After Victoria admitted she had filed the transfer, the morning changed. It was no longer a neighbor disagreement about a piece of paper. It was a police matter, and Reed treated it like one. He took out a fresh page in his notebook and started at the top.
"Frank," he said, "I am going to write this up as a report. I need to ask you a few formal questions, and then I will give you an incident number. That number is how we track this."
I nodded. I had given incident numbers to people for thirty years. I had told people to keep the number somewhere safe and to call if anything changed. I had never thought I would be the one waiting for an officer to hand me a number for my own case.
Torres stood beside Reed, her notebook open, her pen ready. She had been quiet, letting Reed lead, but now she stepped forward.
"Mr. Anderson," she said, "for the record, can you state your full name and address?"
"Frank Anderson," I said. "Brookfield Estates. I have lived here twenty-three years."
"And the vehicle in question is a 1969 Ford Mustang GT, registered in your name, VIN as recorded?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "That is my car."
"And you are stating that you did not sell the vehicle, did not sign the bill of sale presented today, and did not receive any payment for it?" she asked.
"That is correct," I said. "I did not sell it. I did not sign it. I did not receive anything."
She wrote each answer down, slowly, making sure she got the words right. Reed did the same in his own notebook, and when they were done, they compared notes.
"Ma'am," Reed said, turning to Victoria, "for the record, can you state your full name?"
"Victoria Langston," she said. Her voice was flat now, drained of the certainty it had when she first arrived.
"And you are stating that you brought a bill of sale to Mr. Anderson's home today, claiming it showed a sale of the Mustang to your son, Jason Langston, for thirty thousand dollars?" Reed asked.
"Yes," she said. "I was acting on behalf of my son."
"And you are stating that you filed a title-transfer application with the DMV as your son's representative, based on that bill of sale?" Reed asked.
Victoria hesitated. She looked at me, then at Reed, then at Torres, as if she was weighing whether to say it again now that it was being written down. Then she nodded.
"Yes," she said. "I filed it."
Reed wrote that down, and he read it back to her. "You filed a title-transfer application with the DMV, based on the bill of sale, as your son's representative. Is that correct?"
"Yes," she said again, quieter.
He turned back to me. "Frank, what do you want us to do with this?"
I had been thinking about that question since the moment Victoria showed me the paper. I did not want revenge. But I also did not want this treated as a misunderstanding that would blow over. Someone had tried to take my car with a forged signature and a filed transfer.
"I want it on record," I said. "I want an incident number for suspected forgery and title fraud. I want the bill of sale examined. I want the DMV notified."
Reed nodded. He had known me long enough to know I would not ask for less than that, and he had known me long enough to know I would not ask for more.
"That is what we will do," he said. "We will list it as suspected forgery and suspected title fraud. We will note that the signature is disputed, that there is no proof of payment, that the VIN check shows the car is still in your name, and that a transfer application was filed based on the disputed document."
He wrote for a few more minutes, his pen moving across the page in the neat, blocky handwriting I remembered from years ago. When he was done, he tore off a small slip of paper and wrote a number on it in large, clear figures.
"Here," he said, handing it to me. "This is your incident number. Keep it. Take a photo of it. Put it in your safe with the title. If anyone calls you about the car, give them this number."
I took the slip and looked at it. It was a small thing, just a few digits on a scrap of paper, but it felt heavier than it should have. It made it real in a way the argument in the driveway had not.
"Thank you," I said.
Reed put his notebook away. "We will follow up with the DMV today. We will also need to speak with Jason. And we will need to see the original bill of sale, the transfer application, and the petition if we can find it."
Torres handed Victoria a card with the station's number on it. "Ma'am, if you find the petition, or the application, or anything else related to this, please bring it to the station."
Victoria took the card without looking at it. She stood there for a moment, then turned and walked back to her car. She did not look at the Mustang. She did not look at me. She just got in, started the engine, and drove away, slowly, down the street.
Reed and Torres stayed for a few minutes after she left. Reed put a hand on my shoulder, the way he used to when we were on a scene together and the worst part was over.
"You did the right thing," he said. "You stayed calm. You asked for the number. That matters. Without a report, this is just a story. With a report, it is a case."
I nodded. I looked at the slip of paper in my hand, and then at the Mustang, still sitting in the driveway, still mine. I had a number. I had a record. And I had a car that was still mine, not because I had shouted the loudest, but because I had asked for the truth to be written down.