Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  “He who arrives with the bid first, wins,” Kurt said. “Wall Street isn’t really in New York, anymore.”

  Jack stopped in front of more cages. “O’Mara’s computers were in this space before. He had a custom cage that he managed, maybe ten feet square. There was a small desk inside, but I can’t say I ever saw anyone in there.”

  “Did anyone from your facility ever have reason to access it?”

  “With the type of service he had, we only go in by request or for an emergency. Neither of those events occurred while O’Mara was a customer. He’s been the talk of this place, too.”

  Kurt studied the area for a few quiet moments. He didn’t really know what he was looking for. But he rarely did until it was the thing he needed. He stared until the images weren’t things anymore but colors on the palette with defined beginnings and endings. Like one of those pages with no picture apparent until you look past the dizzying pattern to find the pelicans in flight over the crashing waves. But he did this in reverse, capturing every detail in a separate impression, so it would steep in his subconscious. In case it was important.

  From somewhere, a clanking door broke the spell. The cages returned to the forefront. “Patty O’Mara isn’t your only link to the news recently.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Kurt leaned against the cage. “Martin Fender. Didn’t he work here?”

  “Good guy, Martin. I can’t believe someone would try and hurt him. He left a few years ago when his Alzheimer’s became obvious.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough. We had the same duties but worked different shifts. I liked him.” Jack’s brow bunched in concern. “What’s he got to do with O’Mara?”

  “I didn’t say he did. But I’m paid to ask questions, so I ask as many as I can.” The answer seemed to satisfy Jack. “Did you know his son, Travis?”

  “Sure. He often hung out with his father on weekends, occasionally after school. Security was less strict in those days.”

  “Was he really a computer whiz like the prosecution said at his trial?”

  “The kid was a quick study. No doubt.” Jack checked the phone at his hip. “We were stunned when he was arrested.”

  “Nice kid?”

  “Oh yeah. But he had it pretty rough. His mom died of some horrible disease that atrophies the muscles. And you know about his dad. That’s enough to send any kid over the edge.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe prison. If not, he lives with his father and a half-sister who is in charge of them both. Maggie’s her name.”

  Kurt pushed off from the cage. “Can I get their address from you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Maggie spent a sleepless night with every house creak amplifying her fears. Was it a bough scraping the roof or a Russian assassin wielding a twelve-inch dagger? By dawn, she abandoned the game of name-that-noise, dressed for cool weather, and wandered downstairs for her purse.

  Sergeant Garcia met Maggie in the lobby of the Half Moon Bay Police Department while she thumbed through a public safety brochure. She dropped it on the table when she saw him. It didn’t contain any advice for dispelling her paranoia.

  “Ms. Fender.”

  “Thank you for meeting me.” She thrust her hand out to him. His hand was large, warm, and kept her own from shaking. “I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Is this related to your father’s case?”

  “My brother’s. My father’s. I don’t know anymore.”

  “C’mon, let’s talk back here.” He led her past the reception booth and down the hall to what was probably their break room. He poured coffee into a thick paper cup. “Coffee?”

  “Please.” Maggie folded out the two sides of the handle while he poured another cup for himself. The friendly smell put her more at ease.

  He led her across the hall to a conference room with a glass wall and closed the door.

  “Tell me what’s got you so worried?”

  She closed her hands around the cup. Suddenly she felt foolish for coming to the police. What was there to tell? “I’m not sure where to begin. I recently left a job at a restaurant, and one of my former co-workers said that two men came in looking for me. I don’t know these men.” The heat from the coffee made her hands sweat.

  “Did they eat at the restaurant?”

  “Yes.” Maggie took a sip and put the cup down.

  “So they were diners. Why were they looking for you?”

  “They said I’d been their waitress before, but I’ve never served them before.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They had Russian accents. I would have remembered that.”

  Sergeant Garcia sipped his coffee. A brown bead hung from his mustache. “How long did you work there?”

  “Over a year.”

  “And you remember every customer.”

  This was turning into an interrogation. “I remember all the Russian ones. There were zero.” She should have stayed home.

  “What do you think they really wanted?”

  “I don’t know, but my neighbor said there were some Russian men down the street pointing at my house.” That sounded stupid, and now she wasn’t sure if she should mention Fyodor. She took a gulp of coffee. The caffeine helped her nerves. “And someone keeps calling the house and asking for my father.”

  The sergeant looked perplexed.

  “He hasn’t used the phone in over a year. The caller won’t leave a name or hangs up.”

  “Perhaps it’s a telemarketer.”

  Or Peter. But, again, she had no proof.

  “Has there been any other activity?”

  “Brian Carter’s wife has been to my house twice this week.”

  “His wife.” Finally, the officer appeared interested. “What happened?”

  Maggie’s empty stomach gurgled. “She attacked my brother because she thought he was the one who killed her husband.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “The woman was a train wreck, crying hysterically about her husband. She didn’t hurt Travis. We felt sorry for her.” None of this was making sense to Maggie. Why did she think the police would care? “She finally calmed down and left.”

  “Why did she come back the second time?”

  “Her husband lied on the stand when my brother was convicted. Barbara knows it. She now believes her husband set up my brother for the hacking charge.” Maggie watched a young black officer peer into their room as he passed in the hall. “She plans to tell the police the truth.”

  “You know we don’t have any jurisdiction in that case even if it were still open.”

  Maggie dropped her head into her hands. “Yes. I know.” She hadn’t even gotten to the part about Brian Carter and all the cash he used to have. She wondered if dear Barbara would share that news with the police or the IRS.

  “Ms. Fender. I understand this has been a very difficult time for you.” He must have rehearsed this tone of voice to prevent her from knowing he thought she was a loon. “As you know, we’re still investigating the Brian Carter case.”

  She knew. The Fender family reputation stretched her credibility with the police to a snap. Travis was convinced this snarled knot of weirdness contained a single thread. But Sergeant Garcia met her family exactly five days ago when her father crawled out of a bush with a bloody knife and her brother still reeked of prison.

  Looked bad. And yet, both of them were innocent.

  “If you want to file charges against Ms. Carter, you can. But the Russian diners—”

  Diners. Just a couple of nice guys out for a meal. She was the only one in her family who’d never been arrested, and the police still didn’t take her seriously. This was going nowhere. She pushed away the coffee cup and grabbed her purse.

  “—haven’t broken any laws. If they do—” He held out a business card. “If they do, call me, and I promise I’ll do whatever I can for you.”


  She took the card from him and rose to a stand. “Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate your meeting me.” Pissing off this guy wouldn’t help even if it had been a supreme waste of time.

  He tried to walk with her, but she kept several paces ahead of him until he gave up at the lobby door. The receptionist ignored her as she tossed the business card on the table with the safety pamphlets. She kept walking until she hit sunlight.

  Her car occupied the last space under a row of cypress, and it started after a great complaint of black smoke. She half expected someone to run out and give her a ticket. Her vehicle registration renewal notice arrived in the mail the week before. There was no way this belching pig was going to pass smog.

  Maggie putted straight to her road but pulled over to the side before reaching her house to see if anyone was watching it. Everyone could. And lately there’d been plenty to see. Her house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac with a section of road ending past her house near the trailhead. Since it was the only one directly on the beach, most of the others faced hers. Fyodor’s. That spandexed twit, Carl Pinkerton. The Modesto’s apartments. The trail brought biker, hiker, and dog owner from near and far past her house. Any of them could be the Russian diners.

  Russian diners. The cop had her saying it now. Maybe some of this was her imagination.

  She drove home and parked, pretending to be too busy to look around on her way in the door. She didn’t want to know if Fyodor—or anyone—was watching. All she wanted was some breakfast, coffee, and quiet thoughts that didn’t come with self-doubt.

  When she went inside, The Firm trotted over to greet her with wagging tails. She fell to her knees and draped her arms around Bailey and Belli. Their snorts of greeting and the warmth of their fur against her cheeks let her soak up some of their calm.

  Dogs barked when there was trouble. Why was she worried?

  Travis and her father were still in bed, but Maggie set a full pot of coffee on to brew. She found some just-add-water pancake mix and syrup while the skillet heated. Her computer was still on the kitchen counter from the night before. She hit the power button with the end of a wooden spoon.

  Last night, she’d promised Travis pancakes for breakfast after grilling him with driver’s ed questions. He could easily ace the DMV test. Then the real test began, finding the money for the rest of his training. Maybe they gave a special discount to juvenile ex-felons.

  The oil she dripped into the skillet sizzled on impact. She poured batter in the shape of a heart and left it to brown. Her computer beeped from the counter.

  She entered her password and grabbed a few plates from the cabinet. These days, even pancakes counted as a home-cooked meal. She flipped the heart onto the other side for a few seconds and then onto a plate. The heart didn’t taste too bad with syrup.

  After she’d completed another heart, a duck, and Mickey Mouse, Travis came downstairs. Trisha always made pancakes in silly shapes. He smiled when he nipped off Mickey’s ear.

  The breakfast ritual almost seemed normal. She decided not to tell him she’d been to the police station. Besides, the trip hadn’t amounted to anything of value.

  While she and Travis cleared the dishes, her father sauntered out with a beagle escort. He came into the kitchen and stopped in front of them as if he had an announcement. Maggie kissed his cheek and returned to the dishes.

  Travis said, “Good morning, Pop. Can I get you some milk?”

  He didn’t answer today but sat down at the table rubbing his stone even smoother. Travis took a full glass to him.

  Travis drifted over to her laptop while she continued the clean-up. The terms of his probation included leaving computers alone, but even with a guilty verdict, he wasn’t a threat. She made a quick note to call the useless attorney who represented Travis and the prosecutor who sent her brother to prison. Not your typical to-do list.

  The frantic tapping sound made her turn around. Travis was banging on her keyboard. “Hey. What are you doing with—”

  “He answered.” Her brother’s face blanched to a ghastly white.

  Maggie’s stomach made a freefall. “What? Who answered?”

  “He did.” Travis looked at their father who was sipping his milk. “Dad sent us an email.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Back in his office, Kurt searched for a map of the Fender’s neighborhood on his computer. Their modest home sat squarely on the beach at Half Moon Bay. A sleepy, seaside burg, Half Moon Bay missed much of the state’s urban growth. While the area contained ample natural splendors, the people who clubbed, raved, or lost their superpowers when exposed to sunlight partied elsewhere. He wondered if the foggy, coastal lifestyle suited Maggie Fender.

  After running their names through an exhaustive online search service, Stephanie compiled a dossier on the Fenders. In spite of the judges’ intent to mask Travis’ identity, the newspaper photos from his trial showed the three of them. Travis, Margaret—aka Maggie, and their father, Martin. Their lost expressions leaving the courtroom after Travis’ conviction reminded Kurt of people returning to Earth after UFO abductions. Not that he’d seen any in real life.

  Kurt didn’t know how this family fit into his investigation. Travis, a kid, in spite of his size and prison record. Martin, non compos mentis and only pushing sixty. Maggie, young, lovely, and legal guardian of her menfolk. Such circumstances shattered most girls’ dreams.

  He clicked on the map view of her neighborhood and hit the print button. The drive would be quicker by I-280, but he never missed an opportunity to cruise Hwy. 1, especially in his new car. Now he really wished he’d gotten the stick shift.

  The map showed only a narrow view of the coastline, so he zoomed out. Nothing happened. When he jiggled the mouse, the cursor on his monitor didn’t budge. He turned over the wireless mouse. It glowed with infrared light, so he knew it didn’t need batteries. He clacked on the keyboard, but nothing on the screen changed.

  He rolled his chair back and leaned under his desk to pull out his computer case. The keyboard connection seemed a little loose, so he reseated it. But why did the USB connector have an extension?

  Kurt unplugged the keyboard from the computer case, the cord dropping to the carpet underneath the desk. He reeled in the cord. A black USB extension connector nested into the USB connector wired to his keyboard. An extension was redundant. He yanked it off the cord. Why was it here?

  While he defined the specifications, Stephanie directed the computer installation when they took this space. She’d come highly recommended by someone Kurt respected—and was sharp—but other than these few weeks together, she was still a stranger.

  Acid bubbled up his esophagus. He buzzed her desk. “I need to see you in here.”

  “Right-o.” Her voice almost sounded cheery.

  He palmed the unit and sat on the edge of his desk. Her knock came quickly, and she breezed into the room wearing zebra-print overalls that stopped at her knees. “You missed me?”

  Kurt showed her the device. “Do you know what this is?”

  Stephanie seemed to detect his irritation but ignored it. “Yeah, it looks like a USB flash drive.” She picked it up and looked at the other end. “But why does it have a connector on both ends?”

  “I found it plugged into my computer at the end of my keyboard cord.”

  “Oh, shit. It’s a keylogger.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “Someone’s bugged your computer, dude.” She dashed out of the room.

  Kurt followed her back to her desk. She had the same computer set up as he did, but she pulled a notebook computer from her satchel. She woke the CPU from a nap and plugged in the USB connector.

  He was close to puking. “Stephanie, my office is always locked. You’re the only one who had access.”

  Her lips gathered to a smirk. “And you know I didn’t do this.”

  She was right. He knew.

  “I’m going to forgive you because I know this sucks, and your gut has got to be c
hurning. You can buy me flowers later. Check this out.”

  Her computer recognized the USB connector as the F: drive. The file manager showed two files on the drive: log.txt and config.txt. Stephanie opened the config.txt file. It listed commands to some type of computer program, including a password, a switch that indicated the keylogger was working, a ‘mail to’ statement with an email address at a free account, and a wi-fi access key.

  “Someone’s sending emails of everything you type to this address.” She adjusted a flaming pink barrette on her head. “I hope you haven’t been naughty.”

  He steadied himself on the desk. She pushed the chair toward him, and he fell into it.

  Kurt laid his head on the desk. Everything he knew or suspected about this case, someone else did too. The keylogger captured every search, every lead, every keystroke and sent it in an email to someone spying on him. But who? And what in the hell was he going to tell Spencer Thornton?

  An icy bottle of water slid into his hands. “You’re welcome.”

  The lid slipped in his grasp. “We need to check the other computers.”

  “I already did. Yours is the only one hit.” She picked up the phone and pushed buttons. “This is Stephanie on forty-one. We need some face time with you up here, right now.” She tap-tapped a combat boot. “Thank you.”

  Kurt took a swig of the water. The liquid helped loosen the grip this disaster had on his clear thinking. “I’m sorry, and thank you.”

  “The building manager is on her way. Employees can access the suites by cardkey only. If someone came in here, there will be a record of it. Maybe even video.”

  He took a deep breath and raked the hair from his brow.

  “You look even paler than my Goth friends.” Stephanie drummed her nails. “Any idea who did this?”

  “You’ve seen the list of people O’Mara screwed. Every one of them is a suspect.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it.” Anger revived his determination. “I don’t want the building manager to know what happened.” He yanked the keylogger from the side of the machine. “We’re not lodging a complaint. I just want a list of names and dates of any access by building employees. Make up something if you need to. The last thing I need is more press.”