“Call Patricia,” she said.
“Ask her to come over.
And then call the police.”
I was already dialing.
Patricia arrived in four minutes — she lived two houses down.
She was a small woman in her late seventies with sharp eyes and a canvas tote bag from which she immediately produced a spiral notebook.
“I wrote everything down,” she said, handing it to me.
“Times, descriptions, license plates.
The truck company name was on the side — I got that too.”
I looked at the notebook.
Her handwriting was small and precise.
She had noted the arrival time of the moving truck, the departure time, the number of men, the items she’d seen carried out, the make and model of Gerald Holt’s car, and his license plate.
“Patricia,” I said, “this is extraordinary.”
She waved her hand.
“I’m retired.
I watch things.” She looked at Grandma.
“Eleanor, I should have called sooner.
I wasn’t sure it was my place.”
“You called when it mattered,” Grandma said.
The police arrived twelve minutes later.
Two officers.
I met them at the door and spent five minutes explaining the situation before they came inside.
One officer, a woman named Reyes, sat down with Grandma at the kitchen table.
The other stood near the door and took notes.
“Mrs.
Sterling,” Officer Reyes said, “I want to make sure I understand the sequence correctly.
The property transfer was filed eleven days ago, but you had already revoked the power of attorney three days before that?”
“Correct.
I have certified copies.”
“And the bank accounts — the online access was set up without your knowledge?”
“Correct.
The bank’s fraud department has opened an investigation.”
Officer Reyes wrote steadily.
“Do you know where your son is right now?”
“He told my grandson he was at home.”
Reyes looked at me.
“Address?”
I gave it to her.
She stepped outside to make a call.
Through the kitchen window I watched her standing in the driveway, speaking into her radio.
My phone rang.
Arthur again.
I answered.
“Ivan, I need you to stop whatever you think you’re doing.” His voice had changed.
