That's camera three up there by the entrance. Great angle. His eyes flick up to the security camera, then widen slightly. He's back in his car and gone before the store manager even reaches us, tires squealing against asphalt. I finish loading, wave to the concerned manager, just a misunderstanding, and head home.
That evening, certified letter in my mailbox. Official HOA letterhead. $600 in accumulated fines for motorcycle parking, due in 10 days or they'll place a lien on my property. Here's where Deandra got sloppy. The signature block lists her as HOA president.
She's not the president. She's treasurer. The actual president is Gregory Matsuno, a retired school teacher who hasn't said a word at meetings. She's forging authority. In Indiana, that's not an HOA squabble.
It edges into fraud territory. I'd seen this before, back in Chicago. Small-time operators who got drunk on tiny amounts of power, started cutting corners, figured nobody would check. They always made the same mistake, underestimating how much documentation matters. I photograph the letter, scan it, save copies to three different drives.
Then I start calling board members. Casual coffee invitations, nothing aggressive. Gregory Matsuno agrees immediately. Sounds exhausted and quietly terrified. Two other members worshiped Deandra, repeat her talking points verbatim.
But Yolanda Wu, retired accountant mid-60s, hesitates when I mention finances. Between you and me, she says quietly, something doesn't add up in the books. I asked to review statements last month, and Deandra shut me down hard. Said it wasn't my concern as a regular board member. I thank her and hang up.
The cracks are showing now. Deandra's built her little empire on intimidation and jeia. She nobody would look close enough to see the foundation crumbling. Time to start applying pressure. 2:47 a.m., day 19.
My phone buzzes. Motion alert. I pull up the camera feed still half asleep. There's a hooded figure crouched by my Harley, and before he even looks up, I know from the build, it's Jackson. He's dragging a key across the fuel tank.
Long, deliberate gouges through the midnight blue paint, right through Miranda's name in silver script. Then he pulls out a screwdriver and starts punching the ignition. Metal scraping metal in the silent pre-dawn. Every instinct says go out there now, but the smarter part, the part that built federal cases for 20 years, says let him finish. Make it undeniable.
He looks directly at the camera, grins, flips it off, then walks away like he just finished taking out the trash. I wait until he's back inside Deandra's house before going outside. The damage hits harder than expected. Those jagged silver scars through Miranda's name, the ignition destroyed, gasoline pooling on concrete, sharp chemical stink burning my throat. I stand there breathing, feeling that old anger trying to rise.
The kind that got agents in trouble when cases turned personal. I push it down. Anger makes you sloppy. I go inside and wait. 6:30 a.m. Right on schedule, Jackson strolls across the cul-de-sac with that smirk.
"Morning, neighbor. Something wrong with your bike?" All fake concern. "Real shame when property gets damaged. Maybe you should park it in the garage like Mom says."
I sip my coffee. "You looked right at the camera." He stops. Smirk falters. "2:47 this morning.
Keyed the tank, punched the ignition. Smiled at camera two, even flipped it off." Another sip. "Felony criminal mischief in Indiana. Damage over three grand.