Through the garage window, I watched Dolores leading three people in business suits around my property like a tour guide at a disaster site.
"Property values have dropped 12 percent since this situation began," she announced confidently.
Pure fiction. But her audience was taking detailed notes.
After they left, I called my realtor buddy, Mike. "Mike, what are Willowbrook property values doing?"
"Up six percent this year. Hot market. Why?"
"Just checking reality against someone's fantasy."
Friday morning brought the legal threat. A certified letter from Dolores's attorney demanded immediate cessation of commercial activities and threatened a lawsuit for property value diminishment and community disruption.
The letter mentioned "concerned community stakeholders" prepared for civil litigation. Those business suits weren't random visitors. They were fake property assessors building a fraudulent legal case.
I speed-dialed Rodriguez. "She's manufacturing evidence with fake appraisers. This isn't harassment anymore. It's orchestrated fraud."
"Nathaniel, time to set the trap."
"What kind of trap?"
"The kind where we let her think she's winning until she hangs herself with her own rope. You free Saturday morning?"
The metallic taste of impending justice filled my mouth like chrome polish on a perfect restoration job.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Just keep doing exactly what you're doing. Work on motorcycles. Have the guys over. Act completely normal."
"And you?"
Rodriguez's laugh was dark as motor oil. "I'm going to make some calls. Federal calls. Because Saturday is going to be very educational for our friend Dolores."
"She has no idea what's coming, does she?"
"None whatsoever, and that's exactly how we want it."
Saturday morning arrived with the crisp bite of late October air and the promise of justice. Rodriguez had been cryptic about his federal calls, but I trusted military planning when I saw it.
Sometimes the best strategy is letting your enemy think they're winning right up until they destroy themselves.
I started my normal routine. Coffee, classic rock, garage door open, the familiar smell of motor oil and metal polish mixed with autumn leaves.
Just another peaceful Saturday in suburbia, except Dolores was already positioned across the street at 8:47 a.m., phone ready, watching my every move like a suburban sniper.
At 9:15, Bob arrived with his toolbox. At 9:30, Carlos pulled up in his pickup.
By 10:00 a.m., we had four guys working on the Harley, exactly like every other Saturday for the past three months. But today felt different, electric, like the calm before a storm that had been building for weeks.
Dolores was taking photos constantly now, practically vibrating with anticipation. She had positioned herself in Mrs. Briana's front yard, uninvited, with what looked like professional surveillance equipment.
"Man, that woman's lost her mind," Carlos muttered, installing new brake pads. "She's been photographing us for 20 minutes straight."
"Let her," I said, adjusting the carburetor. "Sometimes you have to give people enough rope."
At 10:23, Rodriguez arrived on his vintage Kawasaki. Nothing unusual. He came most Saturdays to help with the Harley restoration, but today he had a small duffel bag strapped to his bike.