Then she asked Cynthia one question.
“Why this car?”
Cynthia hesitated.
“I liked it.”
“That's not enough.”
“It was a classic.”
“Lots of classic cars exist.”
Cynthia looked down.
Finally she said, “The seller told me it was undervalued.”
“How?”
“He said the owner needed money quickly.”
“Did he know your name?”
“Yes.”
Daniel looked up.
“How did a stranger selling a car know your name?”
Cynthia swallowed.
“He contacted me.”
“Through what platform?”
“A collector forum.”
“Did you use your real name?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell him where you lived?”
“No.”
Detective Collins stared at the photograph.
“Then how did he know you were the HOA president?”
Cynthia didn't answer.
Daniel suddenly remembered something.
“Cynthia.”
She looked at him.
“You posted about the car.”
“What?”
“At the neighborhood meeting.”
She frowned.
“I mentioned it.”
“You said the car was probably worth forty thousand.”
Her eyes widened.
“You remember that?”
“You insulted me for parking it in the driveway.”
“That was months ago.”
“Exactly.”
Detective Collins looked at Cynthia.
“You discussed this vehicle with someone from property management?”
Cynthia nodded slowly.
“One of the assistants was there.”
“Name?”
“Evan Mercer.”
Daniel had never heard of him.
Detective Collins wrote it down.
That afternoon, police contacted Stonebridge Community Services.
The company's director, Harold Pike, arrived looking furious.
Not at the scammer.
At the situation.
He repeatedly insisted the database was secure.
Until Detective Collins asked for access logs.
His confidence disappeared.
The system showed that someone had accessed Daniel's property file twelve times over the previous year.
Not twelve searches.
Twelve downloads.
High-resolution photographs.
Vehicle information.
Inspection dates.
And, in some cases, personal notes.
One account appeared repeatedly.
Evan Mercer.
Assistant compliance coordinator.
Twenty-seven years old.
Employed by Stonebridge for eighteen months.
Daniel stared at the name.
Cynthia stared too.
Then she whispered:
“I know him.”
Detective Collins looked up.
“How well?”
“He attended board meetings.”
“Did you ever discuss Daniel's car with him?”
Cynthia hesitated.
“Yes.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I told him the car was valuable.”
“How valuable?”
“Maybe forty thousand.”
Daniel looked at the ceiling.
Detective Collins wrote something down.
Cynthia suddenly looked ashamed.
“I didn't know.”
“No,” Daniel said quietly.
“You didn't.”
She looked at him.
“I thought I was protecting the neighborhood.”
Daniel looked at the photograph of his own garage.
“Sometimes protecting people means not collecting information you don't need.”
Nobody answered.
Detective Collins stood.
“I'm going to need the complete access history.”
Harold Pike swallowed.
“You'll have it.”
“Every download.”
“Yes.”
“Every user.”
“Yes.”
“Every external transfer.”
Harold nodded.
And by Monday morning, the police discovered that Daniel's Camaro was not the only vehicle being sold online.
There were twelve more.
All connected to Stonebridge residents.
All photographed using information obtained from the same system.
And three people had already sent money.
By Tuesday, Stonebridge Estates had become a very different neighborhood.
People stopped leaving garage doors open.
Residents changed passwords.
Some removed cars from driveways.
Others began asking uncomfortable questions about what the HOA knew about them.
For years, everyone had assumed the HOA database was boring.
Names.
Addresses.
Parking permits.
Inspection records.
Vacation notices.
Emergency contacts.
Nothing dangerous.
That assumption turned out to be the most dangerous thing of all.
Detective Collins discovered that Evan Mercer had downloaded records belonging to more than forty residents.
He had viewed expensive vehicles.
He had viewed photographs of home interiors.
He had downloaded vacation schedules.
He had even accessed emergency contact information.
Daniel sat across from Collins at a small conference table.
“Why would he need vacation schedules?”
“He may not have.”
Daniel frowned.
“Then why?”
“Information becomes valuable when criminals can combine it.”
She placed several pages on the table.
“One record tells you someone owns a classic car.”
Another page.
“Another tells you they are leaving town.”
Another.
“Another gives you photographs of the garage.”
Daniel stared.
“That creates a target.”
“Exactly.”
Cynthia sat beside him.
She had not spoken much during the meeting.
Finally she asked:
“How long has this been happening?”
“We're still determining that.”
“Could someone have entered houses?”
“We don't know.”
Cynthia looked sick.
Daniel understood.
The problem was no longer an embarrassing scam.
It was a breach of trust.
That evening, the HOA board called an emergency meeting.
More than sixty residents attended.
People shouted questions.
“Who had access?”
“Were our children photographed?”
“Did anyone have our alarm information?”
“Were our vacation dates downloaded?”
Cynthia sat at the front.
For once, she didn't interrupt anyone.
Daniel watched her.
Six months earlier, Cynthia would have been the person controlling the meeting.
Now she looked like someone realizing that authority did not automatically equal competence.
A resident stood.
“My mother is eighty-three. She lives alone. You had her emergency contact information.”
Cynthia nodded.
“I know.”
Another resident shouted:
“You told us the database made us safer!”
Cynthia closed her eyes.
Then opened them.
“Yes.”
“Was it?”
She looked around the room.
“No.”
Silence.
It was the first honest answer anyone had heard all evening.
Daniel stood.
“Everyone is angry. You should be.”
The room quieted.