Chapter 3 - The Estimate Written Before the Crime
By noon, Cullen had locked the Hale estimate inside the company safe.
Not because he feared anyone would physically steal it.
Because he no longer trusted the digital chain around it.
The original PDF had been uploaded to Strickland’s vendor system on the day Tandy claimed she contacted Hale.
But its internal creation date was twelve days earlier.
That could have an innocent explanation.
Hale might reuse templates.
The file could have been copied from another job.
The date could reflect an older draft.
Cullen’s attorney listed all three possibilities within five minutes.
Cullen listened.
Then he asked a single question.
“Does an old template usually include my storefront measurements?”
The attorney stopped talking.
Because the PDF did.
Exact dimensions.
Exact number of curved panes.
Exact notes about the 1938 facade.
Somebody had inspected the property before the first visible damage.
And somebody had prepared a replacement scope in advance.
Cullen called Tandy.
She did not answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
At 2:06, she texted.
I need a day. I’m getting an attorney.
Cullen stared at the message.
He felt betrayed, then immediately angry with himself for feeling betrayed before he knew whether she was guilty.
He had built his career on not confusing instinct with proof.
But Tandy was no longer just an employee.
She had been in his father’s hospital room.
She had stood beside Cullen at the funeral.
She had known which board members would smile at him in meetings and criticize him in elevators.
When Strickland had nearly missed payroll during the pandemic downturn, Tandy had taken a twenty percent pay cut without being asked.
Now she was getting an attorney.
Cullen understood why.
He also hated what it meant.
Across town, Jolie was discovering that sabotage did not need to touch glass to be effective.
At 1:17, her insurance broker called.
“Jolie, I need to ask you something strange.”
“That makes two of us.”
“We received notice of three property damage claims associated with your policy.”
Jolie nearly dropped the phone.
“I have no claims.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Who filed them?”
“One is listed under Strickland Hat Company. Two are unnamed commercial properties.”
“I did not file anything.”
“The report includes your policy number.”
Jolie sat down hard on the tailgate of her truck.
For seven years, she had paid insurance before groceries when she had to.
She had kept certificates current.
Renewed equipment riders.
Added commercial auto coverage when she could barely afford the premium.
Her clean claims history was the one thing she had never let anybody take from her.
“Can you freeze them?”
“We can dispute them. I’m already flagging fraud concerns.”
“Will it affect my renewal?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That was not an answer.
It was a cliff.
Jolie wrote down every detail.
Then she drove to Strickland.
Cullen was in the warehouse when the receptionist called him.
“She says it’s urgent.”
He found Jolie in his office standing beside the desk rather than sitting.
She handed him a sheet of paper.
“Someone filed fake claims against my policy.”
His expression hardened instantly.
“What?”
“One of them names your company.”
“We filed nothing.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you had, I’d be dealing with your attorney instead of an anonymous prepaid phone.”
Cullen took the paper.
“This is escalation.”
“Yes.”
“We need law enforcement.”
“I already made a fraud report.”
“Good.”
“And before you say it, no, I’m not moving Posie somewhere else.”
Cullen had been about to say exactly that.
He closed his mouth.
Jolie saw it.
“You don’t get to relocate my life because somebody else is a coward.”
“I was going to suggest your mother’s for a few days.”
“She has school.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You said sight-word cards.”
Jolie blinked.
Cullen realized that sounded worse than it was.
“I remember things.”
“So do I.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Cullen said, “At least let me pay for cameras at your house.”
“No.”
“Jolie.”
“No favors I can’t read.”
His patience cracked.
“This is not a favor. Someone is targeting you because of my company.”
“And I’m not billing my courage by the hour.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense to me.”
Cullen put both hands flat on the desk.
“Then make it a contract.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Temporary security services. Reimbursable expense tied to the investigation. Written terms. Defined period. You can terminate it whenever you want.”
Jolie stared at him.
He added, “You said you don’t take favors you can’t read.”
“Don’t use my own sentences against me.”
“Then stop giving me useful ones.”
Despite herself, a tiny smile pulled at her mouth.
It disappeared quickly.
“Fine. Written.”
“Written.”
“And no man with sunglasses sitting in front of my house looking like a federal kidnapping.”
“Agreed.”
“Cameras only.”
“For now.”
“Cullen.”
“Cameras only.”
That night, two small exterior cameras were installed at Jolie’s house.
Posie named them Harold and Susan.
Cullen did not ask why.
The following morning, the independent lab report arrived.
It cleared Jolie completely.
Her cleaning solution was chemically incapable of producing the observed etching under normal use.
The damage had been deliberately applied.
Cullen sent the factual statement she requested to every Strickland vendor and to the building owners who had received anonymous accusations.
No praise.
No biography.
No mention of Posie.
Just facts.
Jolie read it twice and sent him a text.
This is acceptable.
He stared at the screen, amused.
High praise?
She replied:
Don’t get emotional.
For the first time in three days, Cullen laughed out loud.
Then his CFO, Lena Moss, walked in without knocking.
The laughter stopped.
“What?” Cullen asked.
Lena shut the door.
“I found something in accounts payable.”
She set down a folder.
Three Hale invoices.
One from the warehouse job two years earlier.
One for a “facade consultation” six months ago.
One for “materials staging” five weeks ago.
Cullen pointed at the middle one.
“We didn’t approve a consultation six months ago.”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“It was coded under preventive maintenance. Below your approval threshold.”
“By Tandy?”
Lena hesitated.
“Entered by operations. Approved by G. Strickland.”
Cullen looked up.
There was only one G. Strickland with purchasing authority.
Grant Strickland.
His father’s older brother.
The man who had taught Cullen how to shape a felt crown when he was eight.
The man who had taken him fishing the week after his mother died.
The man who still called him kid even though Cullen was thirty-nine and ran the company.
Grant owned eighteen percent of Strickland Hat Company and chaired the family property committee.
He also controlled the real estate company that owned the Sixth Street building.
Cullen looked down at the invoice again.
“Maybe he approved a routine inspection.”
Lena said nothing.
Cullen hated that silence.
“Say it.”
Lena took a breath.
“The description says facade consultation. The attached memo says ‘redevelopment viability.’”
Cullen’s eyes sharpened.
“What redevelopment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pull every property committee record for the last year.”
“I already did.”
She opened the folder.
Inside was a confidential proposal Cullen had never seen.
SIXTH STREET FLAGSHIP — MIXED-USE CONVERSION OPTIONS.
Prepared for Grant Strickland.
The proposal valued the property at nearly six times its operating value if the existing historic-use protections could be lifted.
Cullen turned pages faster.
Retail.
Luxury residential.
Restaurant space.
Parking structure.
Then he saw the sentence that made his blood go cold.
Historic facade restrictions materially limit redevelopment unless original storefront elements are determined to be non-salvageable.
Cullen read it again.
And again.
The damaged glass was not just glass.
It was a lock.
Destroy enough original material, obtain a report saying replacement was necessary, and the lock might disappear.
The building could be redeveloped.
The hat store could be moved.
The family property company could make millions.
Cullen closed the folder slowly.
Lena watched him.
“You want me to call Grant?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he’s innocent, I owe him more than an accusation.”
“And if he isn’t?”
Cullen looked toward the historic windows facing Sixth Street.
“Then I want to know how far he was willing to go before he realized I was watching.”
That afternoon, Jolie arrived to pick up a copy of the lab report.
Cullen showed her the redevelopment memo.
She read the critical paragraph.
Then she looked at him.
“Your uncle?”
“He approved the consultation.”
“That’s not proof.”
“I know.”
“But it’s a reason.”
“Yes.”
Jolie handed the memo back.
Cullen noticed her expression.
“What?”
“My dad’s note.”
“What about it?”
“If he knew about that old frame repair in 1984, somebody else at Strickland knew too.”
Cullen nodded.
“Maintenance records.”
“Exactly.”
Before they went downstairs, Cullen did something Jolie did not expect.
He called Grant.
Not to accuse him.
To listen.
Grant answered on the second ring.
“Kid.”
The nickname landed differently now.
Cullen kept his voice even. “You remember the facade repair in 1984?”
A pause so small most people would have missed it.
Jolie did not.
“Which repair?” Grant asked.
“Lower curved panes. Solvent-sensitive patch.”
Grant laughed lightly. “You’re asking me about maintenance from forty years ago?”
“You signed the inspection.”
“I signed a thousand things when your grandfather ran the place.”
“Do you remember it?”
Another pause.
“Vaguely.”
Cullen looked at Jolie.
Grant continued, “What is this about?”
“The window damage.”
“Cullen, stop chasing ghosts. File the claim. Replace the glass. Move on.”
“Historic preservation may not allow replacement.”
“Then maybe historic preservation has outlived common sense.”
There it was.
Not proof.
But feeling.
An impatience Grant had never shown when discussing the flagship before.
Cullen said, “I’ll call you later.”
“Kid.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful who you decide to trust because you feel sorry for them.”
Cullen’s eyes went cold.
“Who do I feel sorry for?”
Grant did not answer directly.
“You’re the CEO. Act like one.”
The line went dead.
Jolie stared at Cullen.
“He meant me.”
“Yes.”
“He’s never met me.”
“No.”
“Then somebody has been talking about me.”
Cullen slipped his phone into his pocket.
“Facts first.”
Jolie nodded.
“Now you’re learning.”
They spent two hours in the basement archive.
Dusty binders.
Microfilm.
Old maintenance logs written in pen by men long retired or dead.
At 5:26, Jolie found the 1984 entry.
Emergency lower-frame repair.
Temporary solvent-sensitive patching compound.
Do not expose until permanent restoration.
Below that was a signature.
Eddie Cantrell.
Jolie touched her father’s handwriting with one finger.
Then Cullen turned the page.
A second signature appeared beneath the inspection line.
Grant Strickland.
Jolie looked up.
Cullen’s face had changed.
Not because the signature proved sabotage.
It didn’t.
But because it proved one thing beyond argument.
Grant had known exactly what material lay beneath those windows for forty-two years.
And he had approved a redevelopment consultation six months before the glass began to fail.
Jolie closed the binder.
“We don’t confront him yet.”
Cullen looked at her.
“You giving orders now?”
“No.”
“Sounded like one.”
“I’m giving you the same advice you gave me.”
“What advice?”
“Facts first.”
Cullen stared at his uncle’s signature.
Then he nodded.
“Facts first.”
At that exact moment, across town, Grant Strickland sat in his truck outside Tandy Brewer’s house.
She climbed into the passenger seat carrying a red folder.
Neither of them noticed the school bus turning the corner behind them.
Neither of them noticed the little girl in the third row looking out the window.
May you like
But Posie noticed the white hair under Grant’s black Stetson.
And she noticed the blue star logo on the folder in Tandy’s lap.
