I called Arthur Finch’s office and, after a brief, surprisingly accommodating exchange with his receptionist, secured a meeting for that afternoon. The speed with which I got an appointment suggested David hadn’t fully warned him, or Finch believed he could bluff his way through. I dressed carefully, choosing a smart, unassuming business suit that had seen many a corporate boardroom. It was time to project an air of quiet authority.
Finch’s office was exactly as I imagined: functional, a little dated, with diplomas framed on the wall testifying to his “Certified Appraiser” status. He sat behind his desk, a man in his late fifties, his face a roadmap of worry lines even before I began. He offered a weak smile, gesturing for me to sit.
“Mrs. Reed, what can I do for you?” he asked, his voice a touch too jovial. He fidgeted with a pen.
I placed my briefcase on the desk, opening it slowly. I didn’t immediately pull out the documents. Instead, I looked him directly in the eye. “Mr. Finch, I’m here about the appraisal you recently conducted on my property, 145 Sycamore Lane.”
His smile faltered. He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. A lovely property. Very sound structure. Good bones, as they say.”
“Indeed,” I agreed, allowing a pause to stretch. “And also about the appraisal you conducted on the very same property just 14 months ago.”
Finch’s face went pale. The color drained from his cheeks as if someone had flipped a switch. His fingers stopped fiddling with the pen and clenched into a tight fist on his desk. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The petty cruelty of making him squirm, knowing what was coming, gave me a grim satisfaction. He had willingly participated in a scheme that could ruin my life.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Mrs. Reed,” he stammered, his eyes darting nervously around the room, avoiding my steady gaze.
I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the two appraisals, placing them side by side on his desk. The contrast in the valuations, $450,000 versus $630,000, was glaring. My finger pointed to his signature on both documents.
“These are both signed by you, Mr. Finch,” I stated, my voice calm, clinical. “One from October of last year, the other from just last month. A difference of $180,000. Without any significant market changes, or any major renovations on my part. Can you explain this discrepancy?”
Finch slumped back in his chair, all pretense of bravado gone. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He stared at the documents, then at me, a desperate, cornered look in his eyes.
“Mrs. Reed, I… it’s complicated,” he mumbled, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
“It seems quite simple to me, Mr. Finch,” I countered, leaning forward slightly. “It looks like fraud. And that, as you know, carries serious legal consequences. Not just for Mr. Reed, but for you. Losing your license, facing civil lawsuits, maybe even criminal charges.”
The word “criminal” seemed to hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, his shoulders hunching.
“David… David pressured me,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “He said he needed the higher valuation for… for a business deal. Said it was essential. Offered me a substantial ‘consulting fee’ if I could… streamline the process.”
The specific, personal cruelty of David using his financial desperation to corrupt a man like Finch was not lost on me. Finch was a small fish, caught in David’s net of deceit. But he had still made a choice.
“How substantial was this consulting fee, Mr. Finch?” I asked, my voice still unwavering.
He swallowed hard. “Ten thousand dollars. Cash.”
My eyes remained fixed on him. “And was this an isolated incident, Mr. Finch? Or has David Reed ‘streamlined’ other appraisals through your office?”
Finch’s gaze dropped to his hands, which were now trembling. He knew he was caught. He knew I was a forensic accountant, even if I hadn’t explicitly said it. My questions were too precise, too informed.
“He… he had other properties,” Finch confessed, his voice cracking. “Small places. Foreclosures, short sales. David was buying them up. Always wanted a quick, inflated appraisal. For the banks, he said.”
He slowly reached into a desk drawer, his movements stiff. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound ledger, its pages filled with neat, handwritten entries. He pushed it across the desk towards me.
“This is… this is a record of all the ‘consulting fees’ David paid me,” he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut, unable to meet my gaze. “And the properties they were for. He made me keep it separate, for ‘tax purposes.’ For his tax purposes, not mine. Said it looked cleaner.”
I opened the ledger. Inside, meticulously noted, were dates, addresses of other properties in Willow Creek, and the amounts paid to Finch by David Reed. The sight of it, this hidden book of lies, was both a vindication and a sickening confirmation of David’s deep-seated corruption. It wasn’t just about my house; it was a systematic pattern of fraud. This tangible evidence, a physical ledger of his misdeeds, was exactly what I needed.
“Thank you, Mr. Finch,” I said, picking up the ledger. Its leather cover felt cold in my hands. “This changes everything.”
Finch merely nodded, his face buried in his hands. He looked utterly defeated, a man whose carefully constructed world had just crumbled around him. His shame was palpable. I stood up, placing the ledger carefully into my briefcase, alongside the two appraisals.
“I suggest you contact legal counsel, Mr. Finch,” I advised, my tone softening slightly. “And consider cooperating fully. It might go better for you in the long run.”
He didn’t reply, just sat there, head bowed. The air in the office was thick with the scent of his despair. I left him to his reckoning, the ledger heavy in my briefcase, a powerful weapon against David’s deceit. This wasn’t just a betrayal; it was a criminal enterprise. And I had the proof.
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