by Helen Hanson
By now, media outlets from around the bay had dispatched camera-worthy talking heads to speculate on the commotion at Patty O’Mara’s house. They didn’t know exactly why. But it was huge.
Even though Kurt was an attorney, he called his attorney to discuss the situation. They agreed that it was best to answer any questions asked of him. While the news of his appointment with O’Mara would vibrate around the world, for Kurt, not meeting O’Mara was the ultimate anti-climax. Like finding out a hot date didn’t believe in personal hygiene.
While the Woodside police contained the crime scene, officers from the San Mateo County Sheriff’s department were en route. Kurt stayed by his car, far from the people hauling out an oxygen-assisted O’Mara on a gurney. His phone rumbled in his breast pocket. Samantha Merrick. Her plane was probably on the ground, and he knew what she wanted. News. In spite of being on site when this hit the shredder, he had more questions than when he’d arrived.
“Kurt Meyers.”
“I’m hearing reports that make me very unhappy,” Samantha said. “What’s happened?’
“O’Mara stopped breathing. He’s on oxygen and surrounded by the police and EMTs.”
“Were you with him?”
“No chance.” Kurt sat in his car to dampen the noise. “I spoke with him on the intercom at the gate. By the time I made it to the house an ambulance showed up to collect him.”
“It’s either a long road in, or you still drive like a stoner. Is he alive?”
“As far as I know. They’re hustling him out right now. And, yes, the road was long.” Kurt moved the seat back as far as it would go. “How did you hear about this?”
“The FBI will be there soon.” Samantha paused. Maybe she could hear the sirens fire up. “I got a call from the agent in charge of O’Mara’s case. They put a bird in the air with a team from their San Francisco office, so they must suspect something.”
“The guy had a long list of enemies.”
“Any idea why he wanted to meet you?”
“No.” He watched the ambulance pick up speed down the driveway.
“Are you free for dinner?”
The thought should have occurred to him. “Absolutely. Where are you staying?”
“I’m at the Courtyard on the wharf.”
“Can I pick you up at about seven?”
“Sounds great, but do you think they’ll let you out by then?”
“I have nothing to tell them and witnesses inside to corroborate it. Even with traffic, I’ll be back by seven.” With the ambulance gone, one of the police officers turned her attention to Kurt. “I need to have a chat with a lady in blue. See you later.”
Over the next four hours, Kurt replayed the same message to no less than five officers, detectives, and the agents who finally landed. Yes, he was invited to the house by Patty O’Mara. No, he didn’t know the reason. Yes, he did speak briefly on the intercom with Patty. No, he never entered the house. Even the petite, brunette officer from Woodside seemed sorry for him by the time they finished.
The lead FBI agent, however, was an Asian-looking woman on intimate terms with a weight bench. Veins in her forearms snaked upward from her wrist to lie in wait above her pink shirtsleeve. She didn’t feel sorry for him. And because he hadn’t contacted their office when O’Mara called him, she wanted a piece of his hide. Almost as tall as Kurt, he thought she might be tough enough to take it.
But he’d spent enough time impaled on this lady’s skewer. He knew his rights, had been polite, and they had no legitimate reason to detain him. This interview was over.
“Once again, Agent Markham, I fully intended to make the details of my conversation with Mr. O’Mara available to the Bureau if they were relevant to the case. But as I have stated, repeatedly, I did not have a chance to speak with him in any substantive way. Other witnesses have undoubtedly confirmed this. Now, I’m done. If you want any other interviews—” He handed her a business card. “Call my attorney.” She took the card and a few more notes, though on what, Kurt couldn’t imagine.
If the feds were going to do anything stupid, he’d given them sufficient time to do it. Kurt ambled away from the uniforms, climbed back in his Audi, and adjusted the seat. A man with no concerns, he made a point to drive even slower on his way to the gate.
The police manned a checkpoint about fifty yards from the exit and a frothing media pack. Kurt counted seven vans, five cars, and one helicopter whipping the airspace overhead. He stopped and briefly spoke with an officer before they allowed him to continue. It was difficult to hear the man over the din of media speculation.
He rolled up his window. Cameras took aim. Talking heads thrust microphones at the closed window and shouted at him to satisfy their need to know and fill a twenty-four hour news cycle. When the Audi cleared the last reporter, he sped away. Even if he was over the limit, there weren’t any cops left to bust him.
Traffic flowed until he got within three miles of the city. Still half an hour before he promised to pick up Samantha, it moved, but not quickly enough for his mood. A call from Stephanie presented a welcome diversion.
“You look handsome on T.V. Drab, but handsome. You need some sparkle. My stylist could help your hair. Maybe a pizzazzy green streak.”
“What are they saying about O’Mara?”
“That the Patty wagon took him on a ride. Your meeting with him, however, is the number one tweet topic. You’ve got your own hashtag. #MeyersMeet. You’ve gone viral, dude.”
Great. He hoped there was a cure. “Any speculation about his condition?”
“There’s never a shortage of speculation. The hashtag for that is #PattyMeltDown. No one has any real information from what I see.”
“Facts only get in the way of speculation.”
“Your voicemail is loaded with messages from TV show producers. They all want you. News shows, late-night, morning talk, afternoon talk. Even court TV.”
“I’ll pass.”
“And Spencer Thornton wants you to call.”
No doubt he did. Kurt checked the clock on the dash. “Dedicated you are, but why are you still at work?”
“I’m neither dedicated nor at work. I’m well-paid, thank you, and currently naked in a dressing room.”
“Sorry.” He meant it.
“Me, too. I’m a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding. The dress is tie-dyed though. At least she didn’t pick something ugly.”
“Right.”
“I checked on that kid, Travis Fender, the hacker. Before his father’s Alzheimer’s became obvious, he was a manager at the Silicon Valley Server Farm where O’Mara housed his servers. His father’s name is Martin Fender. You might want to ask Jack Scarson about it tomorrow during your meeting.”
A tingle lit Kurt’s spine. Coincidence and Santa. He didn’t believe in either one.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Travis stuffed the urge to panic. It wasn’t manly. Fyodor probably knew lots of Russians.
Even if Javier’s description matched the guys asking about Maggie at the restaurant, panic was an unreliable fuel. Besides, Maggie looked as if she was already stuffing that same urge, a single nudge away from total freak-out.
“I can finish dinner.” Travis said, “If you want to take a shower or something. We can talk about this after dinner.”
The offer seemed to hit her like a shock wave. “I will. Thanks.”
He knew his sister was tired and scared, but he’d never seen her this close to a snap.
She drifted out of the kitchen while Dad sipped his milk at the table.
Travis punched in the speed dial number for Ginger. She answered after two rings.
“Hello.”
“Ginger, it’s Travis. You busy?’
“Not too busy for you, darling. What do you need?”
“Can you come over? Maggie’s out on the ledge.”
“Oh, dear. Be right there.”
Travis hung up the phone. He loaded the gumbo in the microwave and jumped
into some regular clothes before Ginger arrived. He greeted her at the back door, bending down to kiss the top of her head.
“Thanks for coming. Maggie’s in the shower. You up for gumbo?”
“Another time. What’s the latest?” The beagles scampered at the hem of Ginger’s straw skirt as she strode into the kitchen.
“Some Russians came to the restaurant looking for Maggie.”
“Hang on a sec.” She walked over to Dad at the table and placed her hand on his. “Hi, Martin. It’s Ginger. How are you today?”
His face met hers, but he quickly returned to his milk.
She picked up a tug-of-war rope and dangled it in front of the dogs. “Okay, what Russians?”
Travis replayed the events for Ginger while the dogs strained to win the game. With her low center-of-gravity, even the dogs couldn’t topple her.
“So nothing concrete, but more weird like the rest of your week.”
“Exactly.” The timer for the rice beeped.
“I haven’t seen any visitors at Fyodor’s house, except that woman on the day he arrived. Maggie said that was his sister. But my door is further from the street. I don’t see as much. What’s doing with Maggie?”
“She’s Atlas. All on her shoulders and ready to shrug.” He turned off the stove. “I don’t blame her. I’m just worried.”
Ginger rubbed his shoulder. “Maggie will be fine. We’ll see to that. How about you?”
Maggie did the mothering thing badly but not Ginger. Maybe he’d called her for himself as much as for his sister. When his mom was dying, there were times he just couldn’t take watching her waste away. He’d go to Javier’s too, but he didn’t have to share Ginger. She let him hang out at her place. They’d listen to music or make island food until he was ready to deal with it again. Forty-eight and no kids, she exuded calm. Like Javier’s mom but without the fuss of smooth edges.
He stood taller. “I’m all right.”
The doorbell rang. Dogs barked and scampered.
“You finish dinner. I’ll get it.” Ginger toddled toward the door with the dogs at her heels. “Or I won’t. It depends on who I find.”
Travis ladled some rice and gumbo into a bowl. He took it to Dad’s place at the table. Dad grabbed a spoon and fed himself. Travis wondered what part of the brain remembered to eat.
They usually ate together, but voices wafted in from the hallway and dissipated Travis’ appetite. Ginger’s voice seemed louder and higher as she spoke. Whoever it was, Ginger wasn’t buying.
He heard Maggie’s voice but nothing after that. Then the two women returned to the kitchen with Barbara Carter. The last of his hunger vanished.
Barbara walked in the middle of the single file, reminding Travis of the Cumberton guards escorting prisoners. He had a hard time nailing the age of adults. But she looked even older than last time. Maybe as old as thirty.
Barbara’s face carried lines of grief and guilt and worry and fear. Maggie looked sad. But Ginger was fuming.
He noticed that Barbara had on a black dress. With her auburn hair and fair coloring, it made her look sickly. Today was probably her husband’s funeral. It could have been his father’s instead.
She rubbed her hands together as if they itched. “May I speak with you, Travis?”
Not alone. Maggie and Ginger moved in a way that let him know they were all-for-one. He swiped at his bangs, realizing he had the ladle. He placed it on the counter. “Sure.”
Ginger led them into the family room. Travis trailed the pack. At almost his height and another twenty pounds, he’d forgotten what a big woman Barbara was. The light hit her dress, revealing water spots on her chest. He guessed it was from crying.
Maggie sat on the couch, and Barbara perched beside her. Ginger took a post by the wall. Travis didn’t think it would be polite to remain standing. Not when he needed her help.
“Thanks for letting me come in. I buried my Brian today.” She wiped her nose with a frilly handkerchief. “I’m supposed to be at the family collation right now. That’s what they call the party after the funeral, a collation. I guess party sounds too fun. You learn some strange things when someone dies.”
Travis pulled a chair close to her. “Was there something you wanted to tell us?” Bailey wandered over and laid his head on Travis’ knee.
“I’m so sorry he threatened your father. I still don’t know why he did that. Brian was a good husband to me.” She tugged at the hem of her skirt. “But he wasn’t an honest man.”
As Travis rubbed the dog’s head, his breathing stammered. “In what way?”
“For a couple of years, he’d been receiving money from someplace. I don’t know where. He said it was from a side business. Brian was always trying to work another deal, and he managed the finances, so I just assumed that was true. But the kind of money he was spending on us and the kids—I knew it seemed suspicious.” She dabbed an eye. “I guess I’m no better than he was.”
Maggie leaned forward. “What does this have to do with my brother?”
Barbara put her hand to her brow as if shielding from the light. “Kingphisher. My husband used the name Kingphisher online.”
Travis tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. “How long have you known?”
“I knew when I came here last time.” Her body sagged onto itself. “I’m sorry.”
He thought she might faint.
“But I swear, I didn’t know it had anything to do with your trial.”
He’d envisioned his moment of vindication many times since his arrest. He knew it would happen. Somehow, someday, someway. He hoped to get this reprieve before wasting half a year of his life at Cumberton. But hope didn’t calm the sea. Now this woman, his accuser’s wife, finally brought him the news. And all he could think about was how his sister would finally believe him. Losing that burden lifted him like a kite caught in a thermal.
Maggie’s posture told him she was sorry. Ginger still seemed ticked.
He felt his jaw muscles pop. “I appreciate your telling me this. How did you find out?”
“Brian had computers all over the house. He always had an online business of some sort. And he frequented forums.” Barbara stopped. She seemed to need it to replenish her nerve.
“What kind of forums?” The dog lay down on his feet.
“Computer forums. I didn’t know at first. He used a particular laptop for this activity and kept a close eye on it. I could tell he didn’t want me to know, so it concerned me. You know, like he had another woman.” She huffed a pent exhale. “I checked his computer one time when he left the room. He was logged in with the name Kingphisher.”
He nodded, almost manically, he thought. “Do you still have that computer?”
“No. I’ve looked around the house for it since I was here last. I haven’t seen it in a long time.” Barbara dropped her handkerchief. “Not since before the trial.”
Maggie fell back against the couch cushion, her face losing color. Travis pressed on. “Do you remember the name of the forum?”
“It had the word ‘hat’ in it. Does that help?”
FastHats.com. The forum used in his defense. “It does, ma’am.” He tried to keep his cool. “What was your husband doing at the site?” He glanced at Maggie and Ginger.
“He was trying to hire someone for a job.” Barbara’s head wobbled. “I know now, it was probably you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The living room felt too small to contain the mass of Maggie’s remorse. Over a year now, Travis had lived under her condemnation. She tried to treat him decently, in spite of his actions that had put their family through torture. He was still a kid. She didn’t remind him of the damage he’d wreaked on the family. Not every second. For six of those months he’d been conveniently locked in prison. But his guilt and the cost extracted from their family swung over their every conversation like a hangman’s noose.
All this time, he was innocent.
Dear, God. Would he ever forgi
ve her?
Barbara babbled on about her dead husband with no regard for the pain he’d inflicted. The bastard dropped Travis in jail and tried to kill Daddy. Blood rushed to Maggie’s head. She was ready for another go-round with this broad, but Ginger’s gaze pinned her to the couch.
“What about the money?” Travis’ voice soothed even Maggie. “You said he came into some money, but then it stopped.”
“He told me it was from his online businesses. But he always had cash, lots of it. People use credit cards for online purchases. I knew something wasn’t right.”
“Where do you think he got it?”
Barbara picked up her handkerchief from the floor and folded her arms about her. “All I have are suspicions.”
Maggie observed the exchange between Travis and this woman. The intensity of Travis’ attention seemed to hold her suspended. Neither one of them acknowledged that there were others in the room. He questioned her with a proficiency unmatched by his incompetent attorney at the trial. Maybe the difference was simple. The attorney didn’t believe he was innocent.
“Why do you think your husband came here that night?”
Barbara’s brown eyes flickered around the room. “Even before the trial, his behavior had become more erratic. Odd phone calls. Meetings at night.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I thought it was another woman. I even followed him. He never went anywhere but work or to my cousin’s house. And Brian was well-groomed by nature, but during this time, he quit caring about his appearance. So it wasn’t a woman.” Her breath shuddered. “The night he ended up here, he told me he was going to my cousin’s. He seemed upset about something.” She twisted the handkerchief around her left pinkie. “Could he have gotten that money from your father?”
Maggie’s heart thumped so loudly, she thought the others might hear it. She studied Travis’ face to see his reaction and to keep a grip on her own. But the kid had game. The only change she detected was a snort, like a bull after the matador snapped his cape.
