A notary block appeared at the bottom.
Hadley wanted Caspian to sign too.
He refused.
“What did Mrs. Lockwood say when you refused?”
“She said I was making it more complicated than it needed to be.”
“Did she say what she planned to do with the document?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“She said she was reporting the car stolen tomorrow.”
I looked at Tate.
Tate looked at me.
“What time?”
“She said after lunch.”
“Anything more specific?”
“Bryson asked if they could do it before the game.”
“Which game?”
“Georgia kicks off at four.”
Of course.
Even criminal stupidity respected SEC football.
I thanked Caspian.
Told him not to discuss the call with anyone.
Asked whether he was willing to provide a formal statement with a parent present.
He said yes.
By eight-fifteen Saturday morning, Detective Bramwell had his sworn statement.
By four in the morning, the overnight warrant package had been completed for judicial review using evidence gathered independently of any command authority I held.
Search warrants covered the Lockwood residence, relevant digital devices, HOA records, and Whit’s commercial office.
Investigators were ready.
All they needed now was the false report.
Saturday arrived cool and bright.
North Georgia had finally broken out of summer.
I woke at five.
Could not sleep again.
Made coffee.
Read the newspaper without absorbing a word.
At seven-thirty, Tate came downstairs in pajama pants and a Georgia hoodie.
He poured orange juice.
“Sleep?”
“Some.”
“You?”
“No.”
He looked through the kitchen window.
The Mustang sat under the garage lights.
“Mom would have loved today.”
I looked down at my coffee.
“She would have made biscuits.”
“With sausage gravy.”
“Too much black pepper.”
“She would have said there was no such thing.”
I laughed.
So did Tate.
For several seconds, it felt like she was in the room.
At nine, Bramwell sent confirmation.
Caspian’s statement secured.
Warrant teams assigned.
Sheriff’s deputies staged outside the subdivision.
Sergeant Wynn Mercer monitoring coordination from an unmarked car away from the primary scene.
One element mattered greatly.
The patrol officers who would answer any vehicle-recovery call did not know the plan.
That was intentional.
They needed to respond naturally.
No performance.
No staged recognition.
No prearranged lines.
If Hadley called police, dispatch would send whichever nearby unit was appropriate.
By chance, the likely primary unit belonged to Sergeant Tucker Brennan.
Officer Lane Murchison was working with him that afternoon.
Brennan was thirty-four.
Six years with us.
Steady.
Not dramatic.
Good officer.
Murchison was twenty-three and fourteen months removed from the academy.
Smart young man.
Still learning when not to fill silence with unnecessary words.
At eleven, I opened the garage.
Rolled the Mustang halfway into the driveway.
Connected the battery.
Started the engine.
Let it idle.
The exhaust had a deep, even note Tate and I had spent more time tuning than either of us would admit.
After six minutes, I shut it off.