The Lies I Tell(73)
“What about Ron?” she asks. “Won’t he buy something else?”
“Right now, he’s ahead in the polls, so he wants to wait. See if he might rather buy something in Sacramento.” I turn and straddle the bench so I’m facing her. “Listen, forget about Ron. Forget about the shit-paying job I gave you,” I say. “You have a chance to reinvent yourself. To step out of the person you’ve been told you are and become who you want to be. Write that novel. Go on safari. Buy a boat and sail to Hawaii. Do something big. Something daring. Surprise everyone, even yourself.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” she asks. “Is that what you’re doing?”
The weight of her question bears down on me. “I just sell real estate,” I finally say.
Kat looks down. “What if I’m just not a big, daring person with big daring ideas?” she asks.
“You figure out how you got that way. Go back in time, to the person who showed you that you couldn’t be one, and give yourself a do-over. You only get one life,” I tell her. “How do you want to live it?”
“Why did Ron’s house sell so far below market value?” she asks, ignoring me. “I did the research. It should have sold for at least five million based on comps in the area.”
My eyes widen, letting my surprise show before looking down at my hands, clasped in my lap. I’m not surprised she kept working the story, even as she was sorting through her own problems. I wouldn’t have expected any less from her. Then I look up, my expression steely. “Both parties were happy with the transaction,” I say. “There’s nothing to see there, Kat.”
“Can you tell me now who bought it?”
House sales become public record as soon as the title is recorded, which can take anywhere from six to eight weeks. Rick and Gretchen Turner will be revealed to be the owners of the house, and I wonder how much time Kat will lose digging into their background. Like a magician, I’ve let her see just enough to believe she’s watching the trick, when all the while the deception is happening out of sight. “I’m bound to my clients’ request not to reveal that,” I finally say.
I’m exhausted by how careful we each have to be, picking and choosing our words to reflect a reality that doesn’t exist. But I’ve made a decision. When this is over, Kat will know everything. Not just about this job, but about all of them, the people I chose to target, and why. I want her to know that I’ve done my best to adhere to Kristen’s girl code—that you help other women, whenever you can. That I never picked a mark simply because I could.
I check my phone. “I’d better go. There are several properties I need to see.”
I’ll be happy when the whole charade is over.
Meg
October
Four Weeks before the Election
The Mandeville property is listed at just over $7 million and located up a small road off Mandeville Canyon. “It’s a flat parcel of land totaling just over two acres, almost unheard of anymore,” I tell Ron as we drive west from Beverly Hills. I’d waved my hand at Ron’s concern over my dented bumper. A fender bender on Sunset, I’d said.
“Centrally located,” I say now. “You’ll be close to the amenities of Brentwood but have the privacy you’ll need as a state senator.”
“I’m definitely tired of hotel living,” he says.
“It’s not quite move-in ready,” I caution. “But I don’t think it’ll take much work to get there. I know the price point is a bit high, but with the sale of Canyon Drive, you have more than enough for a healthy down payment if you decide to finance it.” I give him a sideways glance and say, “If you ever run for governor, this would be the perfect place for campaign events. Fundraising dinners. The listing agent is a friend of mine, and she says the property was owned by Ronald Reagan for a time, back when he was working in Hollywood. The pedigree is top notch.”
As expected, that grabs his interest.
I pull through an open gate flanked by ancient oak trees. A stone wall borders the property, extending in both directions as far as the eye can see. I’ve been here several times—on different days, at different times. And each time, it’s been as deserted as it is today.
So many of these former trophy estates linger on the market for years, no buyer willing to take the time and expense of rehabbing them. Many of them, like this one, are on lockbox, and it’s simple to get the combination and show it without an anxious listing agent ever knowing you were there.
I force my grip on the wheel to loosen, my muscles to stay relaxed. “A security gate can be installed pretty easily,” I say. “The house is newly vacant; the seller is motivated, but it hasn’t hit the market yet.”
There’s a long, winding drive bordered by more oak trees, and I ease the car forward, my wheels crunching on the gravel. We pull up in front of a single-story ranch house with a mix of brick and white clapboard siding.
As we approach the front door, I layer my comments carefully, like a house of cards, one alluring fact on top of another. “There’s room for about thirty cars to valet park,” I say. Then I point toward the back. “Behind the house, we’ve got a pool, pool house with an apartment above it, and a small stable if you want horses. They say Reagan rode every day.”