The strip mall on 4th and Main was the kind of place where dreams went to die, or at least get heavily discounted. Laundromat with a flickering O in the neon, a payday-loan place that was legally distinct from robbery, and Vape Nation, which smelled like cotton candy and questionable life choices even from the parking lot. To the left of the vape shop was a plain steel door with no handle—just a keypad and a piece of paper taped to it: “Knock loud. Bell is broken.”
I knocked loud. Nothing for a solid minute. Then a harsh buzzer and the lock clicked. I pushed the door open into a hallway that smelled of stale coffee and old carpet. At the end was a frosted-glass door with “S. Moretti Investigations” stenciled in black. The I was peeling off.
I walked into a scene from a black-and-white movie that had been colorized on a budget. Blinds drawn, dusty strips of afternoon sun across a desk cluttered with file folders, take-out containers, and an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. Behind the desk sat Sal—less shark, more walrus that had seen too much. Large man in a rumpled button-down straining against the laws of physics, slicked-back gray hair, dark circles under the eyes, currently trying to fish a pickle out of a jar with a letter opener.
“You the porch guy?” he asked without looking up.
“I am. Jason Bennett.”
“Have a seat.” He finally stabbed the pickle, popped it in his mouth, and crunched loudly. “Don’t mind the mess. The cleaning lady quit. Said the aura in here was heavy. Can you believe that? Heavy aura. I pay her to dust, not to read my chakras.”
I sat in the guest chair. One leg was shorter than the others, so I had to balance carefully.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice, Mr. Moretti.”
“Sal. Mr. Moretti was my father. He was a bookie. I’m a legitimate businessman.” He wiped his hands on a napkin that already had a coffee stain. “So—you said on the phone you got a neighbor problem. Usually I don’t touch domestic squabbles. Messy. People get emotional over property lines. But you said the magic words.”
“What were the magic words?”
“False police report. I hate people who weaponize the badge. It makes the real work harder. So tell me—who is she? What’s the damage?”
I laid it all out: the rocking-chair incident, the accusation of loitering on my own property, the Facebook video, the HOA letter, the ticket on Mike’s truck. When I got to the part where she claimed I was casing the neighborhood by reading a book, Sal started to chuckle—a dry wheezing sound that erupted into a full guffaw. He laughed so hard he started coughing and slammed a fist on the desk, rattling the pickle jar.
“She said you were loitering? In your own house? Kid, that’s rich. That’s classic. These suburban queens—they think they own the air you breathe.”
“It’s not funny to me. She’s costing me money. She’s threatening my contractor. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Sal sobered instantly. The humor vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory intelligence. He leaned forward. “You’re dealing with a control freak. And control freaks are usually trying to control their environment because they can’t control their past. You said she’s the HOA president?”
“Self-appointed, I think.”
“Figures. Power trips on small hills.” He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and uncapped a cheap ballpoint. “All right—give me everything you’ve got. Name, address, license plate if you have it. Husband? Kids? Job?”
“Brenda Miller. 405 Maple Drive. Drives a silver Honda Odyssey, late model. Plate KZN 449. No husband that I’ve seen. Rumor she’s divorced, but nobody knows for sure. No kids living there. But she talks about protecting the children constantly. Doesn’t seem to work, or if she does it’s from home. She’s always there.”
Sal scribbled furiously. “Always there—that’s good. Means she’s bored. Bored people make mistakes. Maiden name?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll find it. How old, roughly?”
“Late forties, early fifties. Hard to tell with the Botox.”
“All right. Here’s the play. I’m going to run a skip trace—deep dive. Cross-reference her name with property records in every state. Civil courts, criminal courts, traffic violations. If she’s got a secret, I’ll find it. I’ll even check her trash if I have to, though I charge extra for biohazard retrieval.”
“Please don’t go through her trash. I don’t want to be arrested for stalking.”
“I don’t get arrested, kid. I get results.” He ripped the page off the notepad. “But listen—this takes time. A few days, maybe a week. If she’s clean, she’s clean. Sometimes a Karen is just a Karen. You prepared for that?”
“I am. But my contractor had a gut feeling. He said she lies too easily. Like it’s muscle memory.”
Sal paused and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Contractors know people. If a guy who builds houses says the foundation is rotten, you listen. I’ll dig deep. Two thousand. Half now, half when I hand you the file.”
It was a lot of money—my vacation fund. But I thought about Brenda’s smug face as the cop wrote that ticket. “Deal.”
I counted out ten hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the desk. Sal swept them into a drawer faster than a magician.
“Go home. Act normal. Don’t antagonize her. Let her think she’s winning. Complacency makes people sloppy.”
“Hard to act normal when she watches my every move.”
“Then give her a show.” Sal grinned, revealing a gold tooth I hadn’t noticed before. “Just make sure it’s the show you want her to see.”
I drove home feeling lighter. I had an ally. I had a secret weapon named Sal operating in the shadows.
When I pulled into my driveway the sun was setting. The construction crew was gone, but the progress was staggering. The deck was finished. Big Mike hadn’t just built a deck—he’d built a fortress. Cedar planks smooth and stained a rich, warm honey color. The pergola rose overhead like a temple to leisure, thick beams casting long geometric shadows. And the pièce de résistance: the privacy screen. On the side facing Brenda’s house, Mike had installed a slat wall—horizontal boards angled slightly downward like louvers. From the inside, sitting down, I could see out through the gaps—the street, the trees, and yes, Brenda’s house. From the street it was a wall of wood. A beautiful, impenetrable barrier. She wouldn’t be able to tell if I was there or not. She wouldn’t know if I was reading, drinking, or building a nuclear reactor.
I walked up the new steps, the wood solid under my feet, and sat in my rocking chair behind the screen. Perfect. I felt like a sniper in a blind.
My phone buzzed—a text from Big Mike.
Mike: How’s the view?
Me: Incredible. I feel invisible.
Mike: Good. I’m coming by tomorrow to install the lighting package. Also known as the caught-you-red-handed package.
The next day—Saturday—Mike arrived without the big crew. Regular pickup, toolbox, several boxes marked with the logo of a high-end security company.
“These aren’t just lights, are they?” I asked as he unpacked sleek black dome cameras.
“Oh, they’re lights,” Mike said, holding up a fixture that looked like a modern lantern. “Motion-activated, solar-powered. Very eco-friendly. But…” He flipped it over, revealing a tiny lens embedded in the base. “They also happen to record in 4K with audio, night vision, and cloud backup. I use them on job sites to catch people stealing copper wire.”
“Is this legal?”
“Recording your own property? Absolutely. If the camera accidentally captures the sidewalk and the street because of the wide-angle lens, well—that’s just technology being helpful.”
We spent the morning installing them: one on the corner of the pergola facing the driveway, one by the front door, and one strategically placed right in the center of the privacy screen, peeking through a gap in the slats with a direct line of sight to the edge of my lawn where Brenda liked to stand and scream.