Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Her biggest worry was losing the house. The payments were a major drain, and annual property taxes were a heavy hit. As much as she’d miss living on the coast, moving Daddy anywhere brought another set of concerns with his Alzheimer’s. Major changes in his routine could trigger his death spiral.

  Before Travis’ arrest, she’d planned to use the equity in their home when Daddy needed diligent care. So far, they’d gotten by with the help of neighbors. With the bank’s notice of default on the loan, selling the house probably wasn’t an option anyway. Two years ago, such thoughts were heresy, now, merely the last lifeboat lowering from her Titanic. Somehow, she’d keep them afloat.

  She pushed a tear away with her knuckle. “You want to go to the DMV?”

  He smiled. “You mean it?”

  “I feel like taking a drive. We can get the forms and whatever else they have while we’re there.” Her hair draped over her eyes. “Can you take The Firm out for a quick walk?”

  “Sure.”

  “And ask Ginger if she’d check on Dad in about an hour. I’m going to get dressed.” She left her cup by the sink, and then headed up to her room.

  The second floor was a finished loft with Maggie’s bedroom on one end and Travis’ on the other. They shared a small bathroom near the stairs. Railing lined the walk between their rooms, overlooking the family room and a supreme view of the Pacific.

  She stretched the waist of her pajama bottoms past her hips and dropped them to the floor. A fleece pullover paired nicely with the jeans she’d rummaged from the laundry basket. Socks, navy espadrilles—and she trotted downstairs to check on her father.

  Drawn curtains repelled any light seeking his room. He sat on the edge of his bed fully dressed.

  “Daddy?”

  His eyes cut her direction. “It’s down under, Trish.”

  Maggie didn’t feel like correcting him again. Since Travis had gone to jail, Dad seemed routinely out-of-it. Any semblance of lucidity came in flashes, and communication remained unreliable.

  She checked the wounds on his back and was satisfied that they were healing. She placed her hand under his elbow, and he stood this time. The remote control lay on the floor by his feet.

  Down under. Of course. “C’mon, Daddy. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  He walked on his own to the kitchen table and took a seat. She poured a bowl of Grape-Nuts, added sliced banana, milk, and gave it to him with a large spoon.

  “Thanks, Maggie.” His eyes hung on her face.

  She hugged his head to the side of her waist. “I love you.” It was nice to be remembered.

  Travis entered the beachside door behind the straining beagles. “Hold on.” He reeled in Bailey and Belli long enough to unleash them. The dogs padded to the water bowl and lapped their fill.

  “Morning, Pop.” Travis hugged his father around the neck. “Ginger’s coming by later.”

  “We’ll be back in a little while.” She grabbed her purse, kissed her father, and they left through the front door.

  Driving to The Department of Motor Vehicles was a luxury in terms of spent gas, extra miles on her car, and time not looking for a job. Instead of the usual morning clouds, the ocean currents sent a top-down kind of morning, and she decided to revel in it even if she didn’t own a convertible. The troubles would be there when they returned. Maggie didn’t need to invite them along for the ride.

  She took Highway 92 over the mountains into the San Mateo office and picked up the California Driver Guide, the Parent-Teen Training Guide, and every possible applicable form. Travis pored over the regulations as if seeking clues for treasure. They arrived home minutes before eleven.

  Travis hustled upstairs to get Maggie’s laptop, so she could order the driver’s ed workbooks. She hoped the books would arrive quickly. Travis needed to concentrate on something positive.

  Their father was sitting outside on the porch watching the ocean roil. She stepped out to kiss the top of his head. He rewarded her with a pat on the hand.

  She returned to the kitchen to check for messages. A light blinked on the phone recorder. Denesha had called to offer Maggie some job ideas. Sergeant Garcia from the Half Moon Bay Police Department wanted Maggie to call him. Maybe he had news.

  Travis was downstairs before Sergeant Garcia’s message ended. A worry line sidled across his brow. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  He placed the laptop on the kitchen counter.

  She laid the phone down and turned on the computer. “What’s the address?”

  Maggie typed in the name he gave her. Within minutes, they ordered Travis’ driving workbooks. The website promised delivery the same week.

  Travis offered Maggie some money. A twenty and a ten. Thirty jail dollars. The kid was beaming.

  She pushed it back to him. “No. You keep it. Save it for your first tank of gas. Once we get going, maybe you can practice by driving to school.”

  The glow on his face faded. “About school—”

  “What about school?”

  He leaned on the counter, long legs stretching along the tile. “I can’t go back.”

  The words jolted her. “What does that mean you can’t go back? You have to go to school. It’s part of your court order. Education is the only—”

  “I can finish high school at home and help you with Dad.” A glint of pure reverence flickered over his face. “You can be my teacher, Magpie.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “Travis, I don’t have time—” The phone rattled on the counter. “We’ll discuss this later.” She pushed the talk button. “Hello.”

  “I’d like to speak with Martin Fender.” A man’s voice requested.

  So would his children. “My father isn’t available.” Somewhat of an understatement, her father hadn’t spoken on the phone in over a year. “Who’s calling, please?”

  The breathy exhale set Maggie’s nerves on edge. “Hello?”

  Silence dangled like a spider.

  Until the call went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kurt Meyers’ temporary San Francisco digs comprised the entire 41st floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. From 550 feet above Montgomery Street, his office overlooked the islands of Yerba Buena, Angel, Alcatraz, and Treasure breaching the cerulean blue of the bay. For manmade attractions, the vista included an eyeful of the Bay Bridge, the Embarcadero, Coit Tower, and the Golden Gate Bridge. If it weren’t for the forty-three files on his desk, the fifteen appointments scheduled for the next two days, and the twenty-seven phone calls he needed to return, he might have time to enjoy the view.

  Stephanie buzzed him from the outer office. “Ms. Vonda Creevy and company are here to see you.”

  Kurt checked the clock. Eleven-thirty, exactly. He wasn’t surprised.

  He opened the door for Vonda. The and company was a young man with a shaved head wheeling a stack of three file boxes. She reached out to shake Kurt’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “Vonda, it’s a pleasure. Come in.” Vonda and the young man followed him inside. Kurt pointed to the conference table. “Why don’t we leave the boxes here?”

  The young man loaded the boxes onto the table and headed out the door with the dolly.

  “Thanks, Pete,” said Vonda before turning to Kurt. “I’ve brought everything I can find that Patty O’Mara touched. It’s more than I remembered.”

  Kurt opened the nearest box. He removed a jewelry box made from burr elm, inlaid with floral scrolls and a couple dancing. “It appears he was fond of you.” Pachelbel’s Canon in D played when he lifted the lid.

  “He was more fond of my money.” Vonda sat down. “I used to love that song. But that music box cost me one million dollars.”

  “Ouch.”

  “As much as that hurts, I’ve been through worse.” She took several thick folders out of another box. “These cards are from O’Mara over the years. I feel a little foolish.” Vonda’s cheeks rose with embarrassment. “They didn’t
strike me as suggestive at the time.”

  “I thought litigation attorneys were masters of nuance?”

  “My husband, Roger, says I’m the bloodhound who has no scent.” Vonda handed him a card. “I received this after investing the initial amount with Patty.”

  The card itself was eggshell white and of a fine, sturdy stock. Embossed on the front were Patty O’Mara’s initials. P. O.

  Those initials summed up the feelings of his former customers.

  Inside was O’Mara’s handwritten note.

  Vonda,

  Delighted to have you as part of my investment family. My friends from The Rockstag Group are gathering this Saturday evening at Carat Grove Vineyards in Napa. Musicians from the Symphony will be on hand to entertain. Should be lovely. I hope you’ll consider joining me for a taste.

  My best to you,

  Patty

  Suggestive. That was one word for it. Kurt handed her the card. “Did you attend?”

  “I considered it, but I think Roger was busy that night.”

  He smiled at her lack of guile. “I’m not certain Roger was invited.”

  Vonda rearranged herself on the padded chair. “Perhaps he wasn’t.”

  “May I see that card again?” He took it from her. “The Rockstag Group. Have you heard of them?”

  “No.”

  He surveyed the table. “What else have you brought me?”

  They sifted through the items together. The letters and cards numbered in the scores. She hadn’t received anything from O’Mara since he’d been arrested.

  Most had a postmark from his palatial home in Hillsborough, CA. The judge had graciously allowed O’Mara to continue residing there with an electronic ankle monitor until his case came up for trial. If convicted, the court’s trustee would likely force the sale of the O’Mara castle to help compensate those royally screwed.

  O’Mara sent other correspondence from points scattered across the globe. Überfriendly, oozing with charm and veiled double entendres, the messages notably lacked any acknowledgment that Vonda had a husband. As they reread the letters, crimson burnished the dark amber of Vonda’s face.

  Her chin dropped. A letter fluttered into her lap. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice his interest the first go-round. You must think I’m quite a bumpkin.”

  “On the contrary. I think you’re so happily married, you couldn’t have imagined the man hitting on you. I find that refreshing.” Kurt opened another letter. “Besides, from what I can see, O’Mara was artful. He always gave you an easy out. Perhaps in deference to his own ego, but still—” He took some notes on his pad. “I’m beginning to see why people thought so highly of him. That kind of confidence is tough to engender.”

  “Confidence.” Vonda’s voice grew stern. “As in con-man.”

  “Unfortunately. So what’s in the other boxes?”

  The collection of gifts decorating Vonda’s office represented a veritable tour of nations with secretive banking laws—From Switzerland, the music box. From Bahrain, a pearl-encrusted photo frame. From Uruguay, a leather desk pad. From Andorra, a goat-hair rug. Patty O’Mara also sent her rum cakes from the Caymans and a case of Pinot Gris from Luxembourg. Of the rum cakes and Pinot Gris, the only evidence of the original gift was Vonda’s remembrance.

  “I gave the rum cakes and wine to my staff. Plus the truffles. He always sent chocolate truffles.” Her gaze drifted over the gifts. “What’s next?”

  “Now I get to work and earn my exorbitant fee. My staff will ferret through everything in the boxes, make copies of the letters. We look for leads. You know the drill.”

  “All too well.” She stood and walked to the door. “Though I prefer your side of the table.”

  Kurt followed her. “Who doesn’t?”

  She clasped his hand. “Thank you, Kurt. Let me know if I can help.”

  “I will. Thanks, Vonda.” He waited until she was down the hall. “Stephanie.”

  Multiple chain loops swayed from Stephanie’s ear as she made her way into his office. “Is this the O’Mara loot?” She swung a notebook in her hand.

  “Yes. We need copies of all these cards and letters. I want a separate list that compiles the following information.” He paused while she got ready to take notes. “The date each letter was sent. Postmark. Return address. Any names mentioned within the correspondence. People, places, companies. Tag each letter with a code and cross-reference it to the list.” He gave her a moment to catch up. “Any questions?”

  She scratched behind her ear with the pen. “What about the goodies?”

  “Right. Copy the labels. Anything with writing on it, I want a copy.”

  “You got it.” Her pen scribbled to a stop. “Spencer Thornton called. He wants an update from you. I told him you were with someone. He said to call him later.”

  “Thanks, Steph.”

  He wandered back to the boxes and pulled out random letters from the files. The feeble read-between-the-line effort of O’Mara’s pseudo-love letters left him vaguely depressed. A guy with O’Mara’s assets, and he wrangled for someone else’s wife. Then again that could’ve been her most attractive quality.

  The missives O’Mara sent Vonda Creevy were different from those he sent to other investors. His typical style was formal but friendly. Kurt found the invitation to the winery event at the top of the stack and read it again.

  The Rockstag Group. Maybe they were another investment house. Not that O’Mara actually invested any money. Once the roof caved in on the O’Mara Fund, no one could find any substantive investment trades. The money movement was a high-stakes shell game. Ponzi would have been proud.

  Kurt dropped the note back on the pile and went to his computer. Might as well start here. He ran an internet search on The Rockstag Group. The first link was to the corporate website. They were some kind of tech firm out of Scotts Valley. A ubiquitous description in these parts. Ho-hum sort of stuff at best.

  The next link was from a local news blog. Kurt skimmed the piece. Brian Carter, an IT guy from The Rockstag Group was knifed in a parking lot in Half Moon Bay. He died. Mildly interesting if tragic.

  Whoa, what was this? He read the rest of the article.

  While the investigation is pending, the police did not hold Martin Fender, who suffers from Alzheimer’s, nor did they file any charges against him. Martin Fender’s minor son was recently released from prison where he served six months for a felony hacking conviction for compromising the computer systems of The Rockstag Group. Throughout the trial, the younger Fender maintained that he was hired by an unknown person from within The Rockstag Group to attempt to penetrate the company computer systems as a test of in-house security. The Rockstag Group vigorously denied this assertion during Fender’s trial.

  Weird. It had nothing to do with the O’Mara case, but still, that was weird.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maggie’s cobalt blue eyes crumpled into a squint. “Strange phone call. Someone calling for Dad.” She shook her head. “Probably a sales pitch.”

  “Some dude called for him yesterday, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Wouldn’t say. Hung up after I asked.” He spun on a heel. “So what do you think about me going to school at home?”

  “You’re serious.”

  Travis exhaled. He thought the idea would’ve been met with some enthusiasm. “Well, yeah. I can study what I need to and help you with Dad.” As a sophomore, he was at the top of his class in most subjects. He could learn more at home without all the distractions that came with his felony record. The plan was practically perfect. Why didn’t she see that?

  “Trav. I don’t have a flippin’ idea how to go about home schooling you.” She raked back her hair. “And at the moment, I don’t even have a job.”

  “What happened?”

  Her gaze skittered around the room. “I socked Peter in the nose.”

  Travis tried to suppress it. Knew it might tick her off for good. But he just couldn’t h
old back that first smile. “Did he cry?” His diaphragm jumped.

  The lines in her face softened as she watched him. Air burst from her lips. “I may have broken his nose.” Her hands covered her face as if she were trying to warm it with her own hot breath. She bent at the waist, hair swinging near the floor.

  He grabbed the counter for support. “Maggie made Peter cry!”

  She swiped at his knee, but he bobbed away from her before she fell to the floor. “You butt head.”

  “Hey, I’m just a felony hacker.” He tousled her hair. She hated when he did that. “You’re the one who goes around beating up dweebs.”

  “What dweeb did you beat up?”

  They both looked toward the front hallway. Ginger stood there with a grocery bag in each hand. The concern on her face not entirely genuine. “You left the door unlocked.”

  Maggie blinked hard. “Peter from work.”

  Ginger’s expression morphed into unfiltered admiration. “Good. It’s about time you fixed that little prig.” She tottered into the room. “Is that why you’re home?”

  Travis extended his sister a hand.

  “Fired.” She clasped it and climbed up from the floor. “And totally without prospects.”

  He went to Ginger’s side and took the bags. They smelled of corned beef.

  “Then I’m glad I brought palusami. Who’s hungry?”

  At five-foot zip and about one-sixty, Ginger was small and sturdy. She administered food as a medicine, but fortunately, nothing she ever cooked tasted like it.

  “Mmm. Ginger. You’re awesome.” He set the bags on the counter.

  “You’ve had enough prison food.” She eyed Maggie. “And your sister’s talents lay elsewhere.”

  Maggie got some plates. “If only we could figure out where that was exactly.”

  “Punching prigs is a great skill for a future attorney. You’re bound to meet many.” Ginger handed a full plate to Travis. “So. You’re going to learn to drive?”