Chapter 4 - The Mansion in Ohio
Mason called me personally two days later.
“You think you’re better than everyone.”
No hello.
The Whitmore family had remarkable efficiency when insulted.
“I haven’t spoken to you in eight months.”
“You sent lawyers after Mom.”
“I hired lawyers for my divorce.”
“Same thing.”
I let him talk.
People reveal extraordinary amounts when they believe volume is the same as power.
Eventually he said:
“Julian knew I was getting some help.”
“Some?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Did he know how much?”
Mason hesitated.
“That’s between us.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
Another silence.
Because Mason was scared.
His construction company had received large transfers tied to Eleanor.
And now lawyers were requesting records.
“Did North Ridge ever perform work at my apartment?”
The line went completely quiet.
“Mason?”
“I don’t handle New York jobs.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I have people.”
“What people?”
“Subcontractors.”
“Names?”
“You don’t get to interrogate me.”
Then he hung up.
Building management made the question easier.
My condominium required certificates of insurance, contractor registration, elevator reservations, and work approvals for significant renovation.
I obtained six years of records.
Every legitimate project was there.
Kitchen lighting.
Built-in shelving.
Nursery painting.
HVAC maintenance.
None had involved North Ridge Custom Homes.
Yet David found six North Ridge invoices totaling $412,600.
All supposedly connected to my penthouse.
Custom walnut architectural package.
Primary-suite structural modifications.
Smart-glass installation.
Mechanical modernization.
Stone fabrication.
Residence project management.
Most had been paid from money Julian transferred to Eleanor.
The payments then flowed to Mason.
Some ultimately funded his Ohio property.
I stared at the invoices.
“My table is walnut.”
David looked up.
“The dining table?”
“Yes.”
“One invoice references walnut architectural work.”
“The table came from a designer in Brooklyn. I paid for it.”
David nodded.
“They may have used visible features in your home to make fabricated invoices sound plausible.”
My stomach turned.
Eleanor had sat at that table dozens of times.
Complimented it.
Asked who made it.
I thought she was making conversation.
Maybe she had been gathering descriptions.
The lie about Mason’s mansion had another purpose.
His company was not only receiving money.
It was producing paperwork.
I called Naomi.
“How much can Julian claim from my apartment if he proves he spent marital income improving it?”
“Potentially, he could argue for an interest in appreciation attributable to marital contributions or his efforts. It’s highly fact-specific.”
“And if the work never happened?”
“Then he has a different problem.”
I looked again at the invoices.
The penthouse had appreciated substantially since I bought it.
On paper, Julian was building a contribution history against that appreciation.
For the first time, his ridiculous sentence at dinner sounded less ridiculous.
Under my roof.
May you like
Maybe he didn’t merely want to believe it.
Maybe he had been preparing to argue it.
