“Officer Davis,” I said, my voice eerily calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “A few months ago, the HOA board awarded an exclusive landscaping and maintenance contract. Do you know who holds that contract?”
Davis looked up from the phone, his eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“Golden Crest Management,” I said.
Brenda scoffed, rolling her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything? The seller obviously just uses the same bank or holding firm. Richard explained the whole thing to me.”
“He didn’t explain anything, Brenda,” I said, turning to look directly at Richard.
Richard wasn’t looking at us anymore. He had backed up another three steps. His eyes were wide, darting frantically up and down the street as if calculating how far he could sprint before the cop tackled him.
“Brenda,” I said gently, not breaking eye contact with Richard. “Golden Crest Management isn’t a dealership. It’s a shell company.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brenda snapped, but her voice cracked.
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said, pointing a finger at Richard. “That’s your husband’s private company. He just used you to wire eighty thousand dollars of our community money into his own pocket.”
Chapter 3: The House of Cards
The silence that fell over the driveway this time wasn't just quiet; it was suffocating.
Brenda stared at me, her mouth slightly open, the phone slipping a fraction of an inch in her manicured hand. She slowly turned her head to look at her husband.
“Richard?” she whispered. The screeching, entitled Karen who had demanded my arrest was completely gone. In her place was a woman realizing the ground she stood on had just dissolved. “What is he talking about? You said the seller needed the wire sent there.”
Richard didn’t answer her. He didn't even look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Officer Davis.
Davis didn’t waste a second. He unclipped the heavy radio from his shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Unit 4-Bravo. I need a corporate registry run on a local LLC. Name is Golden Crest Management. Need the registered agent and primary owner.”
“Copy, 4-Bravo. Stand by,” the radio crackled.
For thirty seconds, nobody moved. The suburban tableau felt frozen in time. The distant hum of Mr. Miller’s lawnmower remained silent. He was now standing openly on the curb, watching, alongside half a dozen other neighbors who had migrated out of their houses to witness the downfall of the Gables.