Homeland security.(In real life: first-person America; home robbery)

The pink roses on Mrs. Cranberry's arbor bloomed the day our house was broken into. Heading down the driveway to begin my morning walk, their fragrance drifted toward me from across the street. Blue delphiniums and violet pansies hugged the white picket fence that flanked the lattice arbor on either side. Elm and pear trees shaded the scene, keeping it green and lush, like an illustration from one of the Beatrix Potter books I used to read to my children. The only thing missing was a crotchety Mr. McGregor in denim overalls and straw hat, metal rake in hand to frighten away intruders.

Ah, there's the pity. I didn't realize we'd been hit until that evening when I searched around for my husband's laptop but couldn't find it. No matter, I thought, opening the door to our college sophomore's room. I'd borrow Carolyn's instead.

As I opened the door to Carolyn's room I smelled the scent of her favorite perfume in the air, and half expected her to appear with a "Hey Mom, what's up?" But she'd left the day before to study in Italy.

I'd hugged her goodbye at San Francisco International Airport, resisting the urge on the drive home to pull a U-turn and keep her here, where we enjoy the illusion of safety. The next morning I decided to walk off my world over Carolyn's safety abroad. And that's when the other bad guys--America has them too--plucked her laptop from the edge of her bed.

"Guess we've been robbed," said my husband as we tallied the string of disappeared items. "Better call the police."

Three officers arrived within minutes, eager to solve the first case of honest-to-goodness crime in our 60-year-old cul-de-sac's history. Walkie-talkies spit ten-four messages, guns poked from polished leather holsters. We gathered at the dining room table to strategize.

"So, that's it--just the two laptops and some cash?" asked the lead investigator, filling out his report. "No jewelry?"