Judged by E. H. Reinhard

agents that are out doing the face-to-face interviews and have them on the lookout for a… What kind of van was that?”
    “Ford Transit Connect,” I said.
    He nodded and pulled his phone from his pocket.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Tim took the bus and then walked the final mile to Jensen’s house—he didn’t know how long he would have to stay there before the doctor returned home and didn’t want to leave his van around for anyone to see. Tim’s van remained home, safely tucked away inside the garage. Tim adjusted the strap of his large duffel bag over his shoulder. Everything he needed for his stay, no matter how long, was inside.
    He neared the doctor’s block and looked around for neighbors outside. The sun had recently set, apparently sending everyone indoors—Tim spotted no one. He passed Jensen’s neighbor’s property, with a three-foot perimeter fence covered in ivy. A terracotta walkway broke up the lush palm trees and overgrown shrubbery at the entrance to Jensen’s house. Tim passed the building permits staked in the grass and made a right down the terracotta path, under an arbor mostly overtaken by nature, and toward the house. A motion-detecting light near the garage lit Tim up—he didn’t pay it much attention as the view from the street was blocked out by the overgrown landscaping. He walked around a big green garbage container overflowing with construction supplies and slipped down the right side of the Mediterranean-styled home toward the back. He rounded the rear of the house and walked to the same white, glass-paneled door that he’d entered through on his last visit. Tim knelt, fished the bump key and mallet from inside his bag, and let himself inside. He closed the door at his back.
    The home didn’t have any kind of security system even though the doctor had paid upward of three million dollars for the place just eight months prior. Tim pulled his flashlight from the bag and clicked it on. He shone the light around the kitchen, which looked as if it was halfway through its remodel.
    “Looks like your crew has been making some progress,” Tim said. He reached out and flipped on the lights.
    Tim lurked around the five-thousand-square-foot seven-bedroom house, looking for a suitable place to lie in wait for Jensen. He found himself in the master bedroom suite, and his eyes went right to the open door of the walk-in closet—perfect.
    Tim walked over, looked inside, and pulled the closet door open and closed—the hinges squeaked and squealed with each movement.
    “It looks like we’re going to need to get something for that,” he said.
    Tim made his way back through the house and into the single-car garage. He searched the garage shelves for a spray can of lubricant. After finding one in short order, he grabbed it and walked back inside. Tim tossed his duffel bag onto the kitchen table and removed his supplies.
    He pulled out two three-foot aluminum tranquilizer jab sticks from inside—one to use on the doctor, and another in case the doctor returned home with company. Tim had familiarized himself with the operation and practiced administering the shots. As soon as the doctor was in bed, Tim would come out from his hiding spot in the closet, poke him with the automatically discharging stick, and wait for the tranquilizer to take effect. From Tim’s research, he knew the drug contained in the syringes, made to incapacitate deer, should render the doctor unconscious within a minute or so—the same went for a guest if he returned home with one. As a backup, Tim had brought a pistol, which he removed from the bag and stuffed into his waistline. Tim screwed the pre-filled syringes to the tips of the jab sticks and cocked each handle. With both ready, he leaned them against the edge of the table so they stood vertically from the floor.
    A noise caught his attention from outside. Tim stood quietly, listening. The noise was that of a motor running.
    Too close to be a neighbor.
    Tim rushed to the