I pulled the crumpled email from my pocket and handed it to him. "Robert dropped this at the diner."
Bear took the paper. He read it in silence. Tank stopped polishing the chrome. Slim slid out from under the bike, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. The garage went completely still.
Bear finished reading. He handed the paper back to me. His expression didn't change, but the muscles in his forearms coiled tight. "He’s burying something."
"The email says soil surveyors found chemical seepage," I said, speaking quickly. "If Arthur signs the power of attorney tomorrow, Robert gets total control of the estate. He can authorize the demolition on Saturday. He’s going to bulldoze Arthur’s home and pave over the contaminated soil to hide whatever he dumped there."
Tank set down his polishing rag. "Can we call the cops?"
"With what?" I asked. "A printed email that Robert will say is forged? We don't have proof. If I call the authorities right now, Robert will just move Arthur to a locked-down ward, claim he has severe dementia, and fast-track the demolition before the EPA can even process the complaint. I've seen families do this. By the time the bureaucracy catches up, the victim is completely isolated."
Slim leaned against the workbench. "So what's the play?"
"We need to get into the house," I said. "We need to see what's actually on that property. But Arthur’s house has been empty for months. Robert probably changed the locks."
"Locks aren't a problem," Bear said quietly. He walked over to a pegboard and grabbed a heavy set of keys. "But we need the old man's permission. We don't trespass on a brother's property without his say-so."
"Arthur is at Golden Years," I said. "It's a heavily monitored facility. They won't let a motorcycle club through the front doors without Robert throwing a fit."
"They'll let you in," Bear said, looking at me. "You used to work in that system. You know how to talk to them."
I swallowed hard. "I'll go right now."
It took me twenty minutes to drive to Golden Years. It was a sprawling, sterile building that looked more like a corporate office than a home. I walked into the lobby, my heart hammering against my ribs. I approached the front desk, flashing an old nursing badge I kept in my purse, keeping my thumb over the expiration date.
"Hi, I'm here to do a supplementary evaluation for Arthur Covington," I told the receptionist, using the flat, bored tone of a state worker. "Room 214."
She barely glanced up from her computer. "Sign the logbook. Second floor, down the hall to the right."
I walked down the quiet, carpeted hallways. The air smelled of institutional bleach and boiled vegetables. I found room 214 and knocked softly.
"Come in," a frail voice answered.
I opened the door. Arthur was sitting in a vinyl recliner by the window, staring out at a brick wall. The room was terribly bare. There was a bed, a dresser, and a single framed photograph on the nightstand—a picture of a young woman with a bright smile. Martha.
Arthur turned his head. When he saw me, his eyes widened slightly. "Maya? From the diner?"
"Hi, Arthur," I said, closing the door behind me. "I'm sorry to intrude."
"You're not intruding," he said, adjusting his posture. "I just wasn't expecting... anyone. Did Robert send you?"
"No," I said, pulling up a small chair beside him. "Arthur, I need to ask you some questions about your house. The one on Elm Street."
His face softened at the mention of his home. "Built it in forty-nine. Just a small bungalow with a deep backyard. Martha loved the yard."
"You mentioned to me a few months ago that your well water tasted strange," I said carefully. "And that Martha's roses died."
Arthur frowned, clearly confused by the direction of the conversation. "Yes. The water got heavy. Tasted like rusted iron and old batteries. Robert told me the pipes were just old and failing. Said it was too expensive to fix. That's one of the reasons he said I had to move here."
"Did Robert use the back acre of your property for his construction business?" I asked.