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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.
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 ofthe 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.
