Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Beyond his striking good looks, Fyodor was a sweet and sincere man. Considerate toward her confused father, friendly to her jailbird brother—he was even kind to her inquisitive mutts. Dating hadn’t been much of a priority for her. Life was complicated enough without involving strangers. He likely knew all the stories about her family, yet that didn’t cause him concern. Thoughtful, handsome men didn’t exactly fall from her patch of sky. He was simply the nicest surprise to come her way in a long time. So even if it was awkward, uncomfortable, or occasionally scary, getting to know Fyodor was worth the effort. What did she have to lose?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “No shit?” Spencer Thornton’s burning cigar fell from his mouth. It bounced off his ebony desk, landing on his Persian rug. A plume of ash rained down the front of his trousers. Kurt retrieved the smoldering Opus X from the floor before doing any serious damage to the silk and wool beauty. “O’Mara wants to see you?”

  “Amazing, huh?” Kurt laid the cigar across its coffin on the desk while Spenser dusted his person.

  “I’m speechless.” Spencer reclaimed his cigar and puffed it back to life.

  “Not sure how far I’ll get, but I’m making a list of questions. Anything you want to add, let’s get it on paper.”

  Kurt knew all of Spencer’s questions, starting with, where’s the money? But working this end of the pay scale, clients expected drama. A clever magician suspended his audience in awe.

  “He just called you up and invited you over to his house for tea?” Spencer sat on the edge of his desk.

  “I contacted him when I first signed on for this case. Seemed like the decent thing to do.”

  “Decent. Yeah, that must have gotten to him.” He wiped his face. “Do you know how many reporters would kill for this opportunity?”

  “And a couple of former clients, no doubt. I’m heading to his place tomorrow.” Kurt reveled in the turnabout on this hunt. The game came to him. Ever the conversationalist, when it came to the investigation, O’Mara was no longer chatty. He’d told the SEC nothing of value, and even knowing about Kurt’s investigation for Thornton’s group, he still wanted to talk.

  Spencer knocked a plug of ash into the ashtray. “I wish I could go with you, but I’m guessing it’s a private meeting. Any idea what he wants?”

  “None. But you can’t tell anyone until after our meeting.”

  “News will hit the street before you make it to his driveway.”

  “I thought it was a prank call.”

  Spencer spit some smoke laughing. “I’ll bet you did.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone.” Kurt didn’t want to add any opinions that he couldn’t substantiate. Always under promise. Then it’s easier to deliver. He propped his feet on the ottoman. “But I’m absolutely intrigued.”

  “You and me both.” Spencer got up and started to pace. “I can play to the balcony after this meeting.”

  “We need to hear what he says before we make too many plans. The SEC will be interested in my conversation.”

  “With the media camped at his place, your visit will be national news. Hell, international.”

  Kurt’s thoughts reeled. “I have a legal obligation to assist the federal investigation. Assuming I learn anything of value.”

  “You thinking about wearing a wire?”

  “I expect to be frisked by somebody. But he called me. I want to give him every reason to trust me.”

  Spencer swiveled toward him. “Why you? Why not the guys from the SEC? O’Mara must want something from you.”

  “I can’t fathom what that might be. I’m hoping to be his father confessor, help him unburden his troubled soul.”

  “As long as he also unburdens his bank accounts. I’m good.” He took another puff.

  “Maybe he’s sick. Or dying. He wouldn’t be the first to want some absolution.”

  “Only God himself could save his soul.”

  Kurt said, “Isn’t that always the case?”

  Spencer seemed to study the end of his cigar. A white cloud of smoke erupted from his lips. “When you show up, the reporters will be in a frenzy. Have you considered giving a statement?”

  Considered. Written. Rehearsed. Delivered before an adoring nation on prime time. The future woman of his dreams saw the broadcast and called him with a proposal. “I thought I’d let you make that call. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my conversation with O’Mara.”

  “No.” He spoke through the cigar. “Don’t want to flush that bird too soon.”

  For Spencer Thornton, it was the textbook definition of dilemma. A media opportunity Oprah herself couldn’t conjure, versus a private invitation to the golden goose’s nest. A Dominican cloud accumulated around his face while he pondered the matter. His tanned brow furrowed as the RPM of his mental gears approached redline.

  Kurt thought Spencer might pop a vein.

  Spencer stalked the floor with the precision of a caged jaguar. He spun on a heel. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” He stabbed toward Kurt with his cigar. “Say nothing on the way in about your visit with O’Mara. No Comment. No Comment. No Comment. Remind them that you work for me. And the other investors in our group, of course. That’s it.”

  It didn’t mesh with Kurt’s fantasy version, but it made better public relations sense. “What about on my way out?”

  “Take that up with O’Mara, but if he does confide anything to you, he probably won’t want the press to hear it. Hell, he could stand on his porch and shout if he wanted them to know anything.”

  “Agreed,” Kurt said. “It might be wise to tell the press that Mr. O’Mara was polite, sociable—”

  Spencer laughed. “You’ve been studying the little bastard.”

  “It helps when you’re chasing a man’s secrets.”

  “I hope you’re a distance runner.” A box on his desk buzzed. “Because unless he gives you a map to the pot of gold, you’re going to need the stamina.” He picked up a phone. “Give me five.” He pushed a button on the phone.

  Kurt understood that the meeting was now over. While Spencer had plenty of other business, Kurt’s all-consuming mission was to track O’Mara and the money. He rose, stretching his back to take out a few kinks. The long days behind a desk made him feel compacted. But the meeting tomorrow would make it all worthwhile.

  Spencer left the cigar in the ashtray. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this call.” His smile opened like a game-show curtain. “Your news was better than advertised.”

  “Some information is best delivered in person.”

  He clapped Kurt’s back like a coach after the winning field goal. “I’m leaving for New York tonight. Call me tomorrow right after your meeting.”

  “Will do.” Kurt headed for the exit.

  “Oh, hey. What time are you meeting Patty?”

  “Eleven. Sharp.”

  Kurt opened the door and said goodbye to the receptionist on his way toward the elevator. Some days made up for others. He stepped into the hallway with a buoyancy he hadn’t felt since his success on the D.C. case.

  He lit the lobby button and hummed for most of the thirty-seven-floor trip. The humming stopped when an attractive brunette entered the elevator on the sixth floor. Given his mood, suppressing a grin that didn’t scare her required concentration.

  Kurt held the elevator door and let the lady exit first, then broke for the glorious weather waiting outside. The day shone with particular zeal on Front Street. He decided to walk the ten blocks back to his office. He normally exercised daily, but since the rah-rah at the Fairmont, he barely took time for meals and sleep. Today, he’d earned a leisurely promenade.

  He zig-zagged the city blocks in a northwesterly pattern toward the Transamerica Pyramid. The sidewalk bustle kept his thoughts from landing. He clipped along in time with the throb of the streets.

  From behind, an ambulance howled. It sped past him and stopped on the street a few yards away at the intersection of a lesser r
oadway. The double doors opened at the back when he came near. He stared at the muzzle of a gun.

  “Mr. Meyers. Get in before someone gets hurt.”

  The flight instinct won over a foolish notion to fight. Before he could move, a firm hand from behind shoved him toward the ambulance. From inside, someone hauled him the rest of the way. The doors slammed behind him, and the ambulance scurried down the road.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he made out the faces of two men. His stomach contents lurched to this throat. “What the hell do you want?” It sounded tougher than he felt.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Meyers. I have a present for you from Mr. Penniski.”

  His veins chilled. He recognized the thugs from the Fairmont.

  “When you meet Mr. O’Mara tomorrow—”

  “But I don’t have—”

  “We know of your meeting, Mr. Meyers. No use denying it. You take this ink pen with you. You click the ballpoint out to record, and click it back inside to turn off. You can even write with it while it is recording.” He polished the pen with a handkerchief and dropped it into Kurt’s pocket.

  No fingerprints.

  “Keep the pen with you at all times until we collect it. You record the entire meeting with O’Mara unless you want trouble.” When the ambulance stopped, the other man opened the door and pushed Kurt into an empty alley. “Trouble from us can be fatal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Travis lured Maggie down to the kitchen with the promise of fresh coffee and breakfast. She picked up some paperwork from the table. “You organized all this?” She realized she must look slack-jawed, but Travis had prepped the affidavit she needed to file with the California Department of Education to declare their household a private school. Even for Travis, he was exceptionally thorough.

  “Javier’s mom printed the form, so I could get it ready for you.” He sat down at the kitchen table wearing only his plaid pajama bottoms. “I filled out everything, but she reviewed it for me to make sure it looked right.”

  Dad ate granola while Maggie scanned the paperwork. When did Travis grow up so much? His height aside, he evidenced a man. “Wow.” She dropped the paper to her side and sipped her coffee. “The ball is officially in my court. I’ll file this week.”

  “Thanks. Javie’s mom said to stop by some time, and we can pick out the books we want to use. She’s already got his tagged for next year.”

  “Cool.” She could tell by the look on Travis’ face that there was more. “And?”

  “I’m ready for you to give me the final test for my driver’s ed class. When I pass that, I can take the official test at the DMV and get my driving permit.”

  She eyed him over her cup. “It’s a thirty-hour course. You haven’t even had the book that long.”

  “I read it.” His foot pawed the ground, and Travis melted back into boy. “I know how to drive. I just didn’t know all the exact rules, like stopping distances or the speed limit when it’s not posted.” He shrugged. “Now I do.”

  For the first time since she became everybody’s legal guardian, she experienced a flash of what it must be like to be a parent. She remembered the time she let that crab get too close to Travis’ toes. Even then, she was behind his curve.

  “Dial it back. I’m reviewing all your driving lessons before you take any test.” She poured some granola for them both.

  “It was worth a shot.” Travis added some milk and grabbed a spoon. “Hey, that guy called for Dad again last night. This time I asked him for his name, but he hung up.”

  “Did it sound like Peter from work? I’ve been thinking about it, and he’s creepy enough to do something like that.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. His voice sounded disguised.”

  The news left her unsettled. “Maybe, I should tell the police.” She took a sip from her cup.

  “How was your date with Frodo?” Travis smiled.

  “Fyodor.” She enunciated each syllable. “He asked me out again for this weekend. He’s really nice. We went to a French restaurant down the coast. Le Horizons.”

  “Did you apply for a job?”

  “Yeah. I asked for an application in between courses.” She swatted his knee. “I may though. The place was lovely.”

  Dad dropped his napkin. Travis scooped it off the floor and laid it across Dad’s lap. He dropped it again. Travis and she shared a glance.

  Premature role reversal. Everyone suffered.

  He picked up the napkin again and tucked a corner under Dad’s leg. “What does Frodo’s security company do?”

  Maggie swept her hair behind a shoulder. “High-profile types hire them for personal security, electronic security, and any situation with the potential for danger.”

  “Sounds interesting. The dude looks like he can handle himself.”

  “Doesn’t he though?”

  As she remembered their evening, her skin tingled. Sumptuous cuisine by a flame’s amber glow. Conversation flowing with the leisure of decanted wine. The beguiling warmth of a promising first date. Even now, a kiss that lingered.

  “So what do you think, Mag? Weird huh?”

  Her gaze turned toward Travis who was now standing in the kitchen. “What did you say?”

  Travis clanked a dish into the washer. “I was telling you about the domain name on the receipts we found. Wow, where did you go?”

  “I’m sorry.” She picked up her bowl and took it to him. “Start over.”

  “Does Dad have a box at the post office?”

  “No. When I took over the finances, I got a renewal notice for one. It was empty and Daddy rarely left the house, so I let it lapse.”

  “Javier and I checked out the web page for the weird domain name. It’s alive, barely. But, I think maybe he’s got something out there.”

  Maggie slumped against the counter. “Define out there.”

  “Maybe he’s got some files still at the site. It’d be worth checking, don’t you think?”

  “Not if the words ‘accessory to commit a felony’ apply. You’re not supposed to be on a computer. Remember?”

  He hiked up his jammies. “That’s why I’m coming to you. The domain name looked like gibberish, didn’t it?”

  “Mirage Vistas? Yeah, real words, but gibberish.”

  “It was AMirageVistasRight dot com.” His eyes widened as if for emphasis. “Now if you take the words A Mirage Vistas Right and rearrange them, you get three names. Guess what names?”

  “Moe, Larry, and Curly. Or was it Shemp?”

  “Try Maggie, Travis, and Trisha.”

  “Okay. That is out there.”

  “Maggie, don’t you see?”

  “I see that Dad had a thing for anagrams.” She added detergent to the dishwasher. “But I’ll humor you. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m trying to stick to the terms of my probation.”

  “Like chatting on hacker forums?”

  “I need you to access the web-hosting site for the domain name. I want to see what files are there.”

  At least he was honest about it. Even if he ignored her snide remarks. Then again, it was generally wise to ignore snide. “Grab the laptop from the family room.”

  He slapped the dishwasher shut, set the dial to the shortest wash cycle, and disappeared.

  She poured a large glass of water and checked on her father through the window. He sat on the porch with both beagles at his feet. When Travis returned with the computer, Maggie settled into a chair at the table. He eased the laptop onto the surface as if it might contain explosives.

  The machine booted to the beat of Travis’ tapping toe. Maggie opened a browser window. “What’s the name of the hosting site?”

  As she typed, he spelled the name letter-by-letter from one of Dad’s old bills.

  The homepage of the Tesoro Web Hosting contained the usual eye-fatiguing montage of search boxes, menus, and links to confound their newest visitors. They scanned the page for something that might be useful.r />
  Travis pointed to the screen. “Click here. Manage domains.”

  Maggie followed his finger with the cursor and clicked. A login page appeared with two boxes titled Domain and Password. Travis slid a receipt to her. She typed in AMirageVistasRight.com.

  “Any idea on the password?”

  He shot a side-glance at her. “He always used the same one, except at work.”

  “What is it?”

  “MyDishTrish.”

  “Kinda gaggy.” She bobbed her head to the side. “But sweet.” She typed in the letters. “We’re in. Now what?”

  “Go here.” He pointed at the screen to a link. “Domain Manager.”

  She clicked the link. The new screen displayed only one domain name. AMirageVistasRight.com.

  “This is the place.” Travis pulled up a chair and swung a leg over the back. “Now click on this link, File Manager.”

  “What am I looking for now?”

  He pointed at the screen. “Open the files in this folder.”

  She double-clicked the folder, and it opened. It looked like nonsense.

  “It’s compiled. Try the next one.”

  Maggie tried the other three files, but none of them was readable.

  Travis banged a fist on the table. “Why would he go through all this and then leave only the compiled file.”

  “What does that mean, ‘compiled’?”

  “I can only read the files he created when they’re in their original form. The source files. But he put them through a compiler which converts it to bytecode. That’s hexadecimal. It uses only the numbers zero through nine and the letters a through f. It’s intended to be read by the computer.”

  Programming talk always made her temples thump. Can’t you un-compile it?”

  “De-compile.” His lips flattened. “And maybe. But it would take a while, and it could be encrypted for all I know.” He leaned over his knees. “I thought Dad was trying to communicate.”

  “I’m sorry, Trav, but it confirms what we already suspected.” Maggie placed a hand on his knee. “Dad’s past communicating.”