Beverly said the board would take it under advisement.
I said, "That's fine. I'll be taking notes."
The violation wasn't rescinded, but the second one quietly disappeared from the agenda. On my way out, I noticed something: the HOA meeting minutes, typed up by Beverly's hand-picked secretary, didn't match what had actually been said in that room. Specific motions appeared to have been approved that were never put to a vote. I didn't say anything. I photographed the document with my phone. I saved that photo in a folder I labeled simply Croft.
Tuesday, 6:14 p.m. I was parked on Route 9, working through a fender-bender report. My radio crackled.
Dispatch: "Unit 4, we have a non-emergency complaint, Sycamore Crest Drive. Caller reports a..." A half-second pause, a tone I recognized as barely concealed discomfort. "...visually disturbing minor on public-facing property."
I set my pen down. I confirmed the address. It was mine.
I keyed the radio: "Copy. I'll take it."
Nobody at dispatch argued: non-emergency complaint, my zone. And when my voice goes very calm, it tends to discourage pushback.
Four minutes to drive home. The May evening came through the cruiser window: diesel and cut grass, plus something sweet drifting all the way to the curb. Rosalind had been baking banana bread before her shift; even from the street, you could smell it.