The Lies I Tell(41)
Meg shoots me a quick look. “A life of leisure isn’t suiting you?”
I stare out the window, trying to step back into the role I’ve cast for myself. “I guess I could pick up a few more yoga classes. Volunteer at the animal shelter.” I’m struck with the irony of two women, each of them trying to spin a web of lies and manipulation around the other, never knowing whose strings are wrapped around whom.
Meg laughs. “Just remember, work is a drag.” She hits the brakes, traffic piling up behind a broken light. I can make out the edges of the traffic cop at the center of the intersection, white gloves flashing.
I shift in my seat so I’m looking at her. “It must be fun though, having access to fancy houses and rich clients. What else are you working on? Anything interesting?”
“Ron’s taking up most of my time. He says he wants an income property, but he’s got me all over the map. Apartment buildings. Duplexes. Triplexes. But he hates them all. An investment property isn’t what he really wants.”
“And what would that be?”
“What all men like him want. Power. Status. The respect and envy of his peers. Which he won’t get from a duplex in Culver City.” Meg keeps her eyes on the car in front of us, masked behind her sunglasses, so it’s hard to read her expression. “He’s an all-cash buyer, so that keeps me hanging on. ‘Why get the banks involved,’ he says. But Ron’s no different than any of the other rich and powerful men I’ve worked with a hundred times before.” She gives a small laugh. “I know how to handle him.”
“And how’s that?” I ask. The traffic cop beckons us forward, and we ease into the intersection, the car picking up speed.
She smiles. “Tell them what they want to hear.”
***
Meg calls me after dinner. “I’ve been thinking,” she says when I answer. “I know you don’t need to work, and I know you’re weighing your options, but how would you like to be my assistant for a little while? It would probably be about twenty hours a week, searching for and previewing properties and some assorted paperwork. Everything’s online now, so you wouldn’t ever have to set foot in an Apex office. Plus, flexible hours, so we can still do yoga and brunch with Veronica on Wednesdays.”
A friend of Scott’s used to work undercover in the drug unit. Definitely better than a desk job, he used to say. He’d get up in the morning, put on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and head off to whatever neighborhood he was working that day. Sliding alongside junkies and drug dealers, hoping to gain their trust so that they could lead him to the person at the top.
In the past, I’ve always investigated from a distance, using my sources, the internet, and public records to piece a story together. But I’m realizing that won’t work with Meg. I don’t have any sources, and the internet is yielding only what she wants people to see. The only way to know what Meg’s up to is to step out of my comfort zone and become a part of it. “I’d love to,” I tell her.
Meg
July
Seventeen Weeks before the Election
Let’s talk about Kat for a moment. Young, flush with new money, adrift and unsure of the direction her life should be taking.
Also, a pretty accomplished liar.
From the moment she called me, claiming to be a referral from Ron, I suspected Kat wasn’t who she said she was, and I confirmed it by following her home shortly after our first outing together. I sat in my car outside her duplex and watched her neighbor, a young woman in her late twenties who smiled at three different people between the front door of the building and her car.
My favorite kind of person.
“Hey,” I said to her the next morning as we waited in line at Starbucks. “You’re Kat and Scott’s neighbor, right?”
She looked at me, her eyes bright and trusting. “Yes,” she said.
“I knew I recognized you!” My delight at the connection became hers. “I’ve always loved your building,” I confided. “How long have you lived there?”
The woman furrowed her brow, thinking. “Three years maybe? I moved in right before Scott.”
The line inched forward. “Scott’s such a doll. I wish they’d set a date already. Did Kat tell you how they met?”
The woman smiled. “Of course. Very sweet.”
“What are the chances though?” Vague questions implying knowledge can yield a lot.
She shrugged. “I remember Kat saying something about meeting Scott on a case, but I don’t remember the details. I’m sure on most of his fraud investigations, there would be journalists involved as well.”
My stomach slid sideways. Even though I’d suspected Kat wasn’t who she said she was, I didn’t expect a reporter and a fraud detective. I kept my tone thoughtful, as if I were trying to remember something. “Didn’t he work on her last story too?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “To be honest, I can’t recall the last big piece she did. I think it was a while ago. But I’m sure if you Google Kat Roberts, it’ll all come up.”
Kat Roberts. Not Reynolds. I marveled for a moment at the similarities between us—each fully ourselves, with only a few select details swapped out. It’s not easy to inhabit a facsimile of yourself, and despite my racing heart and sweaty palms, I could still appreciate how well she did it.