I tell her I’ll get back to her and hang up, marveling at the level of skill and planning Meg used. She’d known she would never be able to steal a property from Ron, so she tricked him into believing he’d purchased one instead. One escrow successfully closed so the next one wouldn’t be questioned.
I return to Meg’s notebook, the pages turning faster and faster as Meg’s con finally becomes clear. The no-win situation Meg has created for Ron. An imaginary escrow with a fake escrow company. A DBA under the name of Orange Coast Escrow and a bank account with the same name, both of them opened by Meg back in September. The words campaign donations underlined three times. Seven million dollars wired into that account—there, and then gone again. And then I read a draft of a press release that, according to Meg’s notes, has supposedly just gone public.
“Oh my god,” I say into the empty house. Then I start to laugh.
Meg
October
Two Weeks before the Election
The Uber drops me at Terminal 2 at LAX. I’d returned my Range Rover to the dealer yesterday, told them I was moving out of the country and needed to cancel my lease. So sorry about that bumper! As the driver pulls my luggage from the trunk, I check my watch, hoping I can get through security quickly and find a TV.
The place is mobbed with late-afternoon commuters. As I wait in line to pass through the X-ray machine, I imagine Kat arriving at my house and finding what I left for her. Then I think about Ron, dealing with the chaos I’ve created, and let myself relive the moment I told him what I’d done.
***
It hadn’t been hard to find him. He was where he always was at 3:30 in the afternoon on a weekday, jogging through Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Gravel paths winding through stands of trees, with the cliffs dropping down into the ocean beyond, it was well populated with other runners, parents or nannies pushing strollers, and power walkers deep in conversation. But I knew Ron would come. He tended his figure with the committed energy of an insecure woman creeping up on middle age, using the lull between lunch meetings and cocktail hour to do it.
I steadied myself, having imagined this moment for most of my adult life. For many years, I’d fantasized about Ron in handcuffs, the police raiding his company and closing it down. Ron being prosecuted for fraud. But then I grew up and realized there were two different legal systems in this country—one for wealthy white men like Ron Ashton and another one for everyone else.
I pretended to stretch against a tree until I saw him in the distance, then pushed off and began my slow jog toward him. His eyes lit up with recognition. “Meg,” he said as I pulled to a stop. “Just the person I want to talk to. Did you get any of my messages?” he asked. “I need the keys to the Mandeville house. My contractors need to get started if we want it to be ready by election night.”
I swiped my forehead and said, “That’s not possible.”
He looked confused. “Has something happened on the seller’s end?”
In all the years I’d been doing this, I never got to stick around and see the instant when realization hits. When misperceptions and assumptions about me crumbled. “There is no house,” I told him. “No escrow. The money is gone.”
He looked confused, but not panicked yet. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You didn’t buy the Mandeville Canyon house. If you look it up, it’s still for sale. If you call the listing agent, she’ll tell you they haven’t had an offer on it in over a year.”
I could see him trying to make sense of my words. “How is that possible?” he asked. “The money was wired to Orange Coast Escrow this morning. Steve confirmed it.”
“The money was wired to an account I control, and from there, it was transferred to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative. They’re a wonderful organization running shelters, providing counseling and medical care. They even hold job fairs.” I squinted into the late afternoon sun. “As a major donor, you should consider participating in one.”