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Meg
June
Nineteen Weeks before the Election
What are the most important traits a con artist might need? Many people would say charisma. Others might say intelligence, or the ability to lie and manipulate. Some might also talk about being able to think on one’s feet. To pivot quickly when something goes wrong.
Those aren’t wrong answers, but they’re not my answers.
The ingredients of any good con are patience and trust.
In every job, every identity I’ve inhabited, I always have to start with something true. Something real. Take Veronica and David’s transaction, for example. Ask either of them and they will swear up and down that I am exactly who I say I am. It took me forty-five days to earn that trust. Most con artists aren’t interested in—or able to—stick around for that long.
But this is how you embed yourself in someone’s life. How you become one of their people, a member of their innermost circle, which will open up all kinds of opportunities.
***
Today is my first outing with Ron, and I’m taking him to look at a beachfront duplex in Malibu. It’s been on the market for over two years due to significant structural issues. The listing agent is someone from over the hill in the valley, and he told me up front what to expect. “I’ll be thrilled if I can finally sell it,” he confided. “I’ve been sitting on this listing forever. But I’ve got to disclose that the pylons below the house have begun to erode. No matter what, those are going to have to be replaced. That’s why it’s priced so low at $5.5 million.”
“That might not matter to my buyer,” I told him. “He’s a developer, so something like that won’t scare him off.”
I chose the property for many reasons, not the least of which was its remote location, requiring a long drive from Beverly Hills, through Santa Monica, and up the coast highway. That time in the car with Ron will allow me to build my backstory, shading some of the Michigan transactions with just a hint of corruption. Letting Ron know my professional ethics are as soft as his.
But I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit I’m nervous. I’ve spent years vilifying him in my mind. Making him out to be the monster who stole the last of my childhood. Now I’m going to need to cozy up alongside him and engage in flirty banter, openly admire him for his business acumen and intellect. Allow him to define who he thinks I am and then live inside that assumption. It will require a level of acting I haven’t had to do since I discovered the truth about Cory.
I’m still gathering information, learning how Ron works, discovering his habits and blind spots. But there’s one thing I do know—Ron has a lot of money and a lot of power, and my goal is to use Canyon Drive to take both away from him.
***
Just north of Pepperdine University, we turn off PCH and onto a small access road. Houses here push right up to the water, built on concrete pylons suspending them high above the sand and breakwater. Properties along this stretch sell for at least $10 million, depending on square footage and whether someone has come in and converted everything to glass, chrome, and white marble. Gone are the beach cottages of the sixties and seventies with their wooden stilts, warped hardwood floors, and sticky sliding doors.
“This place has been converted into a duplex, and some of the finishes aren’t as high-end as the zip code requires, which is why it’s priced so low at $7 million,” I tell him, deliberately adding a couple million to the list price. Anything lower and he’d know something was wrong with it.
We enter a bright space with vinyl wood flooring and light fixtures from Home Depot. “The second unit upstairs is an exact footprint of this one. Access is an outside staircase along the south side of the property. Garage parking for two.”
Ron walks toward sliding glass doors and opens them, stepping onto a redwood deck. For a split second, I fantasize about the pylons giving way right at that moment, tumbling him one hundred feet to the rocks and shoreline below us. He turns and smiles. “I could rent each unit for at least six thousand a month. Is there laundry?”
I lean against a tiny kitchen island and point down a hallway to my left. “Stackable washer and dryer in a closet there.”
We make our way slowly through both units, Ron commenting on the light. The high ceilings. The kitchens in each, both of them clean white tile with clean white appliances. “There’s almost nothing to be done,” he marvels. “How long on the market?”
“One month,” I lie. “I got the impression from the listing agent that the sellers are beginning to get antsy. They thought it would have sold by now.”
“If it were a single-family home, I’m sure it would have,” he says. “I think it’s priced a little too high for what it is.”
“The market sets the price, not the seller,” I recite. Seven million, two million, ten million…it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to let this transaction get that far.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I feel the same jolt I felt that first night at the fundraiser—I can’t believe I’m finally here, after so many years.
“Let’s put in an offer,” Ron says. Beneath us, waves crash against pylons that are slowly disintegrating. “Let’s do five million even.”
I nod once and slide the door closed, the ocean sounds now muffled. “I’ll go back to the office and draw up the paperwork.”
***
Two days later, I call Ron. “We have to pull out of the Malibu property.”
“What? Why?” I can hear the sounds of a busy campaign office behind him, a low rumble of voices, the ringing of phones.
