurred, fuzzy image on the screen. On the side of the car, there was indeed something light painted, some large inscription, an emblem.
“Looks very much like a company car,” the officer muttered thoughtfully. “Definitely not a private owner. Some organization, a serious firm.”
“Or maybe it is appraisers from a real estate agency,” Mrs. Higgins suddenly piped up. She had been standing nearby all this time, watching intently, pressing both hands to her ample chest.
“But… from a realtor agency?” I turned sharply to the neighbor, not understanding. “What appraisers, Maria? Why appraisers at all?”
“Well, I do not know exactly. Maybe someone is planning to sell the house, doing an appraisal.” The neighbor suddenly cut herself off mid-sentence, seeing my completely whitened, frozen face. “Oh, Alara, forgive me. I am an old fool, probably said something stupid.”
But Officer Purnell was already alert, like an experienced hound. “Mrs. Higgins, why did you think of a real estate agency immediately?”
“Well, just an association,” the neighbor hesitated, embarrassed. “Just last month, an appraiser from an agency came to me when I was looking at and buying my daughter’s apartment in the city. So, he also arrived late in the evening. He had no time during the day. He was in exactly the same company car, with a big, bright agency logo on the door. It just seemed very similar to me.”
The officer magnified the image of the car on the screen even more, as much as the recording quality allowed. The writing on the side door was very hard to read due to distance and darkness, blurred, but the first word could still be distinguished. It seemed to be Hearth. Hearth something else. He quickly wrote this down in his notebook.
“We definitely need to check all the real estate agencies in our city and county urgently, find out who exactly has such company cars with similar markings.”
I was silent, finding no words. One insane, simply incredible thought was spinning in my head, making me feel sick. An appraiser from a real estate agency came to inspect my house at night? But who could have called this appraiser? The house was titled strictly to me, entirely in my name. I had never given anyone any permissions, any power of attorney. I was not planning to sell anything at all. This was my only home.
“Mrs. Vance.” Gareth Purnell gently but firmly placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Did you by chance give anyone an official, notarized power of attorney for your house, for a sale, for signing any documents, deals?”
“No, of course not.” I shook my head resolutely. “I did not even think about any sale. This is my home. I have lived here my whole life.”
“And your husband Vernon… could he?”
I felt the ground go out from under my feet. I froze. Vernon.
“But he cannot do anything at all without my knowledge and consent,” I stammered. “The house is fully titled strictly to me, in my name.”
“Theoretically, he really cannot and should not,” the officer agreed slowly. “But in practice, unfortunately, all sorts of unpleasant situations happen. Fraud, forgery of signatures and documents. Let us definitely check the real estate agencies in all districts. If it really was an appraiser from some agency, we will definitely find out thoroughly who exactly ordered this night assessment of your house.”
By lunchtime, we were sitting in the office of Hearthstone Realty, in the city center. Gareth Purnell had found three agencies with similar logos in the vehicle database and called them. In the third one, they confirmed: yes, their appraiser went out to Chestnut Street yesterday evening.
The agency director, Isaac Graves, a man of about forty in an expensive suit, met us with a feigned politeness that poorly concealed his nervousness.
“Please have a seat.” He pointed to the leather chairs in front of the desk. “How can I help?”
“Yesterday, your employee went to the address 17 Chestnut Street,” Purnell began, taking out his badge. “Appraised a house. We would like to know the details.”
“Chestnut 17.” Graves frowned, opened a folder on the desk, and leafed through it. “Yes, correct. Order for an appraisal of a private house with a lot. What is the problem?”
“The problem is,” I leaned forward trying to speak calmly, though my hands were shaking, “that this house is mine and I did not call anyone for an appraisal.”
The director raised his eyebrows. “How is that? The order is filed in the owner’s name. Look here.” He turned the folder around and showed a document. “Vance, Vernon Michael, client. Owner, Vance Alara. There is a power of attorney from the owner.”
“What power of attorney?” My voice broke. “I gave no power of attorney.”
Graves blinked in confusion, dug into the folder again, and took out another sheet. “Here, please. Power of attorney from Vance, authorized spouse to represent interests in real estate transactions. Notarized.”
He held out the document. I grabbed the sheet, drilling into it with my eyes. My name, passport data, address—everything was correct. At the bottom, a signature.
My signature.
But I had not signed this. Never.
“It is a forgery,” I whispered, feeling the room swim before my eyes. “I did not sign this.”
Officer Purnell took the document from me, studied it carefully. “Mr. Graves, when was this power of attorney brought to you?”
“A week ago. Vernon Vance came in person, said he wanted to sell the house, asked to conduct an appraisal. We processed everything, agreed on a site visit. He said his wife was aware, she just had no time to deal with it. Trusted him.”
“And you did not check the authenticity of the power of attorney?” The officer looked at the director with a heavy gaze.
“It has a notary seal, everything as required,” Graves squirmed in his chair. “We are not required to verify every power of attorney through the notary board. That is not our job.”
“Show me all correspondence with the client,” Purnell cut him off. “Everything you have. Documents, contracts, emails.”
The director nodded, went into the computer. I sat staring at one spot. My head buzzed. Vernon, my husband, forged my signature. He wanted to sell the house, our house, without saying a word to me.
“Look here,” Graves turned the monitor. “First contact two weeks ago. He emailed, asked about appraisal and sale of a house. We set up a meeting. He came, brought documents. We drew up a contract for appraisal. The appraiser went out, inspected the house.”
“At night,” I inserted dully. “At eleven at night, while I was sleeping, he walked around the house, peered into windows.”
“Well, the client requested evening time specifically, said someone is there during the day and he needed it to be unnoticed.” Graves spread his hands. “We do not refuse clients if the request does not break the law.”
“And the fact that you are working with forged documents, that does not break the law?” Officer Purnell slammed his palm on the table.
“I did not know the documents were forged!” Graves went pale. “I swear, everything looked legal.”
“What happened next?” The officer nodded at the monitor. “After the appraisal.”
“After the appraisal, we compiled a report. The house was valued at four hundred twenty thousand dollars. Vance agreed to this amount, asked to find a buyer. We posted a listing.”
“When?” I interrupted.
“This morning. And a buyer has already responded. A serious man, ready to pay cash immediately. We set up a meeting for the day after tomorrow to sign the preliminary contract.”