Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  “Scarson’s should be the third one from here,” Travis said. “The driveway’s empty. Slow down a little when you cruise by, so I can check it out.”

  Maggie’s gaze never strayed from the house. It was a single-story stucco with an attached garage on the left and a protruding room on the right. In between, a porch formed around the recessed front door. Overgrown junipers lined the façade and partially obscured the windows. The house looked dark. “It’s 1016. No car though.” She said, “At least we can return the GPS tracker to the spy shop.”

  “I didn’t see a name on the house, but that’s probably it. Drive to the next street. We can park there.”

  She counted houses to the intersection, turned right at the next two streets, and counted houses again until they were parallel with 1016 Cypress Lane. She parked in the darkest spot she could find. The other cars along the roadside made her feel less conspicuous.

  Travis let out a long breath. “I need to make sure this is Scarson’s house. I’m going over the fences. Hopefully, I won’t have to dig through too much trash to find some proof. That’s a disgusting job even with gloves.”

  “Have you got a flashlight?”

  “An LED jobber. Should be fine.”

  “I’ll walk back the way we came and wait for you at the fence by the garage,” Maggie said. “That’s probably where he keeps the trashcans. I didn’t see any out front when we drove by. If it’s not his house, hop the fence, and we’ll walk back to the car. If it is his—” Her hand started to tremor. “—then we find a way to break in.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Travis listened at the fence for any hint of a dog. Anxiety blistered his nerves. While he was fond of critters, dropping down on one in a strange yard rivaled suicide. Then again, any self-respecting canine would have been yapping at him by now. He put his hands on top of the wooden fence and hoisted himself up and over. He landed on thick grass.

  The small backyard served as a playground for some kid. Travis passed a soccer ball as he edged along the house’s sidewall. Curtains blocked the light from the windows and the rear sliding door. He heard sounds coming from inside. Television, maybe. He stole along the fence line, pulled himself up the rear fence, and lowered into the back yard of 1016 Cypress Lane.

  Though the place didn’t look occupied, there was a light on inside, somewhere. Travis sneaked to the back door. Most of these houses had some kind of activity going inside at this time of night, but the Scarson house was quiet. He peered around the curtain’s edge. Nothing moved.

  The wind was mild but rustled leaves with each passing breeze. He crept to the right side of the house and found the trashcans against the garage wall. The six-foot fence protected him from the eyes of any neighbor while he rifled through Scarson’s refuse. He found the light in his hip bag. He opened the blue recycling bin and stuck his arm all the way in before flipping the switch.

  Travis moved corrugated boxes to uncover the smaller items below. Just what he’d hoped for. Snail-mail spam. He leaned in up to his armpit and came back with a fistful of evidence. This was the house that Jack built.

  Still not evidence that Jack Scarson kidnapped Dad, but it sure felt right. Travis filtered through the bins to see if any items could confirm those suspicions. But it was all just trash.

  The fence by the garage where he was supposed to meet Maggie was mostly gate. It was a short length, maybe eight feet, from the garage to the property line. Lighting there was nonexistent. He walked over and whispered, “Magpie.”

  “I’m here.” She was barely audible. “Is this it?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to work the back door. See what you can do with the front. If you hear an alarm, run.”

  “Gee, I hope I don’t forget that part.”

  “Going now.” He wandered off without waiting for a reply.

  The rear door and two windows were the only access points from the backside of Scarson’s house. Travis checked the windows first. Sometimes people left these unlocked, but neither budged. He figured his best bet was the sliding glass door anyway. The locks on these were rarely adequate if they had a lock at all. Most people still relied on the simple latch that came with the thing, and maybe they laid a dowel in the track.

  As expected, he spied only a dowel in the track for protection. Too short to do any good. He’d learned this from Javier’s dad. All their apartments had sliding glass doors to the allotted patios. With a dowel this short, it would take him two minutes tops to rock the door out of the track and enter the house.

  Maggie and he took the precaution of wearing latex gloves. Now, they not only kept his fingerprints off the local most-wanted list, they gave him better grip on the glass. He couldn’t let the door drop after he got it out of the track. That kind of noise would rile dogs as far as Alameda County.

  Travis tucked the flashlight in the hip bag and applied his full attention to the glass-door problem. He squatted to use his legs in lifting the heavy door from the frame. Inside, the curtain moved. A face stared at him. His heartbeat crashed. Microseconds expanded. He was rooted in terror.

  Until his sister smiled.

  Realization flooded him with a warmth that made him nauseous. His brain felt buoyant as if it needed a tether. He hung his head between his knees to regain some of the blood that had drained.

  “Are you all right?”

  He heard Maggie’s voice, but it thumped against his eardrums. She guided him inside and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry, Trav. I thought you saw me.”

  “I did.” But only after he’d experienced cardiac arrest. He leaned against the glass while his pulse slowed down to that of a second-place thoroughbred. “How did you get in so fast?”

  “I jiggled the lock with the fish scaler from my Swiss Army knife. I don’t get people. What’s the good of a deadbolt if you don’t use it?”

  “Works for me.” Travis stood. “I’m leaving the back door unlocked in case anyone shows up.”

  “I’ll be out of here so fast. All they’ll see is back and buns.” Maggie repositioned the Oakland Raiders cap over her hair. Must’ve been the adrenaline. In spite of the trash talk, she looked fearless.

  They’d discussed the division of labor on the drive over. Travis had business at Jack Scarson’s computer, but he sincerely hoped for a laptop. Maggie’s main job was paper. Sift through any documents that might be of value. It was hard to say what that might be in advance.

  A quick recon of the house told them two adults lived here. She, of the kitchen and tidy work area, named Lydia, and Jack, who kept an entire bedroom as his office.

  Lydia’s computer was on a modular workstation by the kitchen with a knick-knack menagerie on the shelf above it. While the computer booted, Maggie searched the drawers.

  A tidy series of trays offered office supplies for every contingency. The lady also scrapbooked. When did that become a verb? Part domestic goddess, her knick-knacks didn’t even need dusting.

  Maggie moved on to the computer. Apparently Scarson’s wife worked as a paralegal for a commercial real estate company. Maggie found copies of leasing agreements for office buildings and warehouse space. Lydia served on a committee to preserve architecturally significant buildings around Silicon Valley. Photos, recipes, committee letters. It was a bust.

  Maggie went into the back room with Travis but stayed silent so they could concentrate. Her initial fear in coming to Scarson’s house was overwhelming, but now, the curiosity factor kept it oddly in check. She had to find out. Was this guy really holding her father for ransom?

  If Scarson came home now, he’d enter from either the garage or the front door. This office was cut off from both exits. They might hear a car first before they had to run.

  She forced new thoughts to her mind. The papers. That was her job. The papers. Scarson’s files weren’t colorful and didn’t have designer themes, but they were still orderly. With third-cut tabs and block-print labels, she wandered through the documents of Jack Scarson’s li
fe.

  She zeroed in on bills, statements, tax records. He generally got a refund, used to own a bit of property, and made just over six figures. His mortgage was two months behind, and he’d accumulated over $40,000 in credit card debt. His bank records went back several years. No deposits corresponded to the withdrawals her father had made. Maybe Jack Scarson wasn’t getting money from her father like Brian Carter. Or maybe he kept it as cash. Hell. No one was sure Dad was even paying Carter. Maggie took notes on anything that might be relevant.

  Travis looked like he was in a trance. The clock ticked to 10:32. They’d been here a while already. How much time did he need?

  She rifled the papers. A bank statement from over two years ago showed withdrawals in $9,000 chunks. She wrote down the details, but—

  What was that?

  Travis looked up at her. A car. Maggie didn’t want to look outside. She needed each second to replace the files. He nodded as if he knew.

  The last file drawer closed when she heard the garage door rumble.

  “Go.” Travis told her. “I’m almost done.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  “Now, Maggie. Don’t argue.”

  She hesitated but jetted from the room and out the rear door.

  The dark smothered her in fear. She left the back door open, so he’d have more time to escape. If someone came after her, she might have a little trouble going over the fence, but—

  The garage door rattled down again as Travis slipped around the curtain to the outside. Her stomach fluttered. He slid the door shut and grabbed her by the sleeve. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Good idea. She prayed she didn’t faint.

  Chapter Sixty

  Kurt arrived at the office with a speedy new laptop wedged under his arm. He’d bought it on his way home the night before but doubted it was as nice as the one Stephanie selected. She’d already gone beyond-the-call by delivering the paperwork to Travis Fender. Kurt didn’t want to add to her workload by asking her to buy yet another computer. Besides, if that kid had any idea where O’Mara’s money was parked, Kurt wanted him rolling on the fastest wheels possible.

  He dropped his electronic bundle on the desk and stepped out long enough to start a pot of French Roast. While the coffee brewed, he unboxed his new electronic ride and listened to the motor hum. This computer wasn’t the fastest, but as a user, he wasn’t exactly Formula 1 class either.

  The outer door opened, and he heard Stephanie call, “Good morning.” He pushed back his chair and decided to join her.

  “Morning.” He pointed to a coffee cup. “Want some?”

  “Please.” Stephanie’s dress was purple with short sleeves and scraped the floor as she walked.

  He poured two cups. She held a file in her hand.

  “I need to review the guest list with you for The Rockstag Group party. I forgot about it after meeting Travis Fender. You didn’t tell me he was gorgeous.”

  Kurt scowled. “He’s fifteen.”

  Stephanie seemed to consider the number. “Okay. Jailbait.”

  “It’s comforting to know you have limits.”

  She followed Kurt into his office, staring at the new computer as if formulating a question, and then sat in the chair across from him. “I made some calls last night.”

  “About the guest list?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who the hell answered your call on a Sunday night?”

  “Barry Martinez, the CEO.” She sipped her coffee. “The dude lost ten million. He was happy to talk to me.”

  Kurt chuckled. “I’ll bet he was. Sorry, go ahead.”

  They heard the outer door open, and two voices joined in conversation. Part of Stephanie’s team reporting for duty. She closed the door to a crack and continued. “You asked me about Brian Carter. Turns out, he was at the party. Not all the employees were on the list. Only the C-level guys were on the list, but everyone with a manager title and above got an invite. Martinez sent me an email of the employees he remembered seeing at the party.”

  “Nice work.”

  “I’m not done. I noticed the number of pages in his original fax were off. There’s another page worth of names we haven’t seen. His assistant emailed a copy to my house this morning. That’s why I’m late.”

  Kurt knew where Stephanie was headed. One of the names was important. He hated playing guess-who. “Who?”

  “Jack Scarson. The manager of the Silicon Valley Server Farm. You met with him.”

  “I sure did. Martin Fender’s co-worker and then replacement. A guest of The Rockstag Group. That’s a lot of lightning strikes around one man.” He reached for his cup.

  “Still not done.” She laid the page in front of Kurt as he took a sip. “Jack Scarson was invited to the party by Brian Carter.”

  Hot coffee gulped down his throat, burning his larynx en route to his windpipe.

  Stephanie handed him a wad of tissues while he caught his breath. “You all right?”

  He coughed out the words. “How are they connected?”

  She gave him a moment to regroup. “Quasi-family. I didn’t want to appear too interested when I called Martinez’ assistant. That’s all I know at the moment. But I’m still working on it.”

  Kurt struggled for a clean breath. He felt like he swallowed a sponge.

  “I’ve got to get the crew moving.” She stood. “ You sound like you need an iron lung. Can I get you anything?”

  “No.” He tried to put some air in his voice. “I’m fine. Great work, Steph.”

  The guest list folder was on his desk when she left the room.

  Jack Scarson was related to Brian Carter—the man who tried to kill Martin Fender. Scarson hadn’t mention that little detail when they met at the Server Farm. What did he say? Oh yeah.

  I can’t believe someone would try and hurt him.

  Someone. Someone Scarson knew personally. Why would Scarson hide that information?

  Kurt wondered if the police had spoken to Jack Scarson about the attack on Martin Fender. If Scarson and Carter were close, the police might find that link interesting. They would want to understand Brian Carter’s motive for attacking a middle-aged man with Alzheimer’s, a man now missing.

  Kurt’s brain gyrated on the possibilities. Patty O’Mara’s investment servers were located at the facility. Now a fifteen-year old kid might control forty billion dollars. What did Scarson and Carter know about all that?

  A sharp knock at Kurt’s door broke the spell.

  “Come in.”

  Stephanie’s pink-streak entered first. “Messenger service at the door with a package for you.”

  “Can’t you sign for it?”

  “My signature won’t do.”

  He hated interruptions during a brainstorm. Deep concentration fired up his neural network, sparked the electrical flow, and set his synapses on red alert. The luminous intensity dropped by orders of magnitude.

  Genius maximus interruptus.

  “Oh. And bring some I.D.”

  “I.D.” Kurt smacked the desk with the bottom of his fist. “Damn it. Are you serious?”

  Stephanie shrugged and left the room.

  Hell, even for a legal summons, the person’s verbal acknowledgement was good enough. He groped inside his jacket for his wallet and stomped to their small lobby.

  “Are you Mr. Kurt Meyers?” The messenger was a black man in his twenties wearing a pointy bike helmet, a Timbuk2 bag across his chest, and red spandex from corded neck to chiseled calves.

  “Yes, I’m Kurt Meyers.” He handed over his driver’s license. “Is all this really necessary?”

  “My apologies for the pomp.” The messenger scrutinized the card and checked it against Kurt’s face before returning. “The client wanted verification before delivering this package.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  The young man smiled. “I don’t know. Sign here, please.”

  Odd. Kurt signed an electronic pad while the young man
pulled an oversized envelope from his messenger bag.

  There were only two words for the address. Kurt Meyers.

  He handed the messenger a ten.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Kurt wandered back to his office with the envelope. Must be from an investor. He instructed them to direct any mail to this address. But why all the fanfare?

  He sat at his chair and inspected the envelope. The writer used a thick marker to write Kurt’s name in all capitals across the front. Tape secured the flap along the back. He slit the tape with a penknife and lifted the tines of the metal clasp. No glue. The flap opened easily.

  When Kurt pulled out the contents, he gasped.

  At the top of the first page he read—From the Desk of Patrick O’Mara.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Maggie remembered playing with the toy telephone she owned as a child. Her mother pretended to call her from the real phone in the kitchen. They made appointments for the salon, planned picnics on the beach, talked about the weather. It was a nice memory of her mother, and she had so few. She’d heard phones ring maybe 50,000 times in her life. But it sounded duller, heavier this time as if traveling from some great depth. Phones announced all the miserable events of her life. Her mother’s humiliating departure, Trisha’s agonizing diagnosis, Travis’ disgrace, her father’s first step over the edge. Yet none of those earlier ringing phones so completely filled her with dread.

  She let the phone ring once. On some level, she thought it might be a wrong number. Someone punched a five instead of a six. One digit to the left and her father would walk in the house and life would resume its normal ebb and flow. The phone rang again. Two digits to the left and Trisha would be alive and healthy, and Daddy would be making strawberry waffles for—

  “Maggie.” Travis shook her by the upper arm. “Answer it.” A single knit concerned his brow.

  She picked up the receiver and pushed the talk button. “Hello.”