“This sounds like a civil dispute unless someone has actually committed an offense,” she told Brenda.
Brenda raised the stack of papers higher.
“The owners agreed to these restrictions when they bought their houses.”
I opened the county parcel viewer and turned the screen toward her.
“You’ve been issuing fines to seven houses, Brenda,” I said.
“Did you ever check who owns the land beneath them?”
For the first time, her expression changed.
“What are you talking about?”
I showed the property map with seven adjoining lots outlined in blue.
Each lot carried the name of the same limited liability company, Brookstone Residential Holdings.
I owned that company outright, including the seven houses, their yards, and the little strip of unused land behind them.
The street itself belonged to the city, which was something I understood even if Brenda did not.
“I own all seven rental properties on this block,” I told her.
“Now explain who authorized your association to collect money from my tenants.”
Brenda looked at the screen for a long moment before recovering her familiar smile.
“You can’t own all those houses,” she said.
“They’re occupied.”
“People can rent homes,” Officer Brooks observed.
Brenda ignored her.
“The neighborhood voted to include this block years ago.”
“Then show me the recorded covenant and the authority for collecting rent from people who never joined your association,” I said.
Brenda’s fingertips tightened on the folder.
“I don’t have to show you anything.”
“You called the police,” Officer Brooks reminded her.
“You should be prepared to explain what you’re asking them to enforce.”
Across the street, Mrs. Elisa Ruiz had come onto her porch with a laundry basket on her hip.
She looked pale when Brenda noticed her.
“Elisa, go inside,” Brenda ordered.
I turned to the officer.
“That woman is one of my tenants, and she has every right to stand on her own porch.”
Elisa did not move.
Instead, she lowered the laundry basket and asked a question that changed the afternoon.
“Mr. Carter, are you telling me Brenda has no right to charge us seventy-five dollars a month?”
I felt my stomach drop.
I had been expecting a confrontation about my truck, not a revelation that somebody had been taking money from the people who trusted me to provide their homes.
“What seventy-five dollars?” I asked.
Elisa reached into her pocket and held up a folded receipt.
“The neighborhood compliance fee,” she said.
