The Lies I Tell(60)
He nodded, and I could see he was coming back around. The fear was subsiding. I needed him with me just a little bit longer.
***
The internet made it easy to keep track of Ron Ashton over the years. Public records showed he still lived in my house on Canyon Drive. Online news sites told about his upcoming run for state senate. But it was an article on a local Los Angeles real estate blog about a predatory agent who’d sexually harassed a client that gave me my approach. Mick Martin has been the longtime agent for Los Angeles developer Ron Ashton, who is rumored to be considering a run for state senate. Mr. Ashton declined to comment.
This job required me to see connections others couldn’t. I had to think ten steps ahead and imagine several scenarios simultaneously. Over the years, my instincts had become razor sharp, and I was rarely wrong.
I looked up Mick Martin and found that there had been two reports of sexual harassment to the California State Real Estate Board. According to their bylaws, three would be enough to permanently suspend his license. My fingers flew across the keys of my laptop, opening new tabs, conducting several new Google searches. How to report sexual harassment to the California Real Estate Board. Another one, How to get a California real estate license, and finally, Online real estate license classes, California.
I looked around my tiny apartment, the shades drawn against the dark night, and I began another list in my journal of things I’d need to do to get ready. A website for a boutique real estate agency. Another one for me, outlining several years of high-end sales. An agency phone number with a friendly, outgoing message. I bought several books about real estate, knowing I’d need to arrive already an expert.
It meant leaving Pennsylvania as soon as the title for the lake house recorded, several months before I’d intended. Sometimes, you have to leave a job early—you either run through other people’s goodwill or you realize the risk of finishing it isn’t worth what you’d gain by staying. This time, it was because I had to be back and in position well before the November election.
A spark of excitement danced around inside of me as I realized I would end my career where it started.
They say you can never go home again.
This is a lie.
Los Angeles
Present Day
Kat
August
The first thing I do the following morning is call the bank. They assure me my account is safe and that no money had been taken, but I ask them to give me a new account number anyway. Wherever that bank statement is, I want it to be completely useless.
Then I open Jenna’s email again. A DBA—doing business as—is typically used when a person wants to set up a business under a name that doesn’t include their legal name, like Ace Dogwalkers. But a DBA can also be a con artist’s greatest advantage, allowing anyone who can pay the filing fee to hide their true identity behind a fake company and a different IRS number. If you know the company name, you can plug that into the state website and find out who set it up. But they don’t work in the reverse. If you only know a name—in this case, Meg Williams—you’re locked out.
I’m almost certain Meg’s mystery buyers—the industry insiders guarding their privacy so carefully—are Meg, hiding inside of a DBA. Somehow, she’s figured out a way to either steal her own property back or buy it at a steep discount.
I get to work trying to figure out exactly what she did in Pennsylvania. Jenna had given me the details of the sale—a property located on a lake and the seller’s name. Phillip Montgomery. When I Google him, the usual hits come back: Facebook and Twitter handles for various people—a doctor, a carpenter, and the CEO of a grocery chain. Among the hits is an article from a local Reading paper. It’s a filler piece, used to take up page space, and it’s short. “Local Business Leaders Come Together at Thanksgiving to Feed the Hungry.” It talks about the great turnout, how many people were served, and then it goes on to list the volunteers. Two names stand out: Phillip Montgomery and Melody Wilde. The article comes with a tiny photo that I have to zoom in to see. A group of about ten people, wearing aprons and hair nets, gathered behind a long counter. And there, in the back, is Meg. Though she’s partially obscured by the large man beside her, it’s unmistakably her.
I stare at Meg, trying to pick out details until she’s nothing more than black and white pixels on the screen. What would she say if I showed her this article? Undoubtedly, she’d spin a story about visiting a friend in Pennsylvania for the holidays. Maybe she’d claim she was playing a joke on the reporter, giving a fake name and profession. Meg is a formidable storyteller, entertaining me not only with stories of former clients and deals gone bad, but other adventures as well. The time she went skydiving on a dare. The vacation she took to the Everglades where her boat was almost overturned by alligators. Even though I know better, I still find myself sucked in, having to constantly remind myself that every word she says is a lie.
I start making calls, beginning with Phillip, quickly ruling out the doctor and the carpenter and focusing on the CEO of Prince Foods. “My name is Kat Roberts and I’m a journalist in Los Angeles. I’d like to talk with Mr. Montgomery about a woman named Melody Wilde.”
“Mr. Montgomery isn’t available, but if you leave your number, I can make sure he gets back to you.” His receptionist’s voice gives nothing away. It’s possible she’ll pass on my message, but equally likely she’ll drop it in the trash instead.