Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

“The fund was managed entirely online. All transfers in or out were electronic. Even the few genuine trades O’Mara actually made were calculated and placed by a computer. He moved the money somewhere. Or someone else did it for him.”

  “I’m sure Samantha Merrick will review anyone with access to the trade programming.”

  “Anyone with authorized access.” Vladimir flicked the long ash.

  The corners of Wade’s lips curled in amusement. “You think this was a hack?” He sent his queen onto the board.

  “We need to consider the possibility that O’Mara had help, or he was dumb enough to get taken.” He stubbed out the butt. “I’d almost enjoy hearing that. Have the boys start looking around. I’ve got thirty million reasons to keep my options open.”

  The guard opened the door. “It’s time.”

  Vladimir knocked over Wade’s king with his bishop. “Check mate.”

  “You can’t do that. It’s an illegal move.”

  He patted Wade’s cheek. “That’s the problem with you. You think everybody plays by the rules.”

  Chapter Five

  The Half Moon Bay Police Department nestled the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains along California’s central coast. Legendary Highway 1, which ran through town, seemed to draw out the crazies. Though the majority of the department’s efforts were spent on the usual seaside complaints. Underage drinking, overage drinking, suspicious vehicles, petty theft, graffiti, people and dogs barking or defecating unlawfully. They incarcerated few people accused of murder, even fewer nearing the geriatric stage of life. In Martin Fender’s case, disease accelerated the process with cruel confidence.

  Maggie broke the speed limit dashing to the station in her beat, old Subaru. She wasn’t sure the tank had enough gas to get them there and back, but she didn’t want to stop for fuel. It took her an hour to peel Travis off Javier Modesto’s ceiling. He’d taken refuge when the first police cruiser parked on their street. She had to admit, the day was a miserable homecoming.

  He sat next to her like a monk under a vow of silence. Maybe some small talk would help. She wasn’t usually a fan, but at the moment, it served her purpose. The other topics of conversation involved Travis’ prison term, Dad’s arrest, Dad’s disease, the relentless march of their financial ruin, or her perpetual ill humor. Given the alternatives, small talk held a certain allure.

  “How’s Javier? I’ve only seen him in passing lately.”

  “Got his learner’s permit last week. His Dad’s been taking him to parking lots for practice.”

  Melancholy rippled through her chest. Travis wasn’t yet eligible, and they sure as hell couldn’t afford insurance premiums for a newbie male driver, but he could still take the written test. Start prepping.

  “Good for him.” She slowed to the posted limit of forty-five miles per hour. Setting a sucky example, plus the police station was just ahead. “We need to check out the requirements, so you can get started. Why don’t you check online—”

  The look he gave her pained them both. No internet access for six-months as a condition of his parole. So much for small talk. It only left her feeling small. “Sorry.” She pulled into the parking lot.

  “Don’t bother. You never believed me anyway.” He hopped out of the car before it came to a rest.

  “Wait until I stop the damn—”

  He slammed the door. No wonder people bitched about teenagers. She threw the car into park and hustled to catch up with him. He made it to the lobby first.

  At the large front desk, an older woman worked intently on the computer. She wore black eyeglasses decorated with firework bursts of reds, whites, and blues. Her face looked like a Fourth of July finale.

  She broke away from the screen. “May I help you?”

  “My father is here. Martin Fender.”

  “Sergeant Garcia told me to expect you. Your father is in detention. Another officer will take a statement from your brother.” She nodded at Travis. “Please have a seat. I’ll let the officer know you’re here.”

  Maggie sat on the padded bench. She sifted through the old magazines left on the coffee table. Subscribers had torn their addresses from the covers. Probably didn’t want any of the patrons knowing where they live. Mostly celebrity trash. Nothing worth reading.

  A stocky, black officer stepped into the lobby, “Travis Fender?”

  Travis stepped toward him.

  “I’m Officer Standish. This way, please.”

  Maggie stood up.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We want to speak to Mr. Fender alone.”

  “Mr. Fender is fifteen. I’m his legal guardian, and you’re not talking to him without me.”

  The officer’s head jerked back in surprise. He cocked his head to better assess Travis. “Yes. Of course. Please follow me.”

  She caught the pleased-with-himself smirk that slipped across Travis’ lips. Everybody thought he was older. His attorney figured that was one of the reasons he received such a stiff sentence. Man’s body. Boy’s brain. What result could be expected but disaster?

  The officer led them through a door labeled No Entrance.

  “Travis Fender. So you’re the kid who got busted for hacking into The Rockstag Group.”

  She wondered how long it would take. Not a trace of smirk remained on Travis’ face. Or color.

  His gaze cut to Maggie. “I was set up.”

  “Sure. I’d stick with that too.” He opened a door. “In here, please.”

  The room employed a blind decorator’s touch. Gray table. Gray chairs. Gray walls. They’d have to spend some serious money to bring it up to dreary.

  The interview was routine, if the kind of routine Maggie wanted to avoid. Like proctology exams. Travis told the officer the same set of details that she gave Sergeant Garcia. His story detoured during the time they went separate ways in search for their father, maybe minutes. The officer finished his notes and excused himself from the room but asked them to await his return.

  The last traces of adrenaline seeped from her blood stream. Nearly midnight. Over twenty hours since her day started. She laid her head on the table to rest. Travis paced. In the small room, he didn’t have space for many full strides. His gym shoes squeaked with each switchback.

  “Tired woman trying to sleep here.”

  Travis didn’t slow his gait.

  The door opened. She jumped from the seat. “Daddy!”

  Travis got to their father first. His arms didn’t hug back, but stuck out stiffly in front of him, like Frankenstein out for a stroll. At first Dad seemed confused, but Travis’ grip around his chest squeezed in some acknowledgement.

  “Travis?”

  “It’s me, Pop. I’m home.”

  The blank expression flowed into a smile. The arms softened to an embrace. “Hey, buddy. I’ve missed you. Where’ve you been?”

  Travis wiped an eye with the heel of his hand. “I missed you too.”

  Maggie came to the side and hugged them both. Hung on to them both. Her father. Her brother. Her family.

  What a mess.

  She stepped back to give them a moment. “Daddy, what happened to your shirt?”

  She turned to Sergeant Garcia. She hadn’t seen him enter with their father. “That’s not his shirt.”

  “Ms. Fender, we’re keeping your father’s shirt as evidence and releasing him at this time. We don’t expect to file any charges against him, but all the same, don’t let him leave town. ”

  She heard hesitation in his voice.

  “We believe your father was defending himself. There are a series of small wounds on his back consistent with the knife he was holding when we found him. The dead man’s wrist was broken. It likely happened when your father wrested the knife from the attacker. No one noticed your father’s injuries until he we got him to the station.”

  Travis let go of his father and pulled up his shirt to inspect the wounds. His father stood obediently still. “Did you call a doctor?”

  “He’s in n
o danger. The punctures weren’t deep, and the bleeding stopped by the time we found them. We cleaned him up, but you might want to have the wounds checked out by your own physician.”

  Maggie’s many concerns collided. “What happened to him?”

  The officer sat on the corner of the table. He laid a file on his right knee. “The county investigators found drops of blood on the pavement leading toward a car in the parking lot. Based on the wounds, we think the blood is your fathers.”

  Maggie and Travis both cringed at the news. But Dad showed no emotion as if they were discussing some else.

  Sergeant Garcia continued. “The current theory is that the guy, John Doe, met your father on the beach. He pulled a knife out and held it to your father’s back, forcing him toward the car. You can see slight marks along his throat area, probably where the shirt stretched across his neck. John Doe was shorter, so he pointed the knife at your dad’s back with an upward angle.” He demonstrated the technique employed. “As they bounced along the sand to the car, the knife jabbed him repeatedly in the back. None of the wounds looks very deep, but the knifepoint is sharp. It had to hurt like hell.”

  Everyone turned to Daddy. He stroked the corner of a shirttail between his thumb and the first two fingers. Travis reached over and rubbed his father’s upper arms as if trying to shake off a chill.

  The officer’s mouth turned downward. When his eyes met Maggie’s, he said, “We also found a gun at the scene. We think the attacker had it as back up. When your father took the knife from him, he pulled the gun. Your father responded to the gun with one stab wound to the chest. The county coroner will have the final say, but it looks like self-defense.”

  Inside Maggie, a great settling occurred. Another anxiety finally found a place to land. “So we’re done here?”

  Travis’ face lit with hope.

  “We are. For now.”

  Anxiety. Airborne, again. “What do you mean for now?”

  “Your father will have to appear before a judge, but we don’t expect the DA to file any charges. We don’t know who the dead man is yet. He didn’t carry any identification, and the plates on the car were stolen.”

  “So?” Maggie caught herself. Chalk it up to the long day. “I mean, what’s that got to do with us?”

  “We don’t have a motive for the attack. We like to think crime isn’t entirely random.”

  “I see.” She said it, but she didn’t see. Too late to think. She wished Travis could drive, so she didn’t have to make any more decisions. She didn’t let Daddy near the keys anymore.

  “Was he trying to kidnap your father? Kill him. If so, why?”

  Travis’ foot started dancing. He did that whenever he was tense, or as a toddler, he had to pee.

  Maggie stood up. “Look, we’ve had enough. The day is spent, and I’m taking my family home.”

  Sergeant Garcia surveyed Travis with a compassion few in law enforcement displayed toward her brother. The Half Moon Bay Hacker. Just another too-bright delinquent with high-speed internet access and a dearth of coherent adult supervision.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Fender, but you have to consider the possibility that this attack wasn’t random.” He closed his folder and met her stare. “Did your father have any enemies?”

  Chapter Six

  Travis eased out the beachside door into the dark. He’d sprayed WD-40 on the hinges the night before to make sure they wouldn’t squeak. Not that Maggie would’ve woken easily after yesterday. They’d tended Dad’s wounds before putting him in bed, and she looked wiped. Every time he lay down on the thin mattress at Cumberton, Travis had imagined his first night back home. His old bed welcomed him with cool sheets and the quilt made by his mother. When his head finally landed on goose down, he stayed awake to plan.

  The morning fog enveloped the beach in a crisp-cold that made Travis’ clothes feel moist. Six months wasted in the mountains, the cool mist energized him like a mainline to AC. God, he’d missed this place.

  Low-tide ripples slapped the shoreline. Seagulls assembled early for the unlucky crabs, squawking and jostling for position on the rocks. Plants and creatures from earth and sea met at the sand. The salty brew on steady churn. Each scented the air with its heavy perfume. The mix, a living memory.

  Travis stood on the beach alone—not that he could see beyond ten feet—but alone with his thoughts. The first morning back was all he’d desired. There would be more. For now, he was content.

  A chill massaged his spine. He checked his watch—4:57. Javier would be expecting him.

  He walked along the sand to the road and took the long way around to Unit 105 of the Modesto’s apartment building. The tenant moved out last week. Javier’s father planned to repaint it but not until he finished repairs to the stairwell.

  Unit 105 was ideal because it was the lower corner unit of the el-shaped building. French doors led out the treed side of the property. The original owner thoughtfully planted privacy hedges of Island Mountain Mahogany between the units, now lush, tall, and impenetrable. With the helpful cover of beautiful foliage, Travis could slip in or out, safe from the prying eyes of the neighbors.

  He stepped onto the patio. The drapes were drawn back. He looked in the room through the panes.

  Javier leaned on the kitchen bar at the other side of the empty room. He came over and opened the door. It glided without a sound. WD-40. Great stuff.

  “C’mon in,” Javier said, in that casual manner reminiscent of his mother. Helping a parolee violate his conditions didn’t jangle him. Travis went in and Javier dropped the drapes from the hook.

  “How much do your folks know?” Travis said.

  “Nothing, officially.”

  “Good. It’s safer for them.”

  “They’ll notice the missing key and the computer, but they won’t do anything. They think you’re innocent.” Javier dug the key from his jeans pocket and gave it to Travis. “Dad already has a clue.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I asked him about the paint job for this place.” Javier kicked the carpet. “He made it weirdly clear that the job would start in two weeks. That’s all I got, Trav.”

  “On it, then. Where’s nerd station?”

  Javier led the way to a bedroom. A starfish in red crayon on the wall evidenced the needed paint job.

  “Javie, your starfish should have five arms not six.”

  “It’s Jewish, man.” He pointed to the other corner. A laptop lay on the floor. “The neighbor on that wall has an unsecured wi-fi. Wicked fast.”

  “When do they surf?”

  “Way past your tuck-in. They’re a couple of Dinks. She beats to the city. He beats to the valley. Gone early. Home late. Even some Saturdays.”

  “No wonder they don’t have kids,” Travis said.

  “Yeah, but they’ve got some sick rides.”

  “Black Porsche?”

  “And the Vette.”

  “Sweet.” Travis hit the floor lotus-style and turned on the laptop. It hummed to action.

  “Last guys in here left a coffee pot in the kitchen. There’s a can of MJB on the counter. Knock yourself out.” Javier walked toward the door. “I’m sacked.”

  “Seriously, man. Thanks.”

  As he left the room, Javier pumped the air with his fist. They both knew. The words were unnecessary.

  Travis cracked all his knuckles. He fired up the browser. Six months away, but the court order only made him cautious. Caution wasn’t bad. He could have used some when he agreed to help the sonovabitch who set him up.

  At twelve months old, Travis traded his baby rattle for a computer mouse. Dad was a manager at the Silicon Valley Server Farm, and he routinely took Travis with him when he worked overtime. The server farm rented computers and served as host for computers owned by outside businesses. They kept thousands of computers in a constant supply of electricity, air conditioning, and internet access. Travis learned to swap out a hard drive before he learned to tie his shoes.

&
nbsp; Stay off the internet for six months. Yeah, right.

  Travis went into the options menu and set the browser to don’t-record-his-every-freakin-move. He didn’t plan to get caught, but there was no reason to light the torch. He navigated to his personal web page.

  He hadn’t seen the page since he was incarcerated. It had that sense of the unfamiliar as if created by someone else. He was glad the feds let him keep it live. To them it looked like a normal kid’s web page, not something that required psychiatric evaluation.

  But he left nothing for the feds to find. His homepage links went to websites like Maverick Surf, Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, or the Exploratorium. He found the passwords he needed by collecting every fifteenth letter from a block of text about a guitar shop up in Tiburon.

  He went to the Google Groups section and typed in the name of the group he wanted. He entered the password from his web page. Here were the links the feds didn’t find. Links to sites he’d already hacked. Invitation-only pirated software sites. Sites with published hacking scripts. Dirty sites where you could buy credit card manufacturing equipment and the stolen numbers to go with them.

  Priceless.

  What he needed was also there. The hacker forums.

  The hacker forums weren’t wholly different from the ones that share recipes, offer dating advice, or swap war stories. Hackers observed similar protocols. Give a little to the community, get a little back. Give a lot to the community, they trust you. In the hacker community, trust was currency.

  Within minutes of his arrest—thanks to Channel 5—news radiated online to the far reaches of the hacker community. Officially, the police didn’t release Travis’ name because he was a minor, but in reality his name was all over the internet in blogs, opinion pieces, and the odd news feed. Many knew him by his leetspeak handle, WonOv12. Translation, Won Over.

  The papers called him the Half Moon Bay Hacker, in part because the leetspeak was awkward to read. The 12 meant an R, but he suspected they preferred giving him a name of their choosing, one less complimentary. Made for good headlines.

  He couldn’t use that handle anymore. People would recognize him, and that would put his butt back in the sling. Or worse. They’d think he was a noob loser with no imagination. Time for a new identity.