Chapter 5

Deputy Sarah Liu was a patient woman. It was a quality that had served her well in fifteen years of law enforcement, and it served her especially well tonight as she stood in the doorway of Mark Barlow's cluttered office, listening to five homeowners and one very nervous management-company clerk try to explain what they had found.

"Slow down," she said again. "One at a time."

Diane stepped forward. She had the folder in her arms now, stuffed with papers—the check, the photographs, the title transfers, the bank statements. She had her temple cleaned and bandaged, a small white square of gauze taped over the cut.

"My name is Diane Marsh," she said. "Mark Barlow hit me in the head with a binder tonight. He's already been arrested. But that's not the crime I need to report."

She laid the folder on the desk and began to lay out the papers in careful rows. The check. The deposit slip. The account records. The twelve title transfers.

"This is fraud," she said. "Embezzlement. Probably a lot of other things. Mark Barlow has been collecting fines from association members and depositing them into a personal account. He's been using a shell company called Silverleaf Holdings to acquire properties through foreclosure. He's been targeting homeowners on the edge of the greenbelt for years."

Deputy Liu picked up the check, examined the signature, set it down. She picked up a title transfer, scanned it, set it down. She opened the notebook Susan had handed her and read a page.

"You're a civilian," she said finally. "How did you find all this?"

"I paid a fine in May," Diane said. "Mark signed the check. When he tried to fine me again in July for a violation I didn't commit, I knew something was wrong. I had the check traced. The account belonged to his shell company. I've been gathering evidence since then."

Deputy Liu looked at her for a long moment. Then she picked up the phone on the desk.

"I'm calling the county attorney's office," she said. "And the state attorney general. They have a financial crimes unit. This is going to need more than the sheriff's department."

The room exhaled. It was not a loud sound—just a collective release of breath that seemed to drain the tension from the air.

"Good," Diane said. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

The county attorney's office sent two investigators. They arrived within the hour, carrying briefcases and grim expressions, and they spent the next three hours going through every document Diane and Susan had collected. They took photographs. They made copies. They asked questions that Diane answered with the same flat, patient voice she had used all night.

"Where did you get this check?"

"Diane paid it in May. Mark signed it."

"How do you know the deposit account isn't the HOA's main account?"

"Because my banker friend traced it. The account belongs to Silverleaf Holdings."

"Where did you get these title transfers?"

"Mark's safe. He keeps the combination in his desk."

The investigators exchanged glances. One of them, a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes, looked at Diane with something that might have been respect.

"You've been thorough," she said.

"I had four years to prepare," Diane said.

The notebook was taken into evidence. The computer was seized. The safe was opened again, its contents photographed and cataloged. By the time the investigators were done, the office was bare, stripped of every file and folder and scrap of paper.

Diane watched them work. She did not feel triumphant. She felt tired, hollowed out, the adrenaline of the evening finally beginning to fade. Her temple throbbed under the bandage. Her shoulders ached from hours of tension.

But when the lead investigator turned to her and said, "We're going to need your statement at the station," she nodded.

"I'll be there," she said. "After I get some sleep."

The investigator nodded. She did not smile, but there was something in her eyes, the beginning of something. Respect, perhaps. Or just the recognition of a job well done.

"Get some rest," she said. "You've earned it."