Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  Travis slapped the table with his hand. Great. Another witness blown out of the box. The earlier reports said O’Mara was in the hospital but made it sound like he would recover.

  Guilt nipped at Travis. His first thoughts were of how the news affected his life. A man was dead. Travis knew the pain of losing a loved one. Somebody somewhere grieved the death of O’Mara even if he was a dishonest dirtball.

  If Dad was involved with O’Mara, then Brian Carter from The Rockstag Group figured into the mix. Both Dad and O’Mara were targets for murder. Though Carter may not have been trying to kill Dad, O’Mara was an obvious mark. But why harass a middle-aged man with Alzheimer’s?

  Travis read the newest article. Someone tampered with a box of chocolates by adding strychnine. Wow. O’Mara ate the candy the same day that Kurt Meyers was due for his meeting. Meyers could have bitten it too. Nobody turned down good chocolate.

  The police weren’t ready to make an arrest, but there was no shortage of suspects. Half the country wanted the guy castrated at high noon on Main Street. The other half had never heard of him.

  Travis moved on to the other facets of Patty O’Mara’s life and consumed articles about him until the information was no longer new. Initially, some people bilked of their money figured the charges were a mistake. O’Mara was such a nice man. He’d earned his reputation as a smooth operator who preyed upon the greed and ignorance of investors and relied upon the greed and incompetence of regulators.

  Even though the law required it, no one ever inspected O’Mara’s financials. O’Mara’s many friends within the SEC routinely addressed the concerns of competing hedge fund managers by ignoring their calls for an investigation. A simple audit of his non-existent trades would have blown down his straw house like the first little pig’s. Now forensic accountants slithered through the rubble.

  On Travis’ next search, Vladimir Penniski’s name elicited far fewer hits. Details of the man’s grisly act were written about in hushed tones as if the writers were concerned about drawing his unwanted attention. Penniski was a scary dude. He got out of prison earlier this week, too. Within days, they found the nose-less man behind a dumpster and dead. The article said it might’ve been an overdose. But it sure was disturbing. Travis realized he was touching his nose and dropped his hand.

  While the only known conviction for Vladimir was the nose-biting incident captured for posterity by Troop 328, his name was routinely mentioned alongside known Russian mobsters. The gamut of their illegal operations included bootleg software, discount pharmaceutical websites, Russian brides by email, and international spam networks.

  Electronic thugs. Yet Travis was the one banned from a computer.

  He pushed the laptop away to let his brain rest. A quick glance at the clock confirmed he needed a break after three hours of non-stop reading. Some fuel would also help.

  Travis found his father asleep in front of a television show about Serengeti herd animals. Bailey and Belli snuffled in rhythm on the floor. None of them stirred, but he knew Dad’s stomach would wake him soon.

  He rinsed a couple of potatoes and placed them in the microwave for ten minutes. He checked the fridge, but the chicken was gone. Chili worked. He opened a can and dumped it into a saucepan on the stove to simmer.

  The noise of the microwave must have broken the spell because the beagles ambled into the kitchen only moments before Travis’ father. “The Cisco routers need to be reconfigured before we power up the east wing,” he said and took his seat at the table.

  One by one, the connections in his father’s brain seemed to lose their points of reference like jostled tiles on a Scrabble board. The random statements—as if he still had a job, or to family members long dead—no longer shocked. For Travis, the weird factor had lost its cutting edge. Now it simply left him sad.

  Maybe that’s why his father’s promising comments held such weight. He knew Maggie thought he was just hopeful, and he was. But it was more than that. Kurt Meyers thought so. So did Vladimir Penniski. Though his involvement didn’t offer much comfort. And Patty O’Mara. The Patty O’Mara.

  Then there were Dad’s emails.

  A moist beagle nose pressed into the side of Travis’ knee. Dinner. Right. Everybody was hungry. He scooped some kibble into The Firm’s bowls and washed his hands.

  He ladled bubbling chili over the quartered potatoes still steaming on their plates. He let them cool for a minute before serving them. The pile smelled pretty good.

  In spite of Travis’ attempts at conversation, Dad remained quiet throughout dinner. He kept a steady eating pace but ignored his son. At the end of the meal, he placed his napkin beside the plate, got up, and went out to the porch. He closed the door before the dogs could follow.

  Dad had always been a thoughtful man. Manners counted in their home. Travis knew his father’s behavior was part of the disease, but he felt a little unappreciated since he’d been released. He’d been railroaded into a bogus conviction, served a sentence he didn’t deserve, and yet he still felt like the only one going the distance.

  He tried to shake the thought from his head. Dad couldn’t help his situation. And Maggie. In spite of her attitude, she always busted her butt for the family. For Mom when she was alive. For Dad. For Travis, even when she didn’t believe he was innocent. Maggie had earned the right to be cranky. No, he wasn’t the only one going the distance.

  Self-pity. That was a game Travis didn’t ever want to win.

  He cleaned up the dinner dishes and the kitchen. Again. Seemed like the third time that day.

  While he was doing the domestic routine, a decision hardened. He dropped back to the table and the laptop.

  There were too many blind alleys for him to see down them all. He needed help. The kind of help that came with an alias.

  Travis logged into the hacker forum to send a message to AreEff. With this kind of friend, one he’d only met online, extra words were unnecessary, dangerous. Travis checked the business card to verify his typing. Kurt Meyers, TransAmerica. He guessed at the next name. Fyodor Umanov, Security. For AreEff, any numbers or addresses would only be redundant. He’d find out that and more.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  As he rocked on the porch, Martin Fender heard the throaty whisper of his wife’s voice over the riffle of the waves.

  Come on, Marty, honey. Let’s go for a walk.

  He didn’t let anyone else call him Marty. Not even his mother. Trisha dwelled in a heart-place discovered by no other woman.

  He searched the shoreline for her lithe form and saw the flutter of her skirt in the ambient light of dusk. An ear bent toward her, waiting to hear the slight growl that lilted when she said his name. Life offered few pleasures sweeter than a walk on the beach with his beautiful wife. He leaned forward in his rocking chair and pushed himself up to a stand.

  The cool breeze refreshed him rather than chilled, so he left his jacket on the chair. Following the sway of her hips as she picked along the moist sand, he strolled to the water’s edge and turned north. Her laughter carried on the wind, and he remembered something funny she’d said earlier.

  What was it again?

  A sound rumbled from his stomach, and he wondered what she’d made for dinner. Maybe it was lemon chicken with wild rice. Trisha knew that was his favorite, and he hadn’t eaten anything since morning.

  She cut a meandering diagonal path along the beach toward the road. On the dry part of the beach, sand sprayed the air with each footstep. Martin followed her, calling out her name. She glanced back at him but kept walking.

  He climbed the embankment to the roadway, slipping backward several times. Sand filled his canvas loafers. When he reached the top, he emptied his shoes and looked for her, but she was gone.

  She probably went back to the house. It had to be dinnertime by now. Travis would be up from his nap and need a diaper change. Maggie could handle the job of changing Travis even if she was only nine. But Trish and he didn’t want her to bear the brunt of
the responsibility merely because she could handle it. She was still just a little girl. Kids grew up far too fast these days. Martin headed for home.

  A sedan idled toward him down the dead end of his road. There weren’t any houses this way, only wind-bent trees, tenacious shrubs, and fine sand tumbled by the waves. The car came to a stop, but the headlights high-beamed. He blinked several time and focused on the ocean to clear his sight.

  As Martin neared the car, a man stepped out from the driver’s side. While the bright lights kept the face a mystery, the silhouette was decidedly male. Maybe it was a friend stopping by to play some music. Martin hoped so. With the new baby, visitors didn’t come by as often or stay long even though Trisha tried to make his buddies feel welcome.

  The man smiled at him. Martin smiled in return. Even if he wasn’t a guitar player, the man was friendly.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  After suffering rejection from four more restaurants, Maggie thought a few moments by the surf would refresh her gloomy spirit. She drove to a secluded spot and strolled the shore until past sundown. When her engine refused to turn over, she wasn’t really surprised. Her day was more surreal than Dali’s melted clocks.

  The Fender family budget didn’t stretch far enough to cover a cell phone. She trekked back to the highway and worked up the courage to flag down a passing vehicle. Contrary to her reigning luck, it was a friendly older couple returning from a farmer’s market and not a serial killer.

  While the couple had a cell phone, coverage was poor in the area, so she couldn’t call Travis. The night was a waste. Her feet hurt, her back ached, and her spirit was still gloomy. She and the wife sat in the car while the husband coaxed Maggie’s engine to life.

  By the time she got home, quiet blanketed her neighborhood. Even the usually boisterous sea offered little to breach the silence that greeted her. A light was on inside Fyodor’s house. She chided herself for noticing.

  The Firm met her at the door without barking. They knew the distinctive rattle of her car and assessed her to be friend not foe. Maybe they smelled her. With dogs, who knew?

  Dad was probably asleep by now. Her father often wandered into bed without fanfare. Maggie longed for the days when he sought her out simply to kiss her forehead.

  She followed a light coming from the kitchen and smiled when she saw Travis slumped on the table with his cheek nestled in the crook of his arm. Drool pooled beneath his open mouth. Maybe he OD’d on computer access. He’d gone without for almost a year. Well, he was supposed to, anyway.

  When she laid her purse on the counter, he stirred. “Hey,” she said, to let him know she was in the room. Maggie didn’t want to startle him into a freak-out. Travis hadn’t slept regular hours since he’d returned from prison. Then again, his homecoming had been strange enough to disrupt any healthy patterns.

  He smiled back at her, his mouth stretching to a full yawn. “Arrr. What time is it?” He lay back on the table.

  “After nine. I went for a walk on the beach, and then my stupid car wouldn’t start.”

  “Bummer. How’s the job hunt?”

  “Almost as good as my car.”

  “Oh, hey.” Travis snapped upright in his seat as if by puppeteer control. “You’ve got to see this.”

  “Can I sit?” She pulled out a chair from the table. The dogs sniffed her weary feet.

  “You’re going to need to.” He hit the power button on the computer. “Patty O’Mara is dead.”

  Maggie felt a strange deflation at the news. She didn’t know the man. At best, she thought he was a despicable financial predator who deserved severe punishment. Yet, she hoped he’d pull through his medical emergency. Someone needed good news this week. “Was it a heart attack?”

  “Poison.”

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She sighed. “How? Who?”

  “Strychnine laced chocolate. They don’t know who.”

  “Talk about a waste of good chocolate.”

  “Not funny, Magpie.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I’m wiped.” She pushed her chair away from the table. “I’ll say a prayer for the rest of the O’Mara’s before I collapse.”

  Travis grabbed her wrist. “Stay. I still need to show you something.”

  “What?”

  Travis’ pupils dilated. “Another email. It came in right after dinner.”

  “From Dad?”

  “No. It’s from an investment house in Brussels.”

  “Brussels. In Belgium. What’s it about?”

  “It’s a notice about some new investment opportunities. Some green companies offering stock for sale. It came to an email address at Dad’s weird domain name. The one with all our names in it.”

  Bailey put his head on Maggie knee, and she stroked his face. “Miranda Rights or something.”

  Travis checked the screen. “AMirageVistasRight.com.”

  “Whatever. It sounds like spam.” Even as the words left her mouth, they tasted false. But, her brother didn’t need encouragement. “Did it address him by name?”

  “Sort of. It’s addressed to James Hendricks. Check it out.”

  She peered at the email name. JamesHendricks@AMirageVistasRight.com. Even with the odd spelling, Maggie’s heart panged. Dad told everyone about meeting Jimi Hendrix at the ’67 Monterey Pop Festival. Even she could recite the story by now. Hendrix was his favorite guitarist. Travis’ theory gained steam.

  Her face must’ve given her away. Travis pointed his finger. “You know I’m right. Dad would pick a name just like this. A name that means something to him but not so exact as to look stupid. Like using Cher.”

  “Daddy couldn’t stand Cher. He thought Sonny was the talented one. And the pretty one.” She weighed the evidence. “But so what? An email that might be for Dad from an investment house in Brussels. If it had come through the post office, we’d call it junk mail. People use fake names all the time when they sign up for things. Ginger still gets mail from Omaha Steaks addressed to her dead cat.”

  “Waggles?” He smiled when he said it.

  “C’mon, Trav.” She dropped a shoe and rubbed one of her feet. “We’ve got enough real issues without making up new ones.”

  “Maybe this email isn’t—” Travis whipped his head around as if he heard a noise. “Where’s Dad?”

  “I just got here, remember?”

  “Yeah. Right.” He loosened his posture. “Sorry. I fell asleep.” He pushed back his chair. “Maybe I should check on him.”

  Her spine tingled, leaving Maggie unsettled. She rose to follow him but detoured to the porch. “He’s not outside.” She hustled to Dad’s room.

  Travis cracked the door, breaking the darkness. He reached inside and hit the light switch. Maggie gasped.

  The bed was empty.

  She noted the fear on Travis’ face. “I’ll check our rooms,” she said. “You sweep the downstairs.” He nodded, and she ran for the stairs.

  He rarely came upstairs, anymore. “Daddy?” Maggie bounded the steps two at a time, flipping lights on as she went. She checked the bathroom first, sweeping back the shower curtain to be certain it was empty. The bedrooms were clear, too. Nothing in the closets or under the beds. No Bogeyman. And no Daddy.

  “Travis?” He didn’t answer, but she found him in the kitchen leashing up the dogs. “Did you check everywhere?’

  “He’s not here. The front door was locked but not the back door. I’ve got to go look for him.”

  She grabbed a flashlight from a basket on the counter. “I’m coming with you.” Her breathing heaved as if she’d finished a run.

  “Maggie.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed gently into her flesh. “One of us has to stay here.” His luminous eyes settled on her like a full moon over the roiling sea. “If I’m not back with Dad in ten minutes, you’ve got to call the police.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Travis hung near the wall with Javier while concerned neighbors and police streamed throu
gh his living room. They’d combed the beach for over two hours. Now, it was close to midnight. Even before the police arrived, Mr. Modesto organized a neighborhood search party. Carl Pinkerton stayed home, citing a concern for his safety—someone did try to murder Dad earlier in the week. But everyone else the Fenders knew pitched in to carry a torch. Fyodor Umanov, however, was not at home. That fact agitated Maggie, probably for several reasons. Travis wasn’t sure what to believe.

  “Travis,” Maggie called to him from across the room. Apparently, the police had more questions.

  Javier held out his fist for a bump.

  Travis inhaled as if added oxygen might keep his insides steady. This guy, Sergeant Garcia, appeared genuinely interested in finding Dad. But Travis’ experience with the police had been too one-sided to foster trust.

  Maggie gave him her hurry-up-and-get-your-ass-over-here look, but he needed the moments to regroup. Besides, all the people milling around forced her to a base level of polite. He walked as if it were his last mile.

  He joined their conversation near the patio door. “Sergeant Garcia.”

  “Travis.”

  Maggie’s disapproval worked its way out into a tapping toe.

  He pretended not to notice. “What’s the status of the search?”

  “We’ve cleared the beach a mile in either direction and released your father’s photo to the media. Fortunately, the weather isn’t severe. Do you know if he wore a jacket?”

  “You’re not treating this as a kidnapping?”

  “There’s no evidence that supports the theory at this time. No ransom demand. No forced entry. No sign of struggle. You were asleep at the table when he went missing, correct?”

  Heat flooded Travis’ face. “Yeah.”

  “People with Alzheimer’s routinely wander away from home.” The officer turned to Maggie.