He knocked once.
The guest-room door opened immediately.
The man inside was already dressed.
Gray slacks.
White shirt.
No tie.
Coffee in one hand.
He was fifty-one, compactly built, with salt-and-pepper hair and the tired eyes of somebody who had spent too many years reading financial records people hoped nobody would read.
“You heard it?”
The homeowner held up his phone.
“She’s on the roof.”
The guest stared at the screen.
The HOA President had reached the shingles.
Her body appeared near the bottom of the camera image.
“What the hell is she doing?”
“I don’t know.”
The guest set down his coffee.
“Call police.”
“I am.”
The homeowner dialed.
He gave the address.
Explained there was an unauthorized person on his roof.
Then, after a pause, added:
“I believe she may be interfering with equipment above the rear patio.”
The dispatcher asked whether he was safe.
“Yes.”
“Stay inside.”
“I will.”
The guest looked at him.
They both knew that promise might become complicated.
The homeowner ended the call.
Then opened the upstairs hallway window just enough to hear.
Metal clanked above them.
The guest’s expression changed.
“The tank.”
The homeowner nodded.
The rooftop water tank rested on a steel support platform.
Its feed lines ran down through the utility wing.
Directly beneath it was the rear patio.
More specifically, beneath the outer edge of the platform was the small paved area outside the guest-room doors.
Every morning for the last four days, the county investigator staying in that room had walked outside at approximately six fifteen.
Coffee.
Phone call.
Ten minutes alone before work.
The HOA President knew that.
Or might.
The homeowner looked at the investigator.
“You went outside yesterday at six sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“Tuesday?”
“Probably.”
“Wednesday?”
“Same.”
The investigator stared toward the ceiling.
Then slowly:
“She knows my routine.”
The homeowner’s expression hardened.
“She knows somebody's routine.”
Neither man said anything.
Above them, metal struck metal again.
Not random.
Repeated.
The homeowner opened another camera feed.
The roofline camera had not been installed to monitor people.
It watched storm damage around the solar equipment.
But its angle caught part of the water tank.
The image was imperfect.
Still enough.
The HOA President crouched beside the steel support frame.
She held a compact heavy tool.
She was striking something near one of the mounting points.
The investigator whispered:
“Jesus.”
The homeowner’s anger came suddenly.
Hot.