by Helen Hanson
Furtive glances ricocheted around the room, but Barbara continued. “I know it’s not possible, but I don’t know what else to think. All that money. He must have had a partner.”
“I’m sorry.” Travis covered her hand with his, but his foot kept dancing. “We don’t know any more about this than you do. Unfortunately, neither your husband nor our Dad can tell us.”
Her mouth trembled. “I guess they can’t.”
“What about my brother?” Maggie finally found her voice. She spoke softly to keep from screaming. “He was falsely accused of malicious hacking and spent six months of his life in prison. He’s fifteen years old.”
Barbara winced at the words, but she was complicit in her husband’s deceit. She could have intervened and saved Travis from a horrendous ordeal, saved Maggie’s family the stress and expense, and maybe even saved her husband’s life. Only Dad’s fate would have been unaffected.
“I’m sorry. I plan to tell the authorities about Brian. I don’t know what good it will do, but I will tell them what I know.” Barbara stood. “I must get back. They’ll be wondering where I went.”
Travis walked her out while Maggie and Ginger gaped in silence.
When he came back in the room, Ginger left. Maggie wasn’t certain where she’d gone until she heard the front door close a second time.
“Trav—” She turned away. His eyes reminded her too much of Trisha’s, the way they pierced Maggie’s soul when she did something to disappoint.
“I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. You told me you were innocent, and I didn’t believe you. I don’t know why, either. Shit.” The tears came in spite of her. “All you wanted was your family to believe you and stand beside you. I didn’t. I’m a bitch. And I’m sorry. I hope someday you can forgive me.”
She sank into the couch and gripped the cushion. Her face rubbed into the stained plaid. It smelled of salt and beagle and regret.
The couch moved beside her. She sat up and drew an arm across her brow. Maggie was shrouded in pain, but Travis had suffered the worst injury.
“I’m relieved, Magpie, more than you know. I’m glad this thing isn’t between us anymore.” He lifted her chin. “But, you never stopped being my sister. You stood by me at the trial and did everything you could to help me get acquitted. You visited me in prison, even when you thought I was guilty. Yeah, you nagged me, but you would have done that anyway.”
Maggie tried to raise a smile.
“Losing Mom. Dad slipping away like he is, my trial was another bummer load. You’ve had to carry it alone. It was tough for me, but I wouldn’t have traded places with you. Not even when Baby Bruce wanted to teach me the tango.”
Travis never talked about his time inside, but his lopsided grin told her it was a joke. Maggie punched his shoulder and wrapped him in a tight squeeze like a lonely mama python. She pushed her face into his shoulder and wept.
“I love you, Trav. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
“I will if you let me breathe.”
“Okay.” She grabbed his head with both hands, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m done.”
“I love you, too.” He stood. “C’mon, let’s eat.”
She wiped her eyes in the crook of her arm. “We’ll go over your driving paperwork, too. How about right after dinner? I’m hungry.”
They headed for the kitchen.
“My conviction and this thing with Dad and Brian Carter and the money. Somehow, it’s all related. Dad’s hiding something that Brian wanted.”
She knew he had insight. If he were a girl they’d call it intuition, but that didn’t mean he was right. Not this time. Dad’s ramblings were just that.
The doorbell rang again. The intimates of her life rarely used the doorbell. And the others, well, she wasn’t in the mood for any more of them.
“I’m not answering it,” Maggie said. But she wanted to see who was on her porch.
She tiptoed into the hall and down to the foyer. The peephole gave her a fish-eyed view of Fyodor. Handsome or not, he sure as hell wasn’t getting inside.
Maybe she should call the police. She’d meant to ask Ginger about that mess, but the next one came along too quickly. Police usually like concrete threats, something more than odd questions and suspicion.
Ironically, Fyodor would probably know what to do if he and his friends weren’t the ones giving her the creeps. And if he really was the guy he said he was, personal security types excelled in the world of anonymous danger.
The bell rang again. Maggie scurried back to the kitchen, grabbed the cordless phone, and resumed her post at the peephole. Hoping he’d left his cell phone at home, she called his number. His ringtone played loud enough for her to hear it inside her house. Yeah, he had it with him. She squinted through the lens again and figured she’d hang up when he answered. But he bent his head to the device and came up smiling.
Caller ID. He knew it was her calling.
Her heart spiked a beat. Ha. Voice mail. She waited for the invitational beep and scurried away from the door.
“Fyodor, it’s Maggie. Thanks for dinner the other night, but I’ll pass on the second date. I really don’t see this going anywhere, and I wouldn’t want to mislead you. I’m sure you understand. Goodbye.”
Pushing the off button was most satisfying.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The young masseuse rubbing Vladimir Penniski’s back reminded him of a woman from his youth. Valeska. Back when the wielder of both hammer and sickle insisted on renaming the beautiful city Leningrad, Vladimir met the alluring Valeska while working at a small brewery in St. Petersburg. Their torrid affair started after a company party celebrating International Workers’ Day, and she gave Vladimir the excuse he wanted to break his engagement to the pregnant Yevgeniya. When food rationing came to a starving St. Petersburg, his plans to enter business did not impress the ambitious Valeska. She left him to marry a mid-level city diplomat in charge of food rations. Five years later, Vladimir noted the irony of her excessive weight when she died in a hit-and-run. The driver was never apprehended.
Vladimir kept an office on the 42nd floor of a condominium tower near the Embarcadero and Folsom in which the entire eastern half of the building was glass. His designer retained the open kitchen and bar from the original floor plan but replaced walls for one of the bedrooms with columns. They positioned his massive ebony desk in the main dining area so that he could view the full glory of the San Francisco Bay.
He’d purchased the space before he left for San Quentin, knowing the confinement would not appeal to his artistic sensibilities. Watching the ships motor in the harbor while the young woman kneaded his buttocks brought him good cheer. Plus, he could now look down on his former captors at the north end of the bay.
Vladimir checked the clock on the wall. “You’re done.”
The masseuse wiped the remaining oil from his backside and helped him into a sitting position. She brought over a thick robe and held it open for him. She collected her oils and body rocks, packing them into her case. Sex wasn’t part of their arrangement. But he knew from the way that she touched him, as with the lovely Valeska, the young lady had her price.
The chime at the door announced Anton and Yuri’s arrival, and he dismissed her with a grunt. As she left Vladimir’s office, she passed the brothers. Yuri whispered something to her that made her giggle.
“Have you seen the news?” Anton sat on the arm of an oversized chair.
“He isn’t dead,” Vladimir said. He paced along the glass wall.
“You sure?”
“We have people inside. He was poisoned, cyanide in his chocolate truffles. It may have cured his sweet tooth. Turn on the TV.”
Yuri grabbed the remote from the coffee table and lit up 9,600 square inches of the western wall with cable news.
The cleft-chinned man on the scene at Stanford Hospital was appropriately dour for the occasion.
—from the Director of Communications at Stanford Hospi
tal, quote, ‘We will neither confirm nor deny the assertion that Mr. O’Mara is currently under our care. Every patient, even a person of notoriety such as Mr. O’Mara, has the right to expect our undivided attention to his medical needs and our strictest confidence regarding his privacy. Thank you.’ End quote.
As the statement indicates, they won’t confirm the persistent rumors that an unconscious Patty O’Mara was brought to Stanford Hospital for emergency medical treatment this afternoon. As I reported earlier, we spoke with eyewitnesses who confirmed that an ambulance left the O’Mara residence today at 11:17 a.m. and entered Stanford Hospital approximately ten minutes later. We’ll continue to monitor the situation here at Stanford Hospital. Back to you, Robin.
The camera cut to a woman in the studio with a helmet of short, brown hair.
Thanks, Jason. We—
“Mute.” Vladimir said. “He’s alive. Sucking air from a bottle, but alive. The feds are taking turns emptying his bedpan. We can’t get near him.”
“Kurt Meyers didn’t get near him either.” Anton crossed his leg at the knee.
Vladimir took a banana from the kitchen counter. “Perhaps O’Mara will want to arrange another meeting. Once he can.”
“What do you want us to do with Meyers?”
“Keep watching him. The keylogger on his computer has proven quite useful.” He peeled the banana and nipped off the end. “He may keep the pen.”
“He’s going to the Silicon Valley Server Farm tomorrow for meeting with Jack Scarson. Same man we met.”
“So we’re a step ahead of him, Anton. That is good. What else have you found out about the senile guy, Fender?”
“Nothing, new. I think we should bring him in and let him sweat.”
“Yuri, sound, please.” Vladimir took another bite.
—with Samantha Merrick, outside the SEC investigator’s hotel in San Francisco. Ms. Merrick, what is the status of Patty O’Mara?
Vladimir understood Samantha Merrick’s obvious annoyance. The honey-skinned woman shoving the microphone in his face was not polite. But the investigator clearly enjoyed the camera.
Mr. O’Mara remains under house arrest as we continue our investigation. Even at this juncture, our case is solid and growing. We expect a swift conviction. Unless Mr. O’Mara wants to confess and save the people the expense of a trial. Samantha Merrick flashed a genuine smile at the reporter. We’d also appreciate locating the missing funds. The reporter with the mike responded as if speaking to a smart-ass teenager. Ma’am, you do know he was rushed to the hospital today. I was referring to his medical status. What is his current physical condition?
Then you should have asked his physician. Samantha Merrick left the reporter on the sidewalk staring into the camera.
“Mute,” Vladimir said. “Where were we?”
“Fender.” Yuri used up his quota of words for the day.
“You want to sweat a guy with no memory.”
Anton rocked his neck from side to side as if trying to loosen a crick. “We don’t know his real condition. Forgetting may be more convenient for him than remembering. Maybe he thinks it is safer.”
Anton looked as dense as mortar, but his thinking surprised everyone. Vladimir considered the possibility. “No, we don’t know his real condition. You may be right. How long is he supposed to have had Alzheimer’s?”
“A couple of years. Most people don’t slip away that quickly.”
“Most people don’t warrant our careful attention.” Vladimir strode into the kitchen and opened a drawer to the trash compactor. He dropped the peel. “Have the boys bring him in tomorrow night, Anton. Then you and Yuri can ask him some questions. He’ll be ready to answer by then.”
Anton didn’t smile at the news. Vladimir knew it didn’t bring him any pleasure.
“I don’t want the old man to be able to identify anyone, in case his memory works.”
“You got it boss.”
“And don’t let them get carried away.”
“No.” Anton said, “Yuri, sound.”
—and in another part of the city—
Vladimir hurried to the television.
—police have identified the dead man as Barney Reid, a local import dealer. Mr. Reid’s body was found this afternoon behind a dumpster in the Tenderloin district. A woman walking her dog said the animal veered off their usual path and brought her to the local businessman’s body. Preliminary reports indicate that he may have died of a drug overdose. But police said that a full autopsy will be conducted.”
“Mute.” Vladimir suppressed a grin.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kurt understood Jack Scarson’s reluctance to escort him around the Silicon Valley Server Farm without approval from one of the owners. A customer was one thing, but a private investigator was another. Kurt’s reputation put him in a different league than Sam Spade, J. J. Gittes, or Jim Rockford— more in the circle of a Hercule Poirot—but still, a private dick with no legal authority. Jack nattered on about the facility while he waited for a return call to either grant permission for the tour or politely request Kurt to leave the premises.
He had picked up Samantha Merrick the night before, but the quiet dinner he imagined became an interrogation. And not just from Samantha. The lead FBI agent called her and passed questions to Kurt until their appetizers arrived. Then Spencer Thornton showed up to continue the grilling through dessert and a round of port. When Kurt arrived home, the media swarmed his building, so he took refuge with an honest martini in a North Beach bar and listened to jazz. Samantha was leaving in the morning, and he didn’t even like jazz.
“Good news.” Jack Scarson swiveled in his chair. “Or bad news, really.” The smile on his face wavered as if he couldn’t decide on the proper emotion. “The tour and interview are approved because one of the owners has a relative who lost money with Patty O’Mara. That’s the bad news. Apparently, you are to be extended every courtesy.” The smile returned.
Kurt stood alongside Jack.
“What did you want to see today?”
“O’Mara’s computers. The area he kept them. Is it still intact?”
Jack put his hands on his hips. “The feds removed everything, and we’ve reconfigured the space for other customers since then.”
“Show me, anyway.”
They walked through the lobby to the other side of the building. Jack laid his cardkey on the reader and gained access into the man-trap. After Kurt stepped inside, the door behind them closed. While the machine read Jack’s fingerprints, Kurt realized his shoes were sticking to the floor. Beneath him, a bright white sheet of sticky material collected the debris from the bottom of his shoes. Many footprints bore witness to prior entrants.
“You’ll be stepping on those throughout the facility. It keeps dirt from entering the data center.”
When they made it through the second door, the temperature was noticeably cooler.
Jack laughed. “I’m ready to give you my usual pitch, here. But you’re not a potential customer.”
“Please, tell me what you would tell any visitor. If I have questions, I’ll let you know.”
“Fair enough. We have redundant cooling systems to keep the temperature at an ambient seventy degrees Fahrenheit. The servers put off an enormous amount of heat. Excessive heat can make them unreliable.”
They walked up a ramp lined with the sticky mats. The closer they got to the top, the fainter the footprints.
“I should get some of these for my house,” Kurt said.
“My wife says the same thing.”
“So why did we walk up?”
“Thirty-inch raised floor. Each section is an access panel to a city’s worth of wiring underneath, plus the plenum space to keep the air in constant circulation.”
“No shortage of wiring overhead either.”
As they walked through the aisles of server cages, Jack pointed to the ceiling. “We have miles of conduit in here. Our business is all about connectivity—to intern
et backbones, to power sources, to the financial exchanges, all at the speed of light. And with enough redundancy in systems to ensure that even a lonely little server in the corner is always up and running.”
With row after row of metal structures, the data center reminded Kurt of a locker room minus the odor of ancient sweat. The cages were about his height, but made of wire mesh to allow airflow over the computer server boxes mounted on racks inside. He pointed to the cage in front of him. “What’s in this one?”
“Computers. Functionally, these boxes aren’t much different than the computer you use in your office, but these are in standard case sizes, so we can attach them to a nineteen-inch rack. They take up less space that way. And these don’t all need a monitor and keyboard.” Jack pointed to a stack of metal cases each the size of a large pizza box. “These are what we call 1U servers. Each server box takes up one unit of vertical rack space. These look like our boxes, but we rent them, sell them, or you bring your own in, and we keep them supplied with electricity and internet access.”
“Who are your customers?”
“They come from across the globe. Some programmer in Botswana could rent a server here and never set foot in the place.”
“Does that happen often?”
“From Botswana?” Jack laughed. “No. But we have many customers that order services online and manage them remotely. Not all of course, but many do.”
“Tell me more about the financial exchange access. Did Patty O’Mara subscribe to these services?”
“Absolutely. It’s likely the reason he placed his servers here. This is a hot area for data center growth. Demand is booming. The days of sweaty guys in suits screaming and running numbers on the exchange floor are over. Now it’s about shaving nanoseconds off the time it takes to trade. Any delay, or latency in high-frequency trading will cost you money. It’s all about the speed of your feed.”
