by Helen Hanson
His reply hit her back. “When did you go to the police?”
“This morning. I talked to Sergeant Garcia. He’s the one who took Dad to the police station. There’s nothing they can do. Not until he breaks the law. Or my legs.”
“That’s not funny, Maggie.”
She whirled around. “Do you see me laughing? I don’t know what the hell to do.”
Still restless from the excitement of a visitor, the dogs circled her feet. “I’m taking The Firm out for a walk.” She led them into the briny wind and jogged down to the water.
It was all too much. Taking care of Daddy. Travis. Kurt Meyers dropping in out of nowhere. The Russian mob. Emails from a ghost.
Maybe this was what it felt like to be swallowed whole by the sea. The ebb tide lapped the wet sand. She thought about walking and walking and walking until the land beneath her gave way to relief.
She picked up some broken shells and threw them at the surf. The shallow waves drove forward in relentless parallel lines. She aimed at the third row and missed.
Travis came outside but kept his distance. The dogs seemed confused about which person to join. Bailey and Belli took turns with each of them, splitting their alliance as if trying to mend the schism.
Maggie sat down on the wet sand from where the water had receded. The moisture seeped through her sweats and chilled her bottom. She dug her feet in as far as she could and let the cool sand settle between her toes. Travis dropped down beside her.
“Hey, remember me?” His voice was strained. “You’re not doing this alone, you know.”
Sand crumbled from her fist. “It feels that way sometimes.”
“We have to consider it. Dad might have been involved with Patty O’Mara.”
The words sounded too foreign to be real. “C’mon, Travis. Look around. Dad has a couple of nice guitars, a tired, old house that we can thank God is on the beach, but that’s it.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the delinquent mortgage. “We’re not secretly related to royalty.”
“I found an obituary notice with the receipts in Dad’s safe deposit box.”
Was he even listening to her?
“The obituary was for an investigator from the SEC.”
“The SEC?”
“Daryl Betts. He wiped out on his motorcycle about the time Mom died. He was probably investigating the O’Mara fund.”
“The news said the SEC never investigated O’Mara.”
“Dad clipped the man’s obituary for a reason. Maybe Dad was watching the guy to see if he got close. Just wait. Remember, Mag, there are more emails coming.”
Her ache ruptured. Poor Travis. He loved his father like a stalwart knight serving his liege. Pure. Reverent. Resolute.
But there was no treasure in the keep. Her father’s magic wasn’t Merlin’s. He made an email appear. So what? He didn’t have a second act, and her stupid kid brother refused to see it.
Maggie wanted to cry, to give in until the tears leached the fatigue and pain from her marrow. She daubed her eye with a bent wrist. But it was all just wasted emotion.
“Keep me posted on that.” She stood and dusted off the soggy sand. “You want to use the computer? Have at it. I need to find a job.”
She trudged toward the house, breathing deeply to loosen the thickness in her chest. Bailey and Belli stayed with Travis. She didn’t blame them. Apparently, their range of scents included despair.
It floored her that Travis remained hopeful. When did they turn into their respective mothers? But she turned into her loser mother while Travis got to be Trisha. Another cosmic deal for Maggie that royally sucked.
She thought she saw her father sitting on the porch, but The Firm would have scampered to his side. Maybe it was a hit man. At the moment, the idea didn’t strike her as all downside.
“Maggie.” She recognized Fyodor’s voice when he called and his solid figure when he rose. Perhaps she was right about the hit man. The idea instantly lost all appeal.
It was too late to avoid him without running. “Fyodor. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you. Did you get my message?”
“I did.” An older couple strolled nearby with a pair of Shih Tzus. At least this murder would have witnesses. “Didn’t you get mine?”
She detected a flash of heat in his reaction. “Did something happen? I thought you enjoyed dinner. I did.”
“It was fun because I didn’t know who you were.”
His feigned hurt was a nice touch. Man, this guy was good.
“And who do you think I am?” He stood in front of her door.
Maggie thought about saying ‘Frodo’ and even giggled at the absurdity. But it sounded mean, and even if he was a lying weasel hit man, she wouldn’t stoop to name calling. Not yet.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go inside now.”
She took a step forward expecting him to back off. Instead, he leaned in, wrapped his hand around hers, and spoke in low, soothing tones. “But, Maggie—”
Her hand jerked away as if from electrical shock. “Get away from me.”
The couple on the beach took notice of the commotion. Fyodor stepped back. His face showed confusion, but Maggie was tired of head games.
Her chest rose and fell with each breath. “You’ve met my father. You know he’s not lucid. How could you?”
“How could I what?”
She gathered strength. “My father is a kind, decent, loving man. If you come near me again, I’ll call the police. Do I make myself clear?”
The couple with the Shih Tzus watched them. Travis approached from the beach at a run.
“Perfectly, Ms. Fender.” Fyodor stepped off the porch and strode away.
Maggie slipped inside and was bent over with her head between her knees when she heard Travis arrive.
“Are you all right?”
The incident left her in tremors. The warmth of Travis’ hand on her shoulder made her feel more stable. She stretched upright. “He’s got some nerve coming here.”
“It’s so weird. He seemed like such a nice guy.”
She pulled her t-shirt away from her skin. “Serial killers always seem nice.”
“Maybe you should just hang out the rest of today.” His eyes bunched between the brows.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been going at it every day, Maggie. Take a day off. We could play a game or something.”
Fifteen years old. His worry lines worried her. He didn’t understand that if she stopped, she might not start up again. Besides, she’d already taken a night off with Fyodor. And that turned out well.
“I can’t. I need to change.” She checked the clock. “Then head out to look for a job.”
Travis sunk into a chair. Her bad humor was spreading like a virus.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Can you feed Dad?”
“Sure.” He looked up at her. “Were you joking about the computer? Can I use it?”
Her head fell to the side. “Do you really think Dad knows anything about that missing money?”
“Even if he doesn’t, other people already think he does. Shouldn’t we be prepared?”
The risk of his parole officer finding out was minimal. And he was innocent. “Trav, I’m going to look for work. If you want to chase this rabbit, be my guest. Just take care of Dad and don’t do anything stupid.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Kurt entered the exclusive watering hole and saw Spencer Thornton’s stylish frame draped over a stool at the opposite end of the granite bar. He wanted the drink more than the meeting, but Spencer had insisted on a personal update. It gave him respite from the media’s klieg light, and Kurt heard they poured a damn-tidy Manhattan.
“Spencer.” Kurt slid into the chair beside him. Spencer dipped a raw sugar cane stick into something the color of cranberry.
“Quite a day for the market.” He stared at the ticker running on the quiet TV panel above the shelves of brand-n
ame liquor. “Down eight hundred before they ended the slaughter.”
Perhaps it was. Kurt didn’t watch the markets. He had a broker for that. But that same blind reliance had probably doomed the clients of Patty O’Mara.
The approaching blond, male bartender wore black slacks, snow-white tuxedo shirt, and the brocade vest of a riverboat gambler. Kurt half expected to see the ace of clubs fall from his sleeve.
“May I get you a drink, sir?”
“Manhattan.”
The bartender prepared the drink with flourish, flipping the Irish crystal in the air before filling it with Canadian whisky, French vermouth, an Italian cherry, and a splash of Caribbean bitters. Even the name—Manhattan—originated from the Lenape tribe. The global experience was fabulously refreshing. Kurt refrained from downing the thing in one weary gulp.
“So where the hell are we with the investigation?”
“If O’Mara lives, I expect to get another interview. He’s still in ICU. Rumors say he was poisoned.”
“I’m not paying you for rumors.” Spencer slurred the word rumors and settled back in his seat, giving an indication of how long he’d been at the bar. The Manhattan held less bitter.
“True.” Kurt finished his drink and motioned to the bartender for another. “I’ve got someone at the hospital trying to confirm it.” Paying the tab entitled Spencer Thornton to all of his resources, effort, and cunning. But he refused to confide in a drunk.
And what did he really know at this point? The Fenders were involved somehow with Patty O’Mara’s money. The kid, Travis—the news came as no surprise to him. He squirmed like a forkful of oyster. But his sister, Maggie, she was the cool one—with a face like Mount Rushmore. Perfect for no-limit poker.
In spite of the summons to the bar, Spencer didn’t seem to want to talk. Kurt had never seen him like this. Maybe the stock drop cost him several digits past thousands. The soiree at the Fairmont cost over a hundred grand. Spencer’s phone message to meet at the bar bordered on frantic.
Kurt could relate. Vladimir had clocked his every move. He felt exposed. Violated. He understood why rape victims sometimes kept quiet and dreamed of revenge.
That bastard knew everything he did. The Rockstag Group. The Fenders. Silicon Valley Server Farm. Even his connection to Samantha. None of it was certain—least of all Samantha—but it was all he had. Spencer didn’t even have that.
Kurt threw him a bone. “I’ve got some leads. I’m checking out the facility where O’Mara kept his servers. No stone unturned. The manager said—”
“Turn it up.” Spencer Thornton came alive, barking at the bartender. “Turn up the TV.”
—from the Stanford Medical Center has just announced that Patty O’Mara was pronounced dead at 4:32 p.m. this afternoon—
Kurt’s belly dropped to his bowels.
Spencer’s glass shattered on the floor spraying the room with cranberry-colored liquid.
—official cause of death was cyanide poisoning. Yesterday morning, Mr. O’Mara received an expected delivery of chocolate truffles from the Burgoyne Chocolat Company of Walnut Creek, California. The maid received the package from the Fed-Ex driver and placed it in Patty O’Mara’s study.
Two young men got in the camera shot behind the Hispanic reporter at Stanford Medical Center.
Witnesses inside the home said that O’Mara opened the box of chocolates in preparation for his guest, noted investigator, Kurt Meyers. O’Mara ate only one piece of chocolate before the effects of the poison caused his eventual demise. The maid found him unconscious on the floor and called an ambulance.
An older couple and more kids joined the spectators behind the news lady. Word was out about O’Mara.
Police are questioning the household staff, but there have been no arrests. Meyers was on the property when the paramedics arrived and was questioned by police. He has not responded to our request for an interview. There may be some tonight who consider O’Mara’s death-by-chocolate sweet revenge, but for Patty O’Mara’s family and any investors hoping for restitution, his death can only be a major blow. Back to you, Dirk.
“Shit.” Spencer’s mouth hung open as he looked at Kurt. “Do you eat chocolates?”
“I would have.” Kurt liked chocolate as much as the next guy, but he would’ve eaten live frog legs to gain O’Mara’s trust. Truffles. No problem.
“That could have been you instead of O’Mara. Or with him.” Spencer nodded at the bartender. “Another round.”
Kurt hadn’t finished his last drink, but the idea of another round worked. It might help his shaking hand. He balled it into a fist.
“You think it was Vladimir Penniski?” Spencer suddenly seemed sober.
“Vladimir had a few million reasons to kill O’Mara. And actually doing it wouldn’t be a problem for him. He has the compassion of a tarantula.” Kurt knew that Vladimir’s current plans didn’t include killing O’Mara. “Torture him, yes. Kill him, not yet. But someone beat him to it.”
“And almost took you with him.”
He really wished Spencer would quit with the reminders.
“I’ll be back.” Even lit up as he was, Spencer walked like a Kentucky show horse. He disappeared around the corner near the bathrooms.
The killing made no sense. Not for Vladimir. But who?
A muffled ringtone sounded with the vibration of his cell phone. Kurt fished it from a pocket.
“Did you hear?” Stephanie spoke in full animation. He finished off his second Manhattan.
“I did. So much for my interview.”
“Are you okay?”
“I really wanted to meet with him.”
“I mean about the chocolates. You came close, you know.”
He gripped the edge of the bar. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Whoever did it should have waited until O’Mara was in jail.”
Another one with a spider’s sympathy. “Some might appreciate him saving the taxpayer’s money.”
“Then that would be the only money he’s saved.”
She had a point. “Was O’Mara the only reason you called?”
“The reason. Not the only. Vonda Creevy called. She wanted to know if you’d gotten anywhere with the stuff she lent you.”
Vonda Creevy provided the original lead to The Rockstag Group. So many tangents to this curve. O’Mara. The Fenders. Brian Carter. Did any of them really connect?
“Do you remember the invitation O’Mara sent her for The Rockstag Group party in Napa?”
“It’s on the list in front of me.” Stephanie kept a mean list.
“Contact the CEO of The Rockstag Group. Throw my name around if it helps. See if you can find out exactly who attended that party.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Yuri drove while Anton loaded the silent Pistolet Sptsialnyj Samozaryadnyj with all six rounds. This particular PSS was almost a legend. During the Cold War, a KGB colonel fired it at a lieutenant general attempting to steal speculative plans from Lubyanka for a second invasion of Afghanistan. As the lieutenant general ran, the bullet hit the base of his skull from ten meters away. His skull splattered against the walls of the toy store next door to KGB headquarters, Detsky Mir. Children’s World. For his heroic deed, the colonel earned the Zolotaja Zvezda—the Soviet Gold Star. Anton acquired the automatic pistol from his uncle who killed the celebrated colonel during a robbery in Novocherkassk.
Anton holstered the pistol under his jacket. His phone rang. “Da.”
The man’s voice was familiar. “Did you hear?”
“It is unfortunate. We wanted to spend quality time with Mr. O’Mara. Now that’s not possible. Where is the girl?”
“Out looking for work again.”
“You keep clear of her,” Anton said. “And the kid. We just want the old man.”
“He’ll be easy. He’s outside half the time.” The man sounded confident.
“That’s what Brian Carter thought. Don’t underestimate him.”
> “Carter was idiot. But I may need to get rid of the dogs first.”
“What are you planning?” Anton pointed to the intersection, indicating a left turn for Yuri.
“Tranquilizers. Enough to make them sleepy and unconcerned. I don’t want to arouse suspicion when the old man turns up missing.”
“Exactly. Alzheimer patients wander off every day,” Anton said. “What’s one more?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Travis stayed in the kitchen and out of Maggie’s way as she scurried around the house getting ready for another job hunt. The kitchen ceiling shook from her clomping upstairs. He swept the floor and mopped up the water around the dogs’ bowls.
Maggie appeared in all black with her blonde hair ponytailed down her back. Clean, pressed, stressed. The smile barely convinced.
She twirled in front of him. “No toilet paper sticking out anywhere?”
“You look fine. And a lot better than you will by the time you get home.”
“True. But thanks for pointing that out.” She peered into the family room. “How’s Daddy?”
“He’s watching some nature show about Emperor Penguins with Bailey and Belli. I’m not sure which of them is more interested.”
She slid her purse off the counter and dug inside until she found her keys. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”
“I know the drill,” Travis said.
“Make sure Dad takes his—”
“I know the drill, Magpie. I know all the drills.”
“Sorry.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
Maggie exchanged a few quick words with Dad before finishing her goodbye tour. Even with the television on in the next room, the house took on a distinct quiet after Maggie shut the front door. Travis pushed the power button on the laptop and sat at the table.
He checked the email account again but found nothing new. Catch a wave, son. There’s a big one coming. The words echoed in his chest. Whatever Dad meant, it hadn’t yet hit the beach.
When he entered the name Patty O’Mara, the search engine returned thousands of items. Scorned investors. Indignant regulators. Legal speculation. Late breaking news. O’Mara Dead From Strychnine Poisoning.
