by Helen Hanson
“The books are in the mail.” He took a forkful from the plate.
She handed the next plate to Maggie.
“Get this, Ginger. He wants me to home school him. Can you believe it?”
The lid to the pot was in midair when Ginger stopped and turned to Maggie. “That’s a great idea.” Down came the lid.
Travis’ belly warmed with a few bites of palusami and the unexpected ally. “Sing it, Ginger.”
“If he wants to stay home, let him.” She pinched his cheek. “It would be good for your father to have more company.” She pinched Maggie’s cheek. “And you, you could do with some help.”
“That’s what I told her.” Travis high-fived Ginger. “Great minds run in the same gear.”
“You’re serious?” Maggie took a bite of her food.
“Javier’s been home schooled like forever,” he said. “You think he’s golden.”
“But why now?”
It was simple, really. The trial and prison had changed him. Close quarters. Constant surveillance. Communal living with strangers. Returning to high school after his experiences the past year seemed like another rehearsal for life. How did he put that in words?
“Because he’s a man stuck in a boy’s body.” Ginger shrugged. “Sort of.”
Maggie sank against the counter. “Trav, honey, we can’t afford it.”
“We can register as a private school, and it doesn’t cost anything. Javie’s mom said we can borrow their books. I promise, Magpie—” He grabbed her shoulders. “I’ll do all the work to get this going. You just need to sign stuff. I can help with Dad, and I cook better than you do anyway. I’ll even help clean more. Please?”
He knew by the way her head tilted toward him that his argument was working.
“Am I going to regret this?”
“Ha! No way!” Travis danced as if he’d spiked one in the end zone. He scooped Maggie under the arms and whirled her around the kitchen.
“Okay. Okay. Put me down.”
She spun out of his arms, and he grabbed Ginger. Her little feet dangled in the air. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” He dropped her back in front of her pot.
“My palusami deserves a calm stomach. Sit down and eat.”
Travis didn’t remember the rest of the conversation during the meal. He had to get back on the hacker boards, see if he could scare up some help from his old comrades. If Maggie knew, she’d kill him and send his ass back to high school with no chance of a driver’s license until he was forty-seven. He had less than two weeks before he lost use of the Modesto’s empty apartment and the illicit computer.
When they finished eating, Ginger went home. At Travis’ insistence, Maggie sat at the table to return her calls while he cleaned up the kitchen. She gabbed with Denesha about restaurants that might be hiring. Apparently Peter claimed victory for Maggie’s firing and was completely insufferable.
Travis loaded the dishwasher and wiped down all the counters. The sponge smelled funky, so he doused it with some bleach. Maggie pretended to fall over in a faint.
“Very funny.” He noogied her head as he walked past her to check on Dad.
Dad sat outside in his favorite Adirondack chair. Bailey and Belli snoozed at his feet. The ambient sound of the waves drowned most sounds, but the decking carried the noise of Travis’ steps. He approached quietly, in case Dad was asleep. The dogs looked up, but only briefly.
Dad sat upright when he saw Travis and licked his lips.
“Are you thirsty? Can I get you some tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Be right back.”
Maggie’s call with Denesha was ending as Travis found the tea in the refrigerator. While Maggie made another call, he poured a plastic tumbler full of iced tea. They tried to keep breakables away from Dad these days.
Travis took the drink to his father. The older man bundled beneath a gray cable-knit sweater that Trisha had knitted for a birthday. He looked Travis full in the face, said, “Thanks, Carl,” and took a drink.
Travis’ exhale shot out leaving his lungs dry. Maggie warned him this would happen, but it hadn’t prepared him for the loneliness that filled his chest like a cold fog. Carl was his father’s older brother. Travis heard of him, but he died in Cambodia when Travis’ dad was only seventeen.
Travis touched his father’s shoulder. “Dad, it’s me.”
“Hey.” He looked at Travis as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m glad you’re finally home.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “We missed you. Mom said you’d be home soon.”
His words pierced Travis’ heart like an awl. He hugged his father, clutching his back, but his father winced. Travis had forgotten the knife wounds, the scabs still tender to the touch.
“I kept it for you, all this time. They won’t know where to look. But you will. You will.” His father turned toward the sea.
Travis’ buoyancy seeped into the ether. He shuddered. His father’s fleeting coherence was disturbing. He hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen, the security of Maggie’s recognition.
Her back was toward him when he saw her. She hung up the phone and turned to him. Her expression gave him no comfort. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “I just spoke to the police. The man who attacked Dad. He worked at The Rockstag Group.”
No warmth in here either. “You think he was looking for me?”
Chapter Thirteen
Kurt grew impatient along with the lobby crowd of Br’er Rabbit, the latest Asian-inspired dining rage in the city. With a population of over thirty percent, he wondered why the Asian factor was limited to mere inspiration. He preferred to work through meals, but it was on Spencer Thornton’s oh-so-many dimes, and if he wanted Asian-inspired, he got it. Spencer had yet to arrive or call, in spite of being twenty minutes late. Kurt paced as best he could in the confines created by thirty hungry strangers.
His last appointment at the office had put a serious check on his mojo. A retired couple lost their home in Hurricane Rita. Rita bore the misfortune to come on the slippery heels of Katrina, garnering a significantly mitigated outpouring of sympathy and tax dollars. Their rebuild was initially frustrated because the post-hurricane building code became more stringent and materials were limited. Ultimately, that problem dwarfed with the realization that Patty O’Mara was a thief. Now they worked year-round as camp hosts at an RV park in the Mojave just to survive.
“Kurt.” Spencer’s voice boomed above the din.
Kurt hoped the briefing wouldn’t take up his whole afternoon. They hadn’t spoken since the night Spencer introduced him at the Fairmont. He had so little to tell.
Spencer pushed through the rabble and pointed toward the maître d’s desk. Kurt got there first, but Spencer’s arrival sparked the man into action. “Please, this way Mr. Thornton.”
Gray hair and eyes, at fifty-five Spencer was the epitome of San Francisco style. He wore a wool blazer, black turtleneck, and shoes from a designer whose name ended in a vowel. Kurt sported his Brooks Brothers best with a pair of J. M. Westons. Compared to Spencer, Kurt felt two standard deviations away from West Coast hip.
As they trailed the maître d’, he couldn’t imagine where they were going. A backroom for special guests, perhaps. The place was packed. Square columns of teak, fashioned to look like bamboo, stood floor to twelve-foot ceiling. Deep reds warmed the concrete beneath their feet while green silks softened the walls in fabric foliage. Throughout the restaurant, water trickled down knobby glass panels, splashing river rocks at the bases. The effect was soothing in such a noisy environ and served to separate the dining areas. They landed at a large, padded booth, an oasis of tranquility amid the hub of kinetic energy. The maître d’ tucked them in with menus and went to order their drinks.
Spencer spoke first, “Have you found my money yet?”
The man wasted no time on foreplay. “I’ve found broken hearts, shattered lives, empty futures. Fortunately your losses weren’t your o
nly assets.” Kurt sipped his water. “Screwed along with the rest but not terminally.”
“Amen.”
“Stephanie sent you every lead we have.”
“It’s a wonder that sonovabitch O’Mara is still alive.” Spencer reached for a salted edamame pod. “I’ve entertained a few fantasies along that line, but I enjoy my freedom too much to kill him.”
“I met some guys who work for Vladimir Penniski.”
“Vlad must be out already. Were they thugs?”
“Didn’t act like accountants.”
“Then you’ve never been audited.” He wiped the salt from his hands. “So what does Vlad want? Information.”
“Inside information. His messengers told me to keep them informed.”
“Vlad took a bigger stick than I did. I was pulling out of the pool, but he was diving in the deep end.”
A petite Asian-inspired beauty brought a Tanqueray and tonic for Spencer and an iced tea for Kurt. She pattered out the specials for the day with an accent that smacked of Chicago. She seemed to hold her breath while they decided. Kurt opted for ginger salmon while Spencer ordered the lemongrass abalone and three appetizers. So much for a quick lunch.
Kurt settled in for the duration. “How do you know Penniski?”
“He opened some doors for me in Russia. Introductions, you know.” Spencer popped some more edamame in his mouth. “When it comes to business, Vlad is all torque.”
“Bit a man’s nose off, I understand.”
“Barney Reid’s. But just the tip.” He downed half his drink. “Reid refused to testify against Vladimir at the trial.”
“How’d they convict him?”
A smile consumed Spencer’s face. “Vlad attended a private party at the Palace of Fine Arts. In the middle of it, he wandered into the park to meet Reid. No one’s saying why exactly.”
“Of course not.”
A slim man delivered shitake mushroom salads on square porcelain plates. Spencer waited for him to leave.
“Word around town says Reid was changing the parameters of their deal to bring some pirated designer goods into the city. You know, purses, watches, that sort of thing. Not a move Vlad would take kindly to unless it was in his favor. He bites the guy’s nose as a Boy Scout troop is walking by with video cameras. They were working on a cinematography badge.”
“Bad timing.”
“Actually good timing. Otherwise Vlad might have only left the nose.”
A mizuna leaf stuck in Kurt’s throat. He coughed until it cleared.
“You don’t need to worry about Vlad. As long as you don’t cross him.”
Spencer’s confidence wasn’t reassuring. “O’Mara can’t be sleeping well.”
“The bastard. I’d be disappointed if he did.”
“You think Vladimir will have O’Mara killed?”
“I’m sure he’s considered it.” He pushed aside the edamame bowl and started on the salad. “Revenge is the last step for someone like Vladimir. First, he wants his money. Then he might have O’Mara whacked.”
Even with his tax case in D.C., Kurt knew the stakes were high enough to engender some wrath. Fortunately, he broke the case to authorities before he felt any crosshairs. “What if his boys come to visit me again?”
“Vladimir may want inside information, but he knows you’re working for me. And if there’s one thing he respects, it’s loyalty. Disloyalty was Barney Reid’s greatest sin.”
Chapter Fourteen
Travis circled the kitchen to reach Maggie. “What was the guy’s name?”
She perched on a stool by the phone. “The police said his name was Brian Carter. He worked at The Rockstag Group. Did you know him?”
His face washed crimson. “I remember the name from the trial. If he’s the right guy, he was network administrator on the day shift. He’s the one who noticed the original security breach.”
A thudding in her forehead threatened to evict her pleasant mood. They’d had a decent day together, she wasn’t in a hurry to see it ruined. “Why do you think he would come to see you?”
His eyes twitched from left to right. “I—I didn’t say he did. But what could he want with Dad?”
Neither scenario ended happily. She needed to restrain her thoughts. “We don’t even know what he was doing around here.” Her confidence puffed a little. “He parked at the beach, remember? Maybe his encounter with Dad was a coincidence.”
Maggie tested the words to see if they floated. She could tell by Travis’ contorted lip that her trial balloon popped. She shifted in her seat. “Do you know if Dad ever met him?”
“Met? He saw him at the trial, but Dad was forgetting us by then.”
“What about at work?”
“Definitely not a customer. I knew all the big ones. The Rockstag Group didn’t have any servers at the data center.” Travis hoisted himself up to sit on the counter. “Not while Dad ran it.”
“So—”
“So, it’s too weird to be a coincidence.”
That conclusion wore consequences. But what?
Maggie’s head pounded, and they weren’t any closer to an answer. “I don’t know what to think, Trav. It’s all too weird. And I’ve got to find a job, today.”
“Have you got any leads?”
“Denesha knows every chef on the coast. They all like her too. ”
“Because she keeps her hands to herself.”
“Funny.” Maggie cuffed him on the head before heading upstairs to change.
“Like I said,” Travis called after her.
She plowed through the mass of hangers and found her favorite interview outfit at the back of the closet, a black skirt and jacket with a charcoal gray blouse. Two seasons old, but a classic that was in good condition and flattered her slim shape.
The jacket style—a boyfriend jacket—was the closest thing she’d had to a date in seven months. With Travis and her father, it was time she couldn’t squander on another man. She climbed in to her last pair of nude pantyhose and slid on the skirt and blouse. Silver belt, heels, and sleeves rolled back at the cuffs, she was ready to turn on the charm.
When Maggie made it downstairs, her father was already napping in his room. She grabbed her purse and found Travis at the table making checklists for his future. “I’m off. Not sure when I’ll be back. What’re you going to do?”
“Javier’s mom said she’d find the information to register as a private school. I may hang over there.”
“Dad won’t be up for awhile.” She shrugged her shoulder to give her purse strap a firmer grip. “Check on him in an hour or so, will ya?”
“Sure.”
“You may have to make dinner for him. Sometimes he won’t eat unless you get it ready.”
He stared up at her with such gravity that she shifted her stance.
“What?”
Travis stood. “Look, I know I’ve been nothing but baggage this year.” He touched her hand. “But I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Her throat tightened. Ever since his release, the lines of his young face seemed sharper, a little more manly, every day. He was beautiful, and he looked just like Trisha. Maggie didn’t care if she ever saw her own mother again, but God, she missed Trisha. Her death ripped the seams right out of the family. Never to be mended. It was the final tug that had led to their great unraveling.
Shit.
Maggie couldn’t do this now. “We’re in this together, okay? You. Me.” She swiped at an eye. “What’s left of Dad.”
He frowned. “Maybe I should find a job, too.”
She bit her lips while choosing her words. “When I don’t think I can make ends meet, I will not only ask you to get a job, I will drive your sorry ass around to find one.” She laughed and punched his shoulder, hoping he would laugh too and shatter the painful tension.
His posture relaxed as he leaned against his chair.
“Until then, your only job is to study and stay out of trouble.” She dangled the keys
from her finger. “My job is to find a job.”
He started to say something, but she cut him off with chatter. “Hey, tell Javier’s mom ‘thanks’ for all her help.” She hurried toward the door. “See you later.”
Maggie closed the door behind her quickly. Sometimes too much talk interfered with decisive action. That’s all they needed right now. Decisive action. She had to find a damn job.
At the end of her driveway, the handsome, dark neighbor carried several envelopes her direction. She didn’t have anywhere to hide. This time she had to introduce herself or forever be known as the neighborhood bitch.
Her lips moved into fake-smile position. It worked for photos. Why not for the sculpted neighbor who might not even speak English?
When he saw her, his wide, full mouth eased into a genuine smile. “Miss Fender?” His stride elongated up her drive.
Baggy red sweats hung from his hips. With each step, his muscles flexed beneath the red, long sleeve t-shirt that clung to his chest. If he hadn’t been smiling, his lithesome, silent stride, the power in his swinging arms, or the intensity of his total focus on her might have been frightening.
Maggie caught herself looking for his wife. She half-stepped back, brushing off her cheek. “Hi, I’m Maggie Fender.”
“I am so very glad to meet you, Miss Fender.” His accent sounded Russian. “Your mail.”
“Please call me Maggie.” She took the mail then extended her hand.
“Maggie. What a lovely name. I am Fyodor Umanov.” He took her hand with a gentleness that surprised her.
Her stomach fluttered. She withdrew her hand as soon as it seemed polite. “Fyodor. Were you named after Dostoyevsky?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You know Russian literature?”
“Some. Crime and Punishment is a particular favorite of mine.”
“I was named for him. I am glad she did not name me after Raskolnikov.” His soothing laugh coaxed Maggie to join him. “My mother is a chauvinist.” He shrugged, a what-can-you do-with-parents gesture that Maggie recognized in herself. “She thinks only the Russian masters are worth reading. She named my sister Anna. Maybe you met her?”
