Root of All Evil Read online

  “The guy’s only thirty-five. I can’t imagine he’s been running this thing more than five years without his wife knowing. Plus, ten years ago she would have noticed hundreds of dollars a week coming out of his paycheck. He wasn’t making the big bucks then to hide it. Plus, plus, I can’t see this guy stashing money for ten years, saving up for this business. I get the impression it’s a strike-while-the-iron-is-hot scheme, and I don’t think this man has the patience to wait very long before beginning to run his side gig.”

  Violet tilted her head. “So, you’ve met him? The husband, I mean?”

  “No. I probably should, though.” Why hadn’t I thought of that before? I knew from back in my newspaper days that there was a lot you could glean from a face-to-face conversation. I didn’t have to make this an interview or pump him for information, just get a read on who Spencer Thompson was as a person.

  It seemed like tomorrow would be a good time to talk to someone about estate planning.

  Chapter 6

  One of the best things about having my private investigator’s license was not having to be in the office at eight thirty each morning. J.T. did prefer I spent as much time as possible actually working from the office so I could meet with any clients that happened to walk through the door, as well as receive couriered packages and phone calls from our skip trace clients, but he understood that there was a certain amount of feet-on-the-street my new position required.

  I called and managed to get an appointment with Spencer Thompson without much trouble. They fit me in for Thursday, and then I called Mrs. Thompson and updated her with my progress.

  By the time I rolled into the office, it was close to noon. J.T. was nowhere to be found, but he’d left me a full pot of coffee that seemed reasonably fresh. He’d also left me a note that there was a turkey and Havarti on rye in the fridge for me. I was thrilled, and not just because I loved turkey and Havarti on rye, but because the sandwich was my boss’s way of telling me I was doing a great job. That, and a not-so-subtle hint that he wanted me to work through lunch.

  I’d planned to do so anyway, so I unpacked my laptop, pulled the sandwich from the fridge, and got cracking.

  There were tens of thousands of DBAs, sole proprietorships, and LLCs formed in the county within the last five years. I picked five years since that’s when Marissa Thompson said things in their marriage started to change. Five years gave me what I hoped would be an adequate buffer for Spencer to get funding and get things set up. There was always a chance he’d started before that, but Spencer Thompson was young, and he didn’t begin work for Fullbright and Mason until five years ago. I figured that before he’d started at the investment company, not only did he not have enough money to start a side business, but he was probably focused on his primary career instead.

  Looking at the huge file of business names, I immediately discarded all the restaurants, dry cleaners, nail salons, and bakeries as well as other retail brick-and-mortar establishments, figuring that Spencer Thompson wouldn’t be able to run that sort of business on the side without his wife knowing about it. I doubted any of those would have appealed to him as a passive investment either, given when I knew about their high rate of failure and miserable early profit margins.

  That still left me with nearly four thousand businesses to look through. I ate my sandwich and thought about what Violet had said, deciding to start with those whose purpose involved real estate or finance. Now I was down to two hundred.

  None of the DBA businesses were listed as having an S. Thompson as an owner, but one LLC had him as a partner—Humble Properties, LLC.

  Humble Properties. I frowned, trying to remember where I’d heard that name before. Thankfully, a quick Google search enlightened me. There was a non-profit foundation named Humble House, and Humble Properties, LLC—which looked to be very much the sort of thing Violet would call a “flipper” company.

  But the non-profit…It was the foundation Violet had said they sometimes referred elderly homeowners to. I scrolled through their website, seeing that they offered free consultations, a Medicaid application service, and a reverse-mortgage service, where the homeowner could receive a lump sum, a line of credit, or monthly payments from the equity on their home with no need to repay until they moved or died. The foundation also offered a special program where the homeowner would deed the property to the foundation in return for a monthly stipend. They were allowed to live in their home payment-free until their demise, and at that time, the home would become the property of Humble House.

  Humble Properties, LLC, on the other hand, bought distressed properties, improved them, then sold them. Completely different missions. The only thing in common between the two companies was the similar name.

  That and one of the owners—someone by the name of Tracey Abramson.

  It made me wonder what that non-profit did when they ended up owning a house. I was pretty sure that the home would quickly be transferred to the for-profit entity which would fix it up and sell it. I did a quick calculation in my head and realized that if the non-profit were savvy about life expectancy as well as careful on how much they needed to spend, they could turn a tidy profit in their special program deals. For a three-hundred-thousand-dollar value house, they could pay off an existing mortgage, fork out the taxes and insurance, and pay the homeowner a monthly stipend, and when the elderly owner passed in ten years, they’d be owners of a home with a hundred and thirty thousand dollar profit plus appreciation.

  Of course, it would be a long game. There might be a time or two when someone died within a year or so after signing the contract, but the majority of their investment probably wouldn’t be recouped for a decade or maybe two. All of that meant there needed to be a whole lot of cash for the initial outlay. Or a good relationship with some subprime lenders, if the numbers allowed.

  Or possibly a for-profit entity that provided enough money to allow the owners to play the long game with the allegedly non-profit business.

  Maybe I was being cynical. All of this seemed above board, and I had no idea what the relationship between the foundation and the LLC were, nor what kind of business dealings these two had in common. For all I knew, the for-profit company was funding the foundation for a tax write-off and some community good will. It could be entirely legitimate.

  But then why was Spencer Thompson listed as a partner on the LLC, and why had he never told his wife about it?

  I wasn’t sure what sort of assets there would be for Marissa to take in a divorce, but she definitely needed to know that her husband had a share in this business. I looked again at the social media posts and pictures, all with Spencer Thompson rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers of real estate and mortgage banking in the county. There wasn’t much on the Humble House’s for-profit company. No website other than a one--page summary with some generic contact form. But clearly Spencer Thompson was listed as a partner in this business with Tracey Abramson.

  Tracy. I frowned, remembering that Marissa had said her husband had made several clandestine phone calls and that name had come up. I’d assumed, as she’d obviously done, that Tracy was a woman, but the spelling with the “e” usually was for a man. I searched Tracey Abramson on the internet, and sure enough, came up with all sorts of social media for a man of that name in Milford. He appeared to be about my age, had left a top-level position with a national lender, and formed his non-profit locally. The pictures showed a portly bald man with a broad grin, friendly blue eyes, and a flair for well-tailored suits. I recognized a few of the charity functions he and his wife attended as ones that Matt Poffenberger had put on. I admired the nice boat they had docked at their lake house in a few of the photos. Then I saw it—the picture that I’d been looking for.

  Tracey Abramson at a Chamber of Commerce event two years ago, standing arm-in-arm with Spencer Thompson.

  Chapter 7

  Tracey Abramson was shockingly easy to locate through his foundation’s website contact information, and even easier to
meet with. No appointment necessary. I just showed up at the Humble House office, told the receptionist that I was soliciting hole sponsors and players for the October Fill the Food Bank charity golf tourney, and that Matt Poffenberger had asked me to inquire if Mr. Abramson would be interested in partnering in a spring fundraiser. I got right in the door, and I didn’t really feel that guilty about dropping Matt’s name. I did still have two holes that needed sponsors for the tourney, and I knew he could always use an extra team as well as fundraising partners.

  One thing was clear upon entering Mr. Abramson’s office—he might be running a non-profit foundation, but he was very, very rich. The wood floors looked like they’d been lifted from a centuries-old barn and lovingly restored. A faded oriental rug sat in front of the desk, clearly something that should have belonged in a museum. High quality original art and sculpture decorated the room, and the centerpiece of the room, the desk, was hand-carved mahogany. I immediately thought of what fun Henry would have here with all the antiquities.

  The man behind the desk was no less impressive. Tracey Abramson had a full head of snow-white hair, trimmed in a timeless style with a debonair curl defying the rest to hang on his forehead with disheveled grace. As he stood, his warm brown eyes danced with humor and a smile creased his handsome face. I shook his hand, thinking that Mrs. Abramson was a very lucky woman.

  “Mrs. Carrera. I knew your husband, Eli. I was saddened to hear of his passing this spring. You have my deepest condolences. He was a brilliant surgeon and an asset to our community. We all feel his loss.”

  I thanked him, surprised to realize that I might have gotten in to see the man without an appointment on the strength of my own name, not Matt’s. A lot of people had known Eli either in a professional capacity or socially. Surgeons worked insane hours, but Eli had always been able to fit in time for friends. Not that I thought Tracey Abramson was a friend of my late husband’s. Clearly their relationship had either been doctor-patient, or the man before me was a significant donor at the hospital and had gotten to know Eli that way. I was banking on the latter.

  “You tell Matt there’s nothing he can do that will get me out on a golf course.” Mr. Abramson sat back down and motioned me to do the same. “Humble House would be honored to sponsor a hole at the tourney, though. And I’d be very interested in discussing a joint fundraising project. Our elderly population is in crisis, Mrs. Carrera. Foreclosures among those over seventy are disturbingly high. People are losing their homes with no financial resources to find alternate housing, and often without any family to help them. A crisis.”

  I sat, the investigative journalist in me perking up her ears. “A crisis is often another man’s opportunity. Not to imply anything, Mr. Abramson, but these reverse mortgages and other programs you offer are structured to turn a profit, are they not?”

  He laughed. “We’re a non-profit foundation, Mrs. Carrera. Every dime we make is accounted for and needs to further our mission to help the elderly live their lives in the homes they’ve loved. Whether that’s through a traditional reverse mortgage, or one of our other, more creative, options.”

  “But surely there’s a profit more times than there’s a loss?” I gave him my most charming smile. “You’ve got to keep the lights on here. I’m genuinely curious. How do you structure these programs so you’re not taking a bath on every one of them?”

  “There is a lot of risk,” he admitted. “But as a non-profit foundation, we can afford to take chances that banks and other for-profit financial entities can’t. Sometimes we’ll take a loss, and sometimes we’ll turn a profit. All that matters is that we work toward our mission of helping the elderly.”

  “But there’s a for-profit entity you own as well,” I pointed out. “In cases where you have the title, Humble House sells the house to them. They do repairs and sell it without the same restrictions this business would have as a 501c3.”

  Tracey Abramson laughed again but shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Is this extortion for me to sponsor an additional hole? Or for me to get out there and make an absolute fool of myself on the golf course? If so, tell Matt he’s failed. That’s all public knowledge, and there’s nothing at all shady about our business structure. The foundation simply doesn’t have the resources or staff to prepare a house for sale where the LLC does. Our finances are above board and available for audit if there is any concern that we’re abusing our non-profit status.”

  I realized immediately that I’d approached this wrong. I didn’t want to offend the man, especially since he knew Matt so well and clearly had known my husband. I backpedaled and stuck the bristling investigative journalist back in the box, trying to approach this as a budding detective and part-time charity fundraiser.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were doing anything unethical here. It’s just that I’ve never come across this kind of foundation before and I’m curious about how you’re structured and how you managed to set it all up. What made you decide to start Humble House? Why the elderly, and housing in particular?” I smiled. “Clearly someone doesn’t start a non-profit for the money. Was there a personal reason you made this your focus?”

  He relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “Growing up in money doesn’t mean you have to be blind to the plight of others. Back when I was a boy, it wasn’t unusual to go over to a friend’s house and see their grandparents or great aunts and uncles living with them—rich, middle-class, poor, it didn’t matter. Children took care of their elderly. But now… So many people didn’t have children, or have outlived them, or their sons and daughters aren’t in a position to help them. Every day I see men and women in the golden years of their lives, not wanting to bother their busy children with their troubles, not wanting the humiliation of asking them for help. People want to be independent until their last day. They want to stay in the homes they’ve lived in most of their adult life. They don’t want to be a burden. Helping the elderly retain some dignity late in life by being able to stay in their homes and having some additional income is my passion, Mrs. Carrera. When I started Humble House thirty years ago, we mainly offered free financial advice to the elderly and assistance in filing for Medicaid and other assistance programs. Now, I’m proud to be able to offer reverse mortgages and other home equity programs as part of our mission. But with those more complex programs came more complex management issues involving what to do with the properties when the client passed on and we took possession of the home.”

  I’d come in here thinking this was a money-making scam, but the longer I spoke with this man, the more I believed he was truly trying to help people. Was this what had Spencer Thompson so distracted the last five years? Was this what he was keeping from his wife? She’d thought he was cheating on her, or running a swindle for financial gain, and instead he was spending his time working for a noble cause?

  “Tell me how these special programs work,” I said, intrigued by the whole thing. “You offer something that sounds like a reverse mortgage in exchange for the unencumbered title on the house?”

  He nodded. “Reverse mortgages are a federal program, but for those who want something different, we have what we call the Humble House Delayed Buyout, or HHDB. In that program, we have actuaries run the numbers, pay off any existing mortgages and tax liens, and assume all financial responsibility for the house, including repair and upkeep. We do a walk through every year, just to ensure there are no significant repairs needed, and we pay all taxes and insurance. The owner receives a monthly stipend which continues until they pass on, whether or not they live in the home until they die or transition into an assisted-living facility. At that time, we assume possession of the home, giving the family a month to remove any belongings they want to retain.”

  It did sound like a good program. The owner would stay in their home without worry of upkeep, paying mortgage, or property taxes. They’d get a nice little monthly income for the rest of their life. True, there wouldn’t be a home to pass on to their heirs, but
how many people’s children actually wanted their parents’ house anyway? I didn’t know the numbers, but I was pretty sure most of those houses got sold after the owners passed away.

  “Are there ever any issues with clearing belongings out of the home?” I asked. “My across-the-street neighbor just passed four months ago, and his nephew is still sorting through all his things.”

  “We do try to be understanding and work with the family. Generally, we can offer a short-term rent-back as a low monthly fee if they need more than thirty days to resolve the estate.” He shrugged. “Sometimes a lot gets left behind and we contract with a company to go in and clear it all out for us. Well, the LLC does. Again, that sort of thing isn’t our area of expertise. When we started offering these home equity programs, we weren’t really prepared to handle the mechanics of turning a house around for sale. It made sense to start another company to do just that and leave us to manage our programs and outreach.”

  Tracey Abramson sounded like a good man. He definitely balanced his charitable instincts with good business savvy, but that was needed in today’s world if he expected this non-profit to survive to help people beyond a few decades. But as saintly as this all sounded, there still was that for-profit side company to figure into the equation. And there was still Spencer Thompson’s role to figure out.

  “The goal at Humble House is not to lose money, but to make enough that we can expand into things like meal deliveries, assistance to those who needed help with medical bills or nursing home costs, or even funeral expenses for a spouse,” Mr. Abramson continued. “Honestly, I thought that selling the properties to a side enterprise that wasn’t as encumbered would be a wise idea, so five years ago I established Humble Properties, LLC with someone who had experience in turning around homes for sale.”