For a moment Fletcher could only look at her. Craig's refusal might have been rooted in ignorance, pride, or prejudice, but Victoria possessed the information Craig claimed to need. The word "service" rested between them like an accusation she could pretend was practical advice. She had seen the Range Rover at his home. She had discussed an HOA landscaping rule with him herself. Still she chose to treat him as a stranger who had taken a wrong turn.
"You recognize me, Victoria," he said. "Please don't make me argue about something we both know."
Her smile tightened. "Security has its instructions, Mr. ... I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
Fletcher did not repeat it. Craig watched the exchange, visibly reassured that the association president seemed to share his suspicions. Victoria drove through the side lane after Craig opened it. She parked her Mercedes a short distance inside the gate instead of continuing home, then stepped onto the sidewalk with her handbag over one forearm. Her decision to remain turned what might have been a moment of cowardice into something more deliberate. She was going to watch the guard continue.
Craig moved back toward Fletcher and allowed a short laugh to escape. "Well, that answers that, doesn't it?" he said. He spat onto the pavement near the front tire, a gesture so unnecessarily disrespectful that Dennis glanced at him in surprise. "I suggest you turn around. You can make all the calls you like, but you're not coming through without permission."
"I'm requesting access to my residence," Fletcher answered. "You're the person preventing it."
"You don't make the rules here."
"Neither do you. You're supposed to apply them."
Craig's face reddened. He stood close enough to force Fletcher to tilt his head upward to maintain eye contact. Dennis shifted near the golf cart, and Fletcher noticed that there was still no room to reverse without someone moving a vehicle. He was not going to step out and turn an argument into physical contact. He also was not prepared to abandon his car, walk around the gate, and allow the guards to describe his departure as proof that he had been trespassing.
Brenda appeared on the inner road minutes later. She wore dark athletic trousers, a light blouse, and sneakers, with the determined walk Fletcher recognized from the days when she crossed courthouse corridors carrying evidence no prosecutor had wanted to review. She passed Victoria's Mercedes without stopping and came directly to the booth. Her gaze moved from the closed gate to the Range Rover, then to Dennis's golf cart. Fletcher saw her take in the scene and understand that the obstruction was intentional.
"My name is Brenda Owens," she told Craig. "I live at 1 Greystone Lane. That is my husband in that car. Open the gate."
"Ma'am, we're trying to verify a claim," Craig replied, adopting the patient tone of a man expecting to be praised for restraint. "You can't just walk up here and tell me someone belongs inside."
Brenda held out her laminated Greystone resident identification badge. "My photograph, my name, the current expiration date, and my address," she said. "You can compare it with the roster your company received."
Craig examined the badge for several seconds. He glanced at Fletcher through the bars, then turned to Victoria as though awaiting approval. "This could be outdated," he said.