“Escalate how?”
“The pergola. You wanted it shaded, right? How about we use those angled slats—the ones that block the view from the street but let you see out? It’s called a privacy screen. Perfectly legal, but it’ll drive her nuts because she won’t be able to see if you’re on the porch or not. The mystery will kill her.”
“Do it,” I said. “Build the wall.”
The climax of the construction phase happened on Friday. The deck was nearly done—magnificent, a sprawling platform of cedar that smelled of rich wood and defiance. Mike and his crew were packing up. The massive F-350 was parked on the street right in front of my house. Because the trailer was attached, the back wheels of the trailer were maybe two feet past the edge of my driveway, encroaching into the public curb space.
I was outside signing a check for the materials when a police cruiser rolled up—not a patrol car this time, but a sleek traffic-enforcement interceptor. Brenda was already on her lawn, this time in full “let me speak to the manager” uniform: khaki capris, sensible blouse, sunglasses big enough to weld in. She was pointing at Mike’s truck.
The officer—thick mustache, zero sense of humor—stepped out. “Owner of this vehicle?”
“That’s me,” Mike said, stepping forward. He towered over the officer but kept his hands visible. He knew the drill.
“You’re blocking the flow of traffic. And you’re parked more than twelve inches from the curb. I’ve got a complaint saying this vehicle has been abandoned for three days.”
“Abandoned?” Mike laughed. “I’ve been moving it every night. And look at the tape.” He pulled a tape measure from his belt like a gunslinger and snapped it to the pavement. “Ten inches from the curb. Legal limit is twelve. I’m within spec.”
“The trailer hitch!” Brenda shouted from the sidewalk. “The hitch is sticking out into the lane. It’s a hazard! A fire truck couldn’t get through! If my house burns down, it’s his blood on his hands!”
The officer looked at the hitch. It was sticking out maybe four inches. “It’s a violation,” he said, pulling out his ticket book. “Obstruction of roadway. And since it’s a commercial vehicle in a residential zone overnight—”
“I didn’t park it overnight! I just told you!”
“I have a witness statement saying it’s been here since Tuesday,” the officer said, gesturing to Brenda.
Brenda smirked—a cold, reptilian smile. She had lied. She had filed a false report just to get him ticketed.
“That’s a lie!” I jumped in. “I have security footage. I can prove the truck leaves every day at five p.m.!”
“You can contest it in court,” the officer said, already writing. He ripped the ticket off and slapped it on Mike’s windshield. “Move it now, or I call a tow.”
Mike looked at the ticket. He looked at Brenda. His face went red, then strangely calm. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw the ticket. He just folded it neatly and put it in his pocket.
The officer drove away. Brenda stood there, arms crossed, looking like she’d just won the Super Bowl.
“Sorry about that, Mike,” I said, feeling sick. “I’ll pay the ticket.”
“Keep your money,” Mike said, his voice quiet and dangerous. “It’s the principle.” He started packing the tools in silence, throwing the circular saw into the truck bed with a little more force than necessary.
“You know,” he said, not looking at me, “I’ve been doing this twenty years. Contractors, we see everything. We go into people’s backyards, their basements, their lives. And one thing I’ve learned—the people who scream the loudest about the rules, the ones who watch everyone else like a hawk…” He turned to me and lowered his sunglasses. “They’re always the ones hiding the biggest pile of dirt. Nobody is that paranoid unless they’re hiding something or afraid of getting caught.”
I looked across the street at Brenda. She was inspecting her lawn for invisible weeds, pretending not to watch us.
“She’s hiding something,” Mike said. “I’d bet my left nut on it. Someone who lies to a cop about a truck parking—that comes easy to her. That’s muscle memory. She’s done it before.”
The words hit me like a lightning bolt. Muscle memory.
Brenda acted like she owned the law. She wielded police officers like personal security guards. But Mike was right. That level of comfort with manipulation, that sheer audacity to lie on an official report—that wasn’t a hobby. That was a lifestyle.
“Skeletons,” I whispered.
“Closets full of them,” Mike grunted. He climbed into his truck. “I’ll be back Monday to finish the stain. You watch your back, Jason. She’s feeling bold now.”
He drove off, the trailer rattling behind him. I stood on my half-finished magnificent deck. The ticket incident had been the last straw. I had tried to be nice. I had tried to ignore her. I had tried to just build a deck and live my life. But she had come for my contractor. She had cost a working man money based on a lie.
This wasn’t a neighbor dispute anymore. This was a crusade.
I went inside and opened my laptop. I didn’t search for HOA lawyers or mediation services. I remembered a guy my cousin had used during a nasty divorce—a guy who didn’t have a LinkedIn profile, whose office was rumored to be behind a vape shop in the sketchy part of town.
I typed in the name I remembered: Sal Moretti, private investigations. The website was a single page, black background, white text: “Need to know, I find out.”
I dialed.
“Moretti.” The voice sounded like whiskey and cigarette smoke filtered through a rusty screen door.
“Mr. Moretti, my name is Jason Bennett. I have a neighbor problem.”
“Kid, I don’t do cat rescues.”
“She’s not a cat. She’s a tyrant. She’s filing false police reports. She’s fining me for existing. And my contractor thinks she’s hiding something big.”
There was a pause, then the sound of a lighter flicking and a long inhale. “A suburban tyrant, huh? HOA type?”
“The president of the board.”
“I hate those people. They act like they’re running the mob, but without the style. You want me to dig?”
“I want you to dig to China. I want to know where she went to high school. I want to know why she moved here. I want to know what she’s afraid of.”
“This is going to cost you. Data isn’t free, and neither is my gas.”
“I’ll pay double if you find dirt.”
“Meet me in an hour. Strip mall on 4th and Main. Look for the sign that says Vape Nation. I’m the door to the left. Bring cash.”
I hung up. My heart was racing, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was adrenaline. Brenda was outside again, sweeping her driveway. She looked up, saw me in the window, and gave me a smug little nod that said “I win.”
I nodded back. Not yet, Brenda. Not yet.
I grabbed my keys and my checkbook. I had a date with a shark.