Chapter 3 - THE CORNER BENEATH THE BLUE TARP
The next morning, Detective Alvarez called before seven.
“Don’t leave your house yet.”
That is not the sentence you want to hear before coffee.
I stood in my kitchen staring through the blinds.
Two unmarked vehicles were parked near Linda’s property.
“Why?”
“We’re executing additional warrants.”
“At Linda’s?”
“Several locations.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Am I in danger?”
A pause.
“We don’t have evidence of an immediate threat.”
“That sounds like police language for maybe.”
“It means I want you alert, not panicked.”
Too late.
I asked about Briarwood Community Title.
She wouldn’t explain over the phone.
Instead, she arranged to meet me at the police station later that morning.
By the time I arrived, I had spent nearly three hours searching old closing documents.
Six years earlier, Nathan and I had bought our house from a retired couple named the Wilsons.
Everything had seemed normal.
Mortgage.
Inspection.
Title search.
Insurance.
Closing.
I remembered signing so many papers my hand cramped.
Briarwood Community Title had handled everything.
At the police station, Alvarez placed a photograph on the table.
Michael Hart.
He had sandy brown hair, a slightly crooked smile, and the tired expression of a man who disliked formal photographs.
“Michael worked as a county-contracted property appraiser,” she said. “But he also performed independent title research.”
“Why?”
“Usually for attorneys or insurance disputes.”
She placed another document beside his photo.
A list of addresses.
My house was number eleven.
I stopped breathing.
“What is this?”
“It was recovered from Linda Mercer’s garage.”
There were thirty-two addresses.
All in Briarwood.
Several belonged to people I knew.
The Parkers.
The Edwards family.
Mrs. Dalton.
And mine.
“Why did Linda have this?”
“We don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
Alvarez leaned back.
“Michael believed someone had been manipulating property records in Briarwood for years.”
“How do you manipulate a property record?”
“Forged transfers. Fake lien releases. Fraudulent trusts. Altered probate paperwork.”
I stared at my address.
“But why?”
“Money.”
Of course.
It was almost comforting in its simplicity.
She continued.
“Some properties changed hands at suspiciously low values before being resold. Others had liens placed against them through companies that barely existed.”
“And Michael discovered this?”
“We believe he was getting close.”
“To Linda?”
“Possibly.”
I remembered the note on my porch.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE DOOR BEIGE.
“Whoever left that note knows I gave you the footage.”
“We’re assuming that.”
“Then why am I sitting here without protection?”
“You have patrol checks scheduled.”
“That isn’t protection.”
Alvarez’s face softened.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Four days ago I was arguing about paint colors. Now you’re telling me the title to my house might be connected to a missing man.”
“We haven’t determined that your title is fraudulent.”
“Yet.”
She didn’t answer.
I looked again at Michael’s photograph.
“Was he inside Linda’s garage?”
“We found his vehicle there.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Another silence.
Then she said, “No remains were discovered.”
Relief came so quickly it surprised me.
“So he could still be alive.”
“We can’t assume that.”
But it was possible.
That mattered.
“What else was under the tarp?”
Alvarez studied me.
Then finally said, “The car.”
“Only the car?”
“Mostly.”
That word bothered me.
“Mostly?”
“A locked metal case was found in the trunk.”
“What was inside?”
“I can’t discuss evidence.”
I almost laughed.
“You brought me here to tell me my house is on a list found in a missing man’s car, but you can’t tell me what else was inside?”
“Linda’s garage contained records that appear connected to a larger fraud investigation.”
“So Linda was involved.”
“We haven’t charged her in Michael’s disappearance.”
“Have you charged her with anything?”
“Evidence tampering. Possession of stolen property. Obstruction. Those are preliminary.”
The woman who once reported my trash cans for being visible from the street was facing obstruction charges.
I should have felt vindicated.
I didn’t.
I felt watched.
When I returned home, a news truck was parked outside Briarwood.
A reporter approached my car.
“Ms. Carter! Is it true your security camera led police to the missing Hart vehicle?”
I kept walking.
“Did you know Mrs. Mercer was under investigation?”
I closed my garage door behind me.
Five minutes later, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
A man spoke.
“You need to stop talking to the police.”
My entire body went cold.
“I don’t know who this is.”
“You don’t need to.”
“What do you want?”
“You saw something you weren’t supposed to see.”
“I saw a car.”
“You saw enough.”
The line went dead.
I immediately called Alvarez.
She had officers at my house within seven minutes.
The call had come through an internet-based number.
Difficult to trace.
I spent the afternoon answering more questions.
Then, around five, something unexpected happened.
Mark Ellis from the HOA appeared at my door.
He looked terrible.
His tie was crooked.
His face was pale.
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About the door?”
“No.”
I almost refused.
Then I saw the way he kept looking over his shoulder.
I let him inside.
He refused coffee.
We sat in my living room.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“About Linda.”
“That makes two of us.”
He shook his head.
“No. You don’t understand. Linda wasn’t just some former committee member.”
“I know she behaved like she owned the place.”
“In some ways, she did.”
I waited.
Mark swallowed.
“Linda’s husband, Charles Mercer, helped establish the Briarwood HOA nineteen years ago.”
I knew Charles had died before I moved in.
Heart attack, according to Linda.
“What does that have to do with Michael Hart?”
“Charles was also a partner in Briarwood Community Title.”
Everything inside me went still.
“The company that handled my closing?”
“Yes.”
Mark looked sick.
“Linda inherited his records after he died.”
I thought about the boxes police carried from her garage.
“How long have you known this?”
“That Charles owned part of the title company? Everyone on the old board knew.”
“The old board?”
“Most of them are gone now.”
“Gone where?”
“Moved. Retired. Two died.”
He hesitated.
“One disappeared.”
My skin prickled.
“Michael?”
“No.”
Mark looked toward the window.
“A man named Robert Vale.”
I had never heard the name.
“Who was he?”
“The HOA treasurer.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared eleven years ago.”
My heartbeat seemed loud in the room.
“Was he ever found?”
Mark shook his head.
“No.”
Then he reached inside his jacket.
He removed an old photograph.
Seven people stood in front of Briarwood’s stone entrance sign.
Linda.
Charles.
Several people I didn’t recognize.
And one man standing at the far end.
Mark tapped him.
“Robert Vale.”
I looked closer.
Then stopped.
I knew that face.
Not personally.
But I had seen it recently.
“Where did you get this?”
“Old HOA files.”
I stood and hurried to my desk.
The night before, I had enlarged several frames from my doorbell footage.
The hooded vandal had kept their face hidden.
But in one frame, while turning away, the camera captured a partial profile.
I had dismissed it because the image was blurred.
Now I placed the image beside Mark’s photograph.
The jawline.
The nose.
A pale mark near the ear.
Mark whispered, “No.”
My mouth went dry.
Robert Vale had disappeared eleven years ago.
If Mark was right, he should have been nearly sixty now.
The person on my camera looked older than I first realized.
Maybe fifty.
Maybe sixty.
Mark backed away.
“That’s impossible.”
Then my doorbell chimed.
Both of us jumped.
I opened the live camera.
Nobody stood there.
But a package had been placed in the center of my porch.
No delivery driver.
No shipping label.
Just a small cardboard box.
Mark whispered, “Don’t touch it.”
We called police.
Officer Reeves opened it after technicians cleared it as safe.
Inside was one object.
An old brass house key.
Attached to it was a plastic tag.
11 BRIARWOOD LANE.
Officer Reeves looked at me.
“That address doesn’t exist.”
Mark’s face had gone white.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“It does.”
Everyone turned toward him.
He swallowed.
May you like
“Or it used to.”
And that was when I learned Briarwood Estates had once contained one more house than anybody currently living there was supposed to know about.
