The Lies I Tell(61)

Next, I start making my way through the other volunteers listed in the article. I have no luck reaching anyone until Frederica Palmieri, the owner of a dance studio. “My name is Kat Roberts and I’m doing a story about a woman named Melody Wilde. I was hoping you’d be able to talk to me about her?”

Frederica’s voice is wary. “What’s your story about?”

I choose my words carefully. “Melody may have been involved with a fraud case here in Los Angeles.”

In the background, I can hear piano music and a voice giving directions. “I’ve never heard of her. How did you get my name?”

“I found a photograph of you in the Reading paper, and Melody’s in it as well. It was a group shot at the local soup kitchen for Thanksgiving two years ago. You’d volunteered to serve meals.”

Frederica’s voice clears. “Oh yeah. Well, if I spoke to her at all, it was probably just to say hello and goodbye.”

“Do you happen to remember if she was friendly with any other volunteers that day? I’m hoping to connect with someone who knew her.”

“As you said, it was two years ago,” she says. “I can barely remember what I did last month.”

“I understand. One last question,” I say. “Do you remember who organized the event?”

“Renata Davies,” she says. “She’s the president of the local food bank. She’s involved in a lot of community events.”

I jot down Renata’s name and thank Frederica before hanging up.

Renata is harder to reach. I call the food bank first, and while they’re friendly, they’re not inclined to give out Renata’s contact information to a stranger claiming to be a reporter. I leave a message with my number, hoping they’ll pass it on.

I find her on Facebook, and a quick search of her friends list reveals something interesting—Phillip Montgomery is Renata’s older brother. My private message to her is a variation of what I told the others. My name is Kat Roberts, and I’m hoping to talk to people who may have known a woman by the name of Melody Wilde. Any information you might have would be very helpful. You can reply to this message or call me at the following number.

Most likely, Renata won’t be inclined to trust someone on the other end of a telephone or in the vast ocean of the internet. People are far more willing to open up to someone known by a friend. Meg gains the trust of others first. Like Veronica.

I pick up my phone to text Meg. Did Veronica have any luck convincing Ron to list his house? Are your buyers still interested?

I see the three dots that show she’s replying, and I wait, wondering what lie she’ll feed me next. Veronica came through! We just opened escrow at $4.5 million. Buyers are over the moon happy and escrow closes in 30 days.

I don’t need to log in to the listing service to know that $4.5 million is at least $500,000 below market value for that area. And though the numbers are exponentially higher than in Reading, it might fit with what she did there.

But the idea sits, uneasy in my mind. Even with the discount, $4.5 million is a lot of money for anyone. Paying that much for a house doesn’t feel like much of a con.

And I still can’t figure out what she might want from my bank account. I think back to the fundraiser, two months ago. By that time, Meg had already been in town six months, building a backstory and fostering a critical friendship with Veronica that would open the door to Ron. Why would she suddenly pivot and start targeting me? Regardless of what happened last night, I’m still having a hard time making that leap. Meg’s been doing this a long time. Surely she would know she’d need more than ten minutes in a park bathroom to hack into my account.

Unless she didn’t want to succeed.

If Meg really wanted to con me, I think she would have. But she’s done just enough to get my attention. To keep both me and Scott busy, on the phone with the bank and the cable company, locking everything down. What I’m not doing is asking questions about her mystery buyers.





Kat


August

Meg is late again.

I stand outside Le Jardin, midday traffic rushing by, waiting for her to show up for lunch. The exhaust fumes from a passing bus make me hold my breath, and I’m just about to step inside to wait when my cell phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number.

“May I please speak to Kat Roberts?” A woman’s voice with a hint of a Midwestern accent, and my heart races. Renata.

I glance around, making sure Meg is nowhere in sight. “Speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Roberts, this is Natalie with Citibank Card Services. I’m calling to inquire about your payment, which is past due.”

I plug my finger into my other ear and turn away from the busy street. “I’m sorry, what?”

“This is Natalie, from Citibank,” she repeats. “We haven’t received a payment for two months. If you don’t make one soon, we’re going to have to send this debt to collections.”

“I don’t have a Citibank card,” I tell her. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Would you please confirm the last four digits of your social?”

I nearly laugh. “I’m not giving that to you because I didn’t open an account.”

But Natalie will not be deterred from her script. “The balance currently sits at $31,125, with a minimum payment of $500. You can make one right now if you like.”