Page 14 of Kiss Me Now
But it was the three blank years between her job at the delegate’s office and her teaching credential that interested me most. That hole suggested someone who wished to forget or hide a significant part of her life. Those were always,alwaysthe very most interesting and telling parts. Especially because her stay with her uncle, Fred Sandberg, fell during that window. So why was it unaccounted for in all her public profiles?
On paper, her education and career would lead me to expect a polished Virginia socialite, not the woman who had opened her door this morning in denim overalls, her light brown hair in two braids with a fine film of sawdust clinging to it. But then, I’d seen a glimpse of that socialite last night in her ease with Gran, comfortable in her gathering room and at her table, etiquette on point, not remotely overawed by the subtle luxury of her surroundings.
What is hiding in that job gap, Brooke Spencer?
I’d know soon. Last night I’d only begun to search. Today began the dig.
I opened my email and sent my first message to ferret out the secrets she wasn’t telling. By the time I drove home Sunday night, I knew which threads to pull.
Monday morning, I calledin my assistant, a middle-aged woman named Sherrie who’d joined the firm as a paralegal but had been bitten by the same bug that had drawn me to investigation. She was turning into a skilled investigator in her own right. Her self-described “average mom vibe” made it easy to fly under everyone’s radar, from hotel clerks to security guards. She could get into the most elite gated neighborhoods in Georgetown if she slapped the magnet for a catering business on the side of her minivan.
“I have a job for you,” I said as she settled in across the desk from me. “Off the books.”
Sherrie’s eyebrows rose. I’d never made that request from her, but she only nodded.
“Lay it on me, boss.”
“This is of a personal nature, and I’ll pay you the firm’s rate, but you’ll still need to bill your regular hours for the partners.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “My schedule is light for the next two weeks until my kids go back to school. I can put in some off-book overtime.”
“All right. I need you to monitor this woman.” I slid a photo of Brooke that I’d shot from my window while she helped Gran pick more green beans on Sunday. “Her name is Brooke Spencer. She mysteriously inherited a valuable property from a great-uncle she had no prior relationship to, and now she’s in the middle of expensive renovations after no visible source of income for the last two years. She’s about to start a job as a public school teacher. On paper, she shouldn’t be able to afford any of this.”
“So I’m doing a general tail and looking for patterns that don’t fit with a school teacher’s lifestyle.”
“Exactly. I’m also going to text you the serial number for the tracking device I put on her car.” Sherrie didn’t bat an eye. Most of the stereotypes about PIs in books and movies were a joke, but every now and then even Hollywood got it right. It was expensive to pay someone by the hour to stake out a suspect unless you knew you would be catching them in the act of wrongdoing. In the early part of an investigation, a tracking device on a vehicle was a much more efficient way to establish patterns. It took a few days, but suspects always gave themselves away.
Brooke was considerate enough to do it on the first afternoon.
“I got something, boss,” Sherrie said, ducking into my office. “She just pinged at 21305 Glen Forest Drive in Richmond.”
I pulled up the address and gave a low whistle. “Why is innocent Brooke Spencer, high school science teacher, driving an hour to visit Highmark Wealth Management?” It was one of the largest wealth management firms on the East Coast with branches in most major cities. They wouldn’t touch a client with less than a million in assets.
“If you’ve taught me anything, it’s to follow the money,” Sherrie said. “If you find the answer to that, you find the answer to everything.”
“You’ve been paying attention,” I said. “All right, good work. Keep watching her. Let me know if you see any other red flags.”
“You got it.” Sherrie went back to her own desk, and I stared at the link on the screen for Highmark. I didn’t need to read up on them. Many of the firm’s clients also had their assets managed by Highmark. Many of theirwealthyclients. Nothing in Brooke’s work history suggested that she’d been able to earn the kind of money she’d need for Highmark to bother with her.
Family money, then? I turned up her parents’ info quickly enough. Her mother was from Charlottesville as Brooke had explained, and she had a current law license, but she didn’t seem to have practiced law since 1992. Brooke’s father worked for a defense contractor. I located their house on Google maps, a comfortable suburban home in McClean’s best school district purchased when Brooke was seven. Even though their 3500 square foot home would cost upward of a million in today’s market, it still didn’t speak to the kind of family wealth that would merit attention from Highmark.
I spent another hour pulling on internet threads, further scouring for other traces of her, but didn’t turn up anything new. That meant it was time to do some old school sleuthing. I wanted to retrace the steps of Brooke’s life to see if I could find the point where a woman from an upper middleclass family became a predatory con artist. I started with her volunteer service listed in her yearbook profile at the Landsdowne Senior Center.
“Hello,” I said to the receptionist who answered the phone. “I’m calling to do a reference check on a former volunteer. Can I speak to your human resources director?”
“Sure, hold please,” said the young-sounding guy on the other end.
A minute later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Landsdowne Human Resources, how can I help you?”
“Hello. I’m calling for a reference check on one of your volunteers we’re considering hiring.”
“Name, please?”
“Brooke Spencer.”
“Please hold.” I did for about a minute then she was back. “I don’t see a record for anyone by that name, but we only retain volunteer records for five years. When did Ms. Spencer work here?”
“Farther back than that, I’m afraid. Twelve years.”
