Root of All Evil

by Libby Howard

  “A partner?” I tried to act as though I didn’t already know this. “How is that working out?”

  A spark of something that looked like anger lit up his eyes. “Partnerships can be a rocky road. This past year, I’ve realized that wasn’t the direction I wanted to go. I’m working to buy out my partner and shut down that business. Going forward, I plan to have that managed through Humble House in a very different fashion.”

  I was amazed that he’d been so forthcoming. But now came the question that might get me thrown out of his office, widow of a notable surgeon or not. “And your partner in this for-profit side company was Spencer Thompson at Fullbright and Mason? What exactly is his role in the LLC, and how much did he put into the startup of this joint business venture?”

  Tracey Abramson went very still, then leaned forward, resting his hands on the top of his expensive desk. “And what would that have to do with the charity golf tournament or your curiosity about the workings of a non-profit foundation?”

  Crap. I felt like I was playing chess with a master, carefully maneuvering my pieces and trying not to get my king trapped in a corner. “In my day job, I work for Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services, Mr. Abramson. Yes, I’m here to gain your support for the charity golf tournament, but there’s another reason that I’m here. I can’t tell you the exact nature of that other reason, but please know that my question has everything to do with Spencer Thompson, and not you or your business.”

  This wasn’t a criminal investigation. I wasn’t the police, or the IRS, or even an investigative journalist anymore. I was simply a detective, trying to see if Spencer Thompson was hiding money from his soon-to-be-ex-wife.

  Tracey Abramson eyed me steadily for a moment. “I don’t want trouble for Humble House. I’ve had a spotless career, and my family name is unblemished. I want this non-profit foundation to be my legacy, and I don’t want it tainted by any hint of scandal.”

  I held my breath. “I understand. I only want to know what part Spencer Thompson played, and what, if any, profit he may have made from either his work as a partner of Humble Properties, LLC or any other company you might be aware of.”

  Mr. Abramson let out a breath and shook his head. “I knew that man was too slick for his own good. What has he gotten himself into? No, don’t answer that.” He waved a hand. “I don’t want to know the details.”

  “I really don’t want to cause you or Humble House any problems, Mr. Abramson,” I told him. “I was speaking with someone with the county tax assessor’s office the other day who spoke quite highly of the service your non-profit offers. Honestly, I only want to know about your dealings with Spencer Thompson. That and to secure your sponsorship for the charity golf tournament.”

  He shot me a wry smile. “You remind me of my sister. Shrewd and not a woman to be at cross purposes with. Your husband was a lucky man, Mrs. Carrera. Yes, you have my sponsorship. As for Spencer Thompson…”

  I waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts and continue.

  “Fullbright and Mason is a blue-chip financial services firm. My father used them. Heck, I think my grandfather probably used them. I’ve set up a few non-revocable trust funds with their assistance, as well as transferred the management of my investments to them. When I decided thirty years ago to establish Humble House, I consulted with a few of their partners on issues involving the elderly, thinking the insight might help me in forming my company. I’ve maintained close ties with them, and through various activities in the county.”

  “When did you first meet Spencer Thompson?” I pressed.

  “Five years ago, when he was just starting out at Fullbright and Mason. He was bold, but knowledgeable, and I was impressed. I ran into him at a Chamber event and probably had a glass too many when I began to talk to him about some properties we’d recently acquired and how I was struggling with the decision of what to do with them.”

  “He does specialize in estate planning and retirement investments,” I commented. “It’s not unusual that you’d confide in him or seek his advice. He seems to be well respected, and knowledgeable in his field, and he does have a position at a prestigious investment firm.”

  Mr. Abramson shrugged. “Still, I blame the wine. Spencer is a savvy businessman, though. He laid out a plan to establish a for-profit arm of the foundation and sell these troublesome properties there as distressed assets. The LLC would manage fixing up the house, then selling the properties at a fair market value. Initially we’d start with the properties sold to the LLC by Humble House, but then expand into flipping other distressed homes around the county. I took a chance and Thompson and I began a joint business venture together.”

  “One that you said you’re in the process of dissolving?”

  He grimaced. “Yes. Early on it became clear that Spencer and I had very different visions for the future of the company. I began to feel uncomfortable with some of his tactics. They were completely legal, but in my opinion, they seemed to be taking advantage of the very people I’d established Humble House to protect. We had words. We had words over several years, then last winter I informed Spencer that I intended to dissolve the business. We’ve been at a bit of a stalemate since then. He’s offered to run it with me as a silent partner, but I’m not sure I want to continue to do business with that man in any capacity. Last week I received an offer from him to buy me out.”

  Buy him out? My mouth nearly hit the floor in shock. Where had he gotten the money? Had he been flipping properties on the side as well as for this business? Was there something illegal going on as his wife feared? His expertise had no doubt played a role in getting the initial partnership with Tracey Abramson, but where was he coming up with the funds to buy out half the business?

  Follow the money. It’s what Violet would have said, and I agreed. Where the heck did Spencer get the cash to do all this?

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly went wrong between you two?” I asked. “I know you said a philosophical difference?”

  Mr. Abramson hesitated, then sighed. “Off the record? The Humble House transfers were going well, but the issues came in when Humble Properties began to start flipping properties outside of the foundation. Spencer wanted to grab up houses at tax sales. There was one house in particular where I felt the company was taking advantage of an elderly homeowner who quite possibly didn’t have the mental faculties to know he’d missed his payments. In my eyes, the man needed assistance, and I wanted to offer him help through Humble House. Spencer insisted we buy the house at auction, evict the man, and flip the property for a profit. It didn’t sit well with me, and I was gravely concerned that such actions would taint the reputation of my foundation. It was one of many ethical differences we had between us. I began to worry that Spencer’s methods were more about making money in any way possible, and that eventually his business practices were going to harm both mine and my foundation’s reputation. I’ll be happy when this LLC is dissolved and I can put this whole business behind me. And I’ll be quite happy to never see Spencer Thompson again.”

  “I appreciate this, Mr. Abramson,” I told him. “If there’s anything else you know, I’d be very appreciative if you gave me a call.” I dug out a business card and handed it to him. He took it and read it with a smirk.

  “Pierson, huh? I’d figured you for the socialite housewife of a surgeon, not a private investigator.”

  It was my turn to smirk. “I was an investigative journalist when I met Eli, and throughout our marriage until his accident. It’s not a big leap from that to private investigations.”

  He nodded. “I underestimated you, Mrs. Carrera. Please make sure to mark us down for our hole sponsorship and tell Matt to give me a call about this spring.”

  “Thank you for your time, and for your sponsorship, Mr. Abramson,” I said as I got to my feet. Halfway toward the door, he called out to me.

  “Oh, and Mrs. Carrera? You might to look into a little company called Brockhurst Properties. I know I am
.”

  I gave him a nod, and a quick smile, then headed out, thinking there was more to Spencer Thompson than I’d originally thought.

  Chapter 8

  Brockhurst Properties wasn’t easy to find. They had no social media presence, nothing registered with the state as far as a licensed business entity. A broad credit check came up with seventy listings with the same or similar names, none of them in the state. On a hunch I called Violet, hoping it was okay for her to take a somewhat personal call at work.

  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to call you,” she exclaimed the moment she answered her phone. “I probably shouldn’t have done this, but I went into the county accounting system and looked up transactions the week of that property tax payment. I matched up the transaction numbers and found the property.”

  I caught my breath, happy to finally have a lead in a whole lot of nothing. “Violet, you’re incredible!”

  “I know!” she laughed. “Four-twenty-eight Willow Drive in Marshall Heights.”

  Marshall Heights. That was a tiny one-street town east of Locust Point. There were lots of 1960s bungalow-style homes from what I could recall, and a whole lot of residents who’d bought them when they were brand spanking new. Other than a gas station and a pizza parlor, the town was strictly residential.

  “Who owns the house?” I asked.

  “A Brockhurst Properties.”

  I barely had time to process that before she continued.

  “They picked it up at a foreclosure sale about nine months ago and it looks like they’re winding down an eviction of the former owner. No doubt they’ll slap a fresh coat of paint on it and have it sold in six months.”

  Flippers. Just as she’d predicted yesterday. Just as Tracey Abramson had alluded. Spencer Thompson was a flipper with not just one, but two businesses on the side. But where the heck was he getting the money for this?

  “How much did it go for at the foreclosure sale?” I asked. He’d probably stashed whatever he’d made at Humble Properties, LLC in a separate account that I’d yet to find, but how much had that amounted to over the last five years? Enough to fund the startup-up of this new business? And how the heck was he not including that income on his tax returns?

  “Brockhurst Properties bought it for fifty thousand. The tax assessment value of the house is one hundred and thirty. It looks like the foreclosure was on a lien of one hundred thousand.” She caught her breath. “Oh. This is sad.”

  “What?” I was practically on the edge of my seat. Who knew that accounting and mortgages could be so intriguing?

  “The former owner, a man with the unfortunate name of Melvin Elmer, took the loan a year ago. He never paid on it. He’s the original owner of the house when it was built in 1962, so he’s got to be in his eighties or even nineties.”

  “So, this Mr. Elmer took out a hundred-thousand-dollar loan on a house, but never made one payment? What did he use the money for?”

  “Beat’s me.” I heard the clacking of Violet’s keyboard in the background. “Maybe medical expenses? Although I can’t imagine what crazy treatment would have cost that and not been covered by Medicare. Maybe he has a gambling habit. Maybe he has a son with a gambling habit who was about to be fitted with cement shoes.”

  Maybe Violet had been watching too many gangster movies lately.

  “He paid off the house fifteen years ago by the lien release on file,” she continued. “This poor man. I hope he has somewhere to go because the eviction is in a week.”

  “Thanks, Violet.” I almost hung up before I remembered the reason I’d called her. “Oh! Actually, I was calling to ask you about Brockhurst Properties, ironically enough. Can you check and see if they own any other properties in the county?”

  “On it,” she told me.

  I hung up and settled in to search for anything I could find on Melvin Elmer. He had a rather barren credit report aside from the glaring foreclosure. Not much in the way of assets as far as I could tell. There was a tiny pension from the railroad, but it looked like the majority of his income was from his Social Security paycheck. The house loan was at a higher than expected interest rate, no doubt due to his low income and lack of recent credit. Looking at the monthly payment amount, I was surprised it had gone into foreclosure. It would have been tight, but Mr. Elmer should have been able to squeeze that into his budget.

  But he hadn’t made one payment. Not one. The foreclosure proceedings had gone through with lightning speed, and seemingly no protest at all by the homeowner from the notes on the judicial case search site.

  I picked up the phone and grimaced, realizing that I might be in for another late night. Sheesh, I was getting to be worse than Judge Beck on a non-custody week. Tracey Abramson had already left for the day, but his receptionist kindly took a message and promised to deliver it first thing in the morning. I hung up the phone and with another glance at the clock, gathered my things to take a drive out to Marshall Heights.

  I parked along the curb in front of 428 Willow Drive and sat in the car for a few seconds, checking to make sure I’d written down the correct address. I’d expected a home in disrepair with an overgrown lawn and scraggly hedges. Instead I was looking at a neat one-story with lush, recently mown grass and a line of boxwoods that looked like they’d been trimmed with the use of a level. Softening the harsh lines of the hedge were curved beds with a wild profusion of Nippon Daisy, Joe Pye Weed, Goldenrod, and Japanese anemone. Flanking the driveway were red helenium alternating with bright orange chrysanthemum. This clearly wasn’t a property in distress. Although I was no expert, I recognized a carefully maintained garden when I saw one. Anyone who took the time and care to plant these blooms would no doubt have bulbs and other flowers that would fill in these beds with completely different selection for each season. Either the owner in the recent past had enough money to afford a professional landscaper to plan and maintain this property, or they were lovingly doing it themselves. Neither option pointed toward someone who would take out nearly all the equity on their home with no ability to repay the loan even in monthly installments.

  This place had been treasured. Was it a relative whose financial needs came before a beloved home? Had something suddenly, desperately come up and the home hadn’t had the chance to show the neglect? Either way, it was with a heavy heart that I got out of my car and approached the front door. This was too reminiscent of my own situation—and what might be my situation if Judge Beck ended up moving out in a year or two. I’d struggled to keep my old Victorian in reasonable repair. Eli’s needs had been the priority. When he’d died, I’d found myself with an empty retirement account, two mortgages, and a bank account that might have gotten me through the three to four months it would have taken to sell my home.

  This could have been me.

  A man who looked well over ninety answered the door, his tanned face deeply creased with wrinkles, a set of neatly shaven jowls quivering as he pursed his lips and looked me over. Finally, he lifted deep-set brown eyes to meet mine.

  “Melvin Elmer?” He was like a short, hunched-over elderly bloodhound, with a tennis-ball tipped walker and a portable oxygen tank.

  “Yeah?” He growled. “I’ve got until Monday, so unless you’re here to help me move boxes, shove off.”

  I winced and produced a business card, which the man read a scant inch from his eyes. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the company that acquired your home, Brockhurst Properties. And I’d be happy to help you with boxes as we talk.”

  He snorted and pocketed the card. “Be nice if you arrested those bastards, excuse my French. Guess it’s too late for that, though. And unless things have changed since I was in the working world, private investigators don’t arrest anyway.”

  He opened the door and motioned me in while my gaze swept the room. It was a typical, cookie-cutter layout with an open pass-through window from the living room into an eat-in kitchen. Three doors lined up along a wall to my right, no doubt to the two bedrooms and one bathro
om. Small. Utilitarian. Cozy. The floors were oak with Berber area rugs in dark brown. Outside of the scant furniture, all the belongings were already in a dozen boxes scattered by the door. Whatever financial emergency had happened to Melvin Elmer, he clearly had lived a frugal and somewhat minimalist life if all his possessions fit into a dozen large-ish boxes.

  The kitchen was only partially packed. He motioned me toward a pile of dishes next to a stack of old newspapers and I began to wrap as I spoke.

  “I’m working for a client, and the trail I’m following led to this Brockhurst Properties. I don’t know much about them except that they appear to be property flippers, buying up distressed homes and those they can purchase far below market value at tax and foreclosure sales, then fixing them up and selling them with a quick turnaround and maximum profit.”

  He shrugged, pulling a handful of spoons out of a drawer and rolling them in newspaper. “I don’t know anything about them. All I know is I got a notice on my door last week that said I had to move out of my home, and that this Brockhurst Properties now owns it.”

  “The foreclosure did seem to happen pretty quickly,” I told him, adding a paper-wrapped bowl to the box of plates. “Have you met anyone from Brockhurst Properties? Who was at the eviction hearing for them?”

  “Didn’t go to any eviction hearing.” He put his hands on the arms of the walker and turned to face me. “Didn’t you hear what I was saying, lady? I didn’t owe any money on this place. I didn’t have any loans. First I heard anything about this was that notice on my door last week.”

  I hesitated, because this sounded truly unbelievable. “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Elmer? That someone fraudulently took out a loan on your home?”

  He turned back to the silverware drawer. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I didn’t take out any loan. I didn’t get any money.”

  “What happened when the coupon book and the monthly mortgage bills came to your home?” I asked, not quite believing him. I’d heard plenty of identity theft, but how could a scammer have managed to take out a mortgage on someone else’s home?