The sound of sirens grew closer. Real ones this time, not just the response to Dolores's 911 call.
"You see, Mrs. Weatherbe," Rodriguez continued, "while you were busy playing neighborhood dictator, I was working with federal investigators on a little matter involving HOA financial fraud and civil rights violations."
Three police cruisers pulled into my driveway, followed by two unmarked federal vehicles. Dolores's phone slipped from her trembling hands and clattered on the concrete floor.
"Ma'am," Rodriguez continued in his official police voice, "you're under arrest for filing false police reports, criminal harassment, and conspiracy to commit fraud."
The handcuffs clicked with the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. But the real show was just beginning.
The garage went dead silent except for Dolores sobbing in the police car outside. Agent Sarah Martinez from the FBI stepped forward, her face grim as death.
"Mr. Thompson, what I'm about to tell you is going to make you very angry."
She pulled out a thick manila folder, hands shaking slightly. "We've been tracking your neighbor for six months. This isn't about property values or noise complaints."
My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"
"Dolores Weatherbe and her nephew Derek have been running a systematic fraud operation across 12 HOAs. They target working-class residents, harass them into selling, then split profits with real-estate investors."
Rodriguez's jaw clenched. "How much money are we talking about?"
"Three hundred forty thousand dollars in fraudulent HOA billing alone. But the property manipulation scheme, that's worth millions."
Agent Martinez spread photos across my workbench, not of motorcycles, but of bank records and email printouts.
"This email is from Dolores to Derek, dated three weeks ago."
She read aloud: "The motorcycle target is weakening. If we escalate to criminal complaints, I estimate forced sale within 60 days. Projected profit, $73,000 split."
The taste in my mouth went metallic.
"Your house, Nathaniel. They planned to force you to sell below market value, then flip it to their investor friends. Dolores gets a $15,000 finder's fee. Derek handles the fraudulent HOA documentation."
Bob slammed his wrench down. "They were going to steal his house."
"They already did it to 11 other families," Martinez said. "Single mothers, elderly widowers, disabled veterans, anyone who couldn't fight back effectively."
The garage spun around me. Three months of harassment, violation notices, and sleepless nights, all so Dolores could make a quick $15,000.
"But here's what she didn't know," Rodriguez said, his cop voice taking over. "Tom's been feeding information to the FBI since March."
"Tom?"
Agent Martinez nodded. "A retired accountant notices obvious billing fraud, contacts federal authorities. We've been building this case for months, waiting for enough evidence to prosecute the whole conspiracy."
She pulled out another document. "This morning's arrest warrant covered Derek's office, Dolores's house, and the investment company bank accounts, computer records, communication logs, financial statements, everything."
Rodriguez grinned. "And every false police report she filed is recorded in our system. Timestamps, audio, response logs, perfect documentation of systematic harassment."
My hands were shaking now. "How many families did they destroy?"
"Fifteen confirmed forced sales. Average loss per family, $47,000. Total theft, including HOA fraud, over $2 million."
Agent Martinez's voice softened. "Nathaniel, you weren't just defending your garage workshop. You were the key to stopping a criminal enterprise that was destroying working families across three counties."
The irony hit like a sledgehammer. Dolores spent months calling me a criminal while running an actual criminal conspiracy.