The Lies I Tell(47)

Not helpful.

So in mid-July, just a week away from when I absolutely must launch the Canyon Drive piece, I decide to turn things around. Instead of me asking questions and hoping he’ll tell me what I need to know, I’ve figured out a way for him to want to give it to me. Because if I don’t get this information soon, it’ll be too late to launch anything.

“I’ve always wanted to invest in real estate, not just sell it,” I tell Ron. We’re sitting in traffic on the 405, heading back into Santa Monica from the valley, where we’d looked at an apartment building for $3 million. The car is where we’ve had our most productive conversations. And by productive, I mean conversations where Ron spouts misogynistic, racist bullshit while I nod along, fantasizing about how it all will end.

“You should buy the building we just looked at,” he says. “It’s too far outside LA for my portfolio, but it would be a nice little investment for you.”

I look over my shoulder, contemplating the diamond lane, which is as backed up as the one we’re in. “A good idea in theory,” I say. “But I don’t have the cash to put up for something like that, and my credit’s not that great.”

I wonder what Ron would think if he knew how much money I really have. That my credit score is perfect, because when you’re busy conning people, it’s important to always pay your bills on time.

“I looked you up online,” I admit. “Right after we met. I read that you took over your father’s business when you were twenty-five and turned it into the biggest construction company in Los Angeles.” I glance at him. “It’s pretty impressive, what you’ve done. But not everyone has that kind of seed money. And if the banks won’t give it to me…” I trail off, hoping he’ll finish my sentence for me.

“If the banks won’t give it to you, then you have to get creative. You should start your own real estate firm, not work for another company. Then you can structure the money how you want.”

Heat fills my chest, remembering how Ron creatively stole my family home. How my mother and I had to live in our car, showering at shelters or the high school locker room. How we would get our food from the food bank, Big Macs from McDonald’s a once-a-month splurge. I squeeze the steering wheel as tight as I can, then force myself to relax, knowing that, when I’m done, Ron will have lost Canyon Drive as well. “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘creative,’” I say. “You either have the money or you don’t.”

Ron shifts in his seat so he’s facing me, in what I’ve come to think of as his true confession stance, where he spouts off about politics (Democrats and their socialist liberal agenda), the homeless problem in Los Angeles (You have to round them all up, sort out the crazies from the druggies, and then arrest as many as you can), and women (I’m not sexist, but I’m sorry, now I can’t even compliment a woman without getting slammed for sexual harassment?). “It’s a delicate dance,” he says. “And a quiet one. One of the easiest ways I keep the cash circulating is to undervalue my properties with the IRS, and overvalue them with the banks. This keeps my tax liability low but my borrowing power high.”

I give him a dubious look. “Isn’t that tax fraud?”

He laughs and says, “Believe me, if the IRS cared, they’d be prosecuting it. But they don’t have the time or the money to come after everyone. And we all do it, every single one of us.”

Traffic begins to open up and I accelerate.

“If you own your own business, there are other ways you can get cash quickly,” Ron continues. “Six or seven years ago, I had an investment opportunity, but I didn’t have the liquid cash to invest. It was too good to pass up, so I pulled it from my company’s retirement fund.”

I glance at him, eyebrows raised, and he holds up his hands. “I paid it back. But the money was sitting there in an account I controlled, so I borrowed it, just for a little while. No harm, no foul. Those are the kinds of things you have to be willing to do to get ahead.”

“I’m sure the campaign has opened up a lot of opportunities for you as well. Your fundraising is incredibly strong.”

He shifts in his seat, facing forward again, and I worry he’s done sharing for the day. That perhaps the campaign is off-limits. But then he chuckles. “That lunch we had? Paid for by a credit card set up to be paid through campaign donations.”

I laugh. “Now, I know that’s illegal.”

He gives me a wink. “It’s only illegal if you get caught.”

If my life were a movie, this would be the moment the heist soundtrack kicks in—bass guitar first, then horns and drums joining in—an upbeat tempo propelling us all forward toward Ron’s inevitable end. The camera would zoom in on me, a tiny smile on my face, showing the weight of my worry lifting away. And just like in a movie, there isn’t a moment to spare.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” I say. “Plausible deniability and all of that.”

He grins back at me. “Oh no. You’re in it now. If you’re going to be my long-term agent, you also have to be the keeper of my secrets.”

I give him a questioning look. “Are you going to make me sign a nondisclosure?”

“I don’t need one. With the number of properties I buy and sell, you’ll be making at least a million in commissions annually. In my experience, that’s enough of a nondisclosure for anyone. This time next year, you’ll be paying cash for something. You just wait and see.”