The cameras showed the front gate, the long driveway lined with palms, and the massive mahogany double doors.

A black utility van was parked just outside the perimeter wall.

Two men in gray work shirts were standing near the gate intercom.

They carried toolboxes.

On the screen, I watched the front door of the mansion swing open.

Victor stepped out onto the portico.

He was wearing his silk robe, a cup of coffee in his hand.

He looked angry, his face red even through the low-resolution camera feed.

He walked toward the gate, gesturing wildly with his free hand.

He was shouting at the locksmiths.

Then, his phone must have vibrated in his pocket.

I watched him reach down and pull it out.

He stopped walking.

Even from the camera’s distant angle, I could see his shoulders sink.

He stared at the screen for a long time, the coffee cup tilting in his hand until the dark liquid spilled onto the clean white stone of the driveway.

He didn’t seem to notice.

He raised the phone to his ear, his head turning slowly toward the street.