It also saved me later.
Vanessa sent a cease-and-desist through Randall Salow.
He claimed I was interfering with association property and creating liability.
My lawyer, Amelia Grant, replied with the resurvey findings and requested proof of HOA title.
Randall supplied the 1991 recorded filing.
Amelia asked for the approval.
He did not provide one.
Instead, the letter became more threatening.
Unauthorized alteration.
Trespass.
Potential injunctive relief.
Amelia read it.
Then said:
“He’s writing around the missing approval.”
“Meaning?”
“He wants you intimidated before anybody answers the title question.”
“Can he stop the bridge?”
“He can ask a court.”
“Will he?”
“If he believes the association owns the approach, maybe.”
“And if he knows it doesn’t?”
She looked at me.
“Then filing becomes riskier.”
The injunction never came.
Instead, something stranger happened.
The county could no longer locate the original 1991 annexation file.
The index remained.
Digital references remained.
But the paper packet Priya had reviewed was gone.
I thought Dolores was joking when she called.
“Gone how?”
“Checked out.”
“By who?”
“We’re looking.”
The checkout had occurred three weeks earlier.
Before my formal resurvey request.
Someone had already anticipated scrutiny.
I drove to the archive.
A clerk named Walter Greene showed me the electronic log.
The file had been accessed under credentials assigned to Harlan Voss, a retired county surveyor.
Harlan had retired in 2003.
His archive credential should have been disabled.
The paper sign-in sheet showed another name.
R. Salow.
Randall.
My lawyer.
No.
The HOA’s lawyer.
My chest tightened.
“Can he check records out?”
Walter shook his head.
“Not under someone else’s retired credentials.”
“Did he remove it?”
“The file was signed out.”
“Returned?”
“No.”
I called Amelia from the parking lot.
She said three words.
“Do nothing stupid.”
“I’m going to Vanessa.”
“That qualifies.”
“I need to know if she ordered it.”
“Cole.”
“I’m not threatening anyone.”
“Bring a witness.”
I did not.
That part was stupid.
Vanessa lived in one of Ashwood Hollow’s largest houses.
Stone facade.
Three-car garage.
Landscaping maintained with military precision.
She opened the door wearing a sweater and jeans, no blazer.
For once she looked like a person rather than office furniture.
“Cole.”
“Did you tell Randall to remove the 1991 annexation file?”
Her face changed.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“No.”
“He checked it out using retired county credentials.”
“What?”
“You didn't know?”
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
“I told him to review the association’s exposure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means find out whether your survey could affect our title claims, assessments, insurance, prior enforcement.”
“Did you tell him to make the problem disappear?”
“No.”
“Did you ask how he planned to handle it?”
Vanessa looked away.