Brenda realized she might have crossed a line. She froze, looked at the spilled dirt, then 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 and rewound the footage. There it was, in crisp 4K: Brenda walking onto the property, Brenda screaming, Brenda kicking the planter.
“We got it. Trespassing and destruction of property. Minor, but it’s leverage.”
“Save that video. 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. This is too good. Meet me at the diner on Third—the one with the greasy spoon. Twenty minutes?”
“I’m on my way.”
I grabbed my keys and texted Mike: It’s happening.
I drove to the diner faster than I probably should have. Sal was already there in a booth in the back, nursing black coffee and a slice of cherry pie. A thick Manila folder sat next to him.
I slid into the booth opposite him. “Tell me.”
Sal took a slow bite of pie, chewed deliberately, enjoying the dramatic tension. “So—your friend Brenda. Or should I say Brenda Kowalski?”
“Kowalski?”
“Her maiden name. Or at least the name she used in Ohio about ten years ago.” He tapped the folder. “She moved here five 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—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?”
“You are looking at three outstanding bench warrants,” Sal whispered.
“Warrants? Like arrest warrants?”
“Active ones. 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?”
“Read them and weep.”
I scanned the charges.
Illegal dumping. “She was throwing her household trash into a construction dumpster behind a strip mall to save on pickup fees. Got caught, refused to pay the fine, fought the cop who wrote the ticket.”
Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace. “That one was at a coffee shop. Apparently the foam on her cappuccino was insufficient. She threw the cup at the barista, screamed for twenty minutes, resisted arrest when the cops showed up.”
And the third—the kicker. Leaving the scene of an accident, property damage. “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. Technically. A petty, low-stakes fugitive. But here’s the thing about active warrants. If the local cops here find out about them, and if the jurisdiction in Ohio confirms they still want her, they have to pick her up.”
I stared at the file. This was it. This was the nuclear option.
“So she’s been terrorizing the neighborhood about rules and regulations while dodging the law herself,” Sal finished. “Hypocrisy at its finest.”
“What do I do? Do I just call the cops?”
“No.” Sal shook his head. “If you just call and say ‘check her record,’ they might prioritize it. They might not. It’s out-of-state paperwork. Cops hate paperwork. You need a reason for them to run her ID right now. You need an active situation.”
I thought about the porch-warming plan. I thought about the camera footage. I thought about the lemonade.
“I have an idea,” I said. A slow smile spread across my face.
“I like that look,” Sal said. “That’s the look of a guy who’s about to win.”
“She hates my porch. She hates me sitting on it. If I do something she considers a commercial enterprise, she’ll lose her mind. She’ll call the cops on me. And when they show up…”