“We need to test the system,” Mike said wiping sweat from his forehead. “And we need to see if the privacy screen works. I say we have a little party.” “A party?” I hesitated. “I don’t want to get hit with a noise violation.” “Not a loud party,” Mike corrected. “A visual party. We sit on the porch. We drink iced tea. We laugh. We point at things. We make it look like we’re having the time of our lives. If she can’t see what we’re doing, but she can hear us having fun, it’ll drive her insane.” “Psychological warfare,” I said. “I like it.” I went inside and made a pitcher of iced tea. I put it on a tray with two glasses. I even cut up some lemon wedges to make it look fancy. We sat on the new deck. Hidden behind the slats. From the street, we were just shadows and voices. “So,” Mike said leaning back in the new patio furniture I had assembled. “You talked to the PI?” “Yeah, he’s on it. He thinks you’re right about the skeletons.” “Good.” Mike took a sip of tea. “This is good tea, by the way.” “Thanks. It’s Earl Grey.” “Fancy.” We sat there for 10 minutes. Just chatting about baseball and the cost of lumber. Then, inevitably the curtain twitched across the street. “Target acquired,” Mike murmured not moving his lips. “She’s at the window.” “I see her,” I said. Through the slats I could see the blinds separate. “Laugh,” Mike whispered. “Laugh like I just told you the funniest joke in the world.” I threw my head back and laughed. “Haha, oh Mike, that’s hilarious.”
Mike joined in, his booming baritone echoing off the pergola. “And then the guy says that’s not a hammer.” We were improvising nonsense. But the effect was immediate. The front door across the street opened. Brenda stepped out. She was wearing her patrol outfit again. Visor, sunglasses, clipboard. She walked to the edge of her driveway and stared at my house. She craned her neck. She took a step left. She took a step right. She was trying to see through the slats. “She can’t see us,” Mike whispered grinning. “It’s killing her.” “She’s getting closer,” I reported. Brenda walked to the edge of the street. She was squinting. She pulled out her phone. She tried to take a picture. But all she would get was a picture of a nice wooden wall. “Time for phase two,” Mike said. “The toast. To the new deck,” Mike shouted raising his glass of iced tea so it was visible above the privacy screen for just a second. “To the deck,” I shouted back. Brenda flinched. She looked furious. She couldn’t verify if we were drinking alcohol. She couldn’t verify if we were loitering or working. She had no data. She stood there for a solid 5 minutes just staring. Then she marched up to the edge of my lawn. “Hey,” she shouted. “Hey.” I stayed silent. Mike put a finger to his lips. “I know you’re in there,” Brenda yelled. “I can hear you. You need a permit for a gathering of more than 10 people.” “There’s two of us,” I whispered to Mike. “Ignore her,” Mike whispered back. “I’m calling the code enforcer,” she screamed. “That wall is too high. It exceeds the visual variance.” Mike leaned over to me. “It’s exactly 6 ft. Standard fence height. Totally legal.” We didn’t answer. We just clinked our glasses together. Clink. The sound drove her over the edge. She took a step onto my grass, then another. She was now fully on my property, marching toward the deck, phone raised like a weapon. “Smile,” Mike whispered. “You’re on camera.” The little black lantern on the post blinked once imperceptibly. Brenda marched right up to the privacy screen and tried to peer through the crack. “What are you doing in there?” she hissed. “Drinking tea, Brenda,” I said calmly, not standing up. “Would you like some?” She jumped back, startled by how close my voice was. “You— You are provoking me. This structure is an eyesore. It’s aggressive.” “It’s wood,” I said. “It’s inanimate. Please get off my lawn.”
“I have a right to inspect potential code violations,” she claimed. Which was absolutely not true. “You are trespassing,” I said. “And you are being recorded.” “Recorded?” She looked around wildly. She looked at the lanterns. She didn’t clock them as cameras. “You’re bluffing. You’re a menace.” She kicked, actually kicked, one of the new planters I had put at the base of the stairs. It tipped over, spilling dirt onto the walkway. “That,” Mike said, his voice low and hard, “was property damage.” Brenda realized she might have crossed a line. She froze, looked at the spilled dirt, then looked at the wooden wall. She huffed, straightened her visor, and turned around. “I’ll have this torn down by Monday,” she shouted over her shoulder as she retreated. We watched her go. Mike looked at me. “Did we get it?” I pulled up the app on my phone. I rewound the footage. There it was, in crisp 4K definition. Brenda walking onto the property. Brenda screaming. Brenda kicking the planter. “We got it,” I said. “Trespassing and destruction of property. It’s minor, but it’s leverage.” “Save that video,” Mike said. “Back it up to three different clouds.” “Done.” We spent the rest of the afternoon in peace.
But the real bomb dropped on Monday morning. I was working at my desk when my phone rang. Unknown number. “Bennett?” The voice was raspy. “Sal.” “Sal, did you find something?” “Find something?” Sal let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Kid, you better sit down. Are you sitting?” “I’m sitting.” “Good. Because I didn’t just find dirt. I found an archaeological dig site.” My stomach did a flip. “What is it?” “Not over the phone,” Sal said. “This is too good. Meet me at the diner on third, the one with the greasy spoon. 20 minutes?” “I’m on my way.” I grabbed my keys. I texted Mike. “It’s happening.” I drove to the diner faster than I probably should have. Sal was already there, sitting in a booth in the back, nursing a cup of black coffee and a slice of cherry pie. He had a Manila folder next to him. A thick one. I slid into the booth opposite him. “Tell me.” Sal took a slow bite of pie. He chewed deliberately. He was enjoying the dramatic tension. “So,” Sal said, wiping crumbs from his lip. “Your friend Brenda, or should I say Brenda Kowalski?” “Kowalski?” “Her maiden name. Or at least the name she used in Ohio about 10 years ago.” Sal tapped the folder. “She moved here 5 years ago, right?” “Yeah, that sounds right.” “And she’s been a model citizen ever since. A pillar of the community.” Sal smirked. “But back in Ohio Brenda was a busy girl.” He opened the folder and slid a stack of papers toward me. They were photocopies of court dockets, mug shots, police reports. I looked at the top photo. It was definitely her. Younger, less Botox, hair a little wilder, but the eyes were the same. The eyes of someone who wanted to speak to the manager of the universe.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. “You are looking at three outstanding bench warrants,” Sal whispered. “Warrants? Like arrest warrants?” “Active ones,” Sal nodded. “She skipped town. Never showed up for court. And because they were misdemeanors, nobody came looking for her across state lines. But they never go away, kid. They just sit in the system waiting for someone like me to run a national check.” “What did she do?” I scanned the papers. The charges were listed in bold. “Read them and weep,” Sal said. I read the first one. Illegal dumping. “Illegal dumping?” I asked. “She was throwing her household trash into a construction dumpster behind a strip mall to save on pickup fees,” Sal explained. “Got caught, refused to pay the fine, fought the cop who wrote the ticket.” I read the second one. Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace. “That one,” Sal pointed, “was at a coffee shop. Apparently, the foam on her cappuccino was insufficient. She threw the cup at the barista, screamed for 20 minutes, resisted arrest when the cops showed up.” “That sounds about right,” I muttered. “And the third one,” Sal said, “is the kicker. Leaving the scene of an accident, property damage.” “A hit and run?” “Fender bender in a parking lot. She backed into someone, got out, looked at the damage, got back in her car, and drove off. Witnesses got the plate. She never showed up for the court date.” Sal leaned back. “She’s a fugitive, Jason.