Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (21 page)

Maggie leaned forward. “What does this have to do with my brother?”

Barbara put her hand to her brow as if shielding from the light. “Kingphisher. My husband used the name Kingphisher online.”

Travis tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. “How long have you known?”

“I knew when I came here last time.” Her body sagged onto itself. “I’m sorry.”

He thought she might faint.

“But I swear, I didn’t know it had anything to do with your trial.”

He’d envisioned his moment of vindication many times since his arrest. He knew it would happen. Somehow, someday, someway. He hoped to get this reprieve before wasting half a year of his life at Cumberton. But hope didn’t calm the sea. Now this woman, his accuser’s wife, finally brought him the news. And all he could think about was how his sister would finally believe him. Losing that burden lifted him like a kite caught in a thermal.

Maggie’s posture told him she was sorry. Ginger still seemed ticked.

He felt his jaw muscles pop. “I appreciate your telling me this. How did you find out?”

“Brian had computers all over the house. He always had an online business of some sort. And he frequented forums.” Barbara stopped. She seemed to need it to replenish her nerve.

“What kind of forums?” The dog lay down on his feet.

“Computer forums. I didn’t know at first. He used a particular laptop for this activity and kept a close eye on it. I could tell he didn’t want me to know, so it concerned me. You know, like he had another woman.” She huffed a pent exhale. “I checked his computer one time when he left the room. He was logged in with the name Kingphisher.”

He nodded, almost manically, he thought. “Do you still have that computer?”

“No. I’ve looked around the house for it since I was here last. I haven’t seen it in a long time.” Barbara dropped her handkerchief. “Not since before the trial.”

Maggie fell back against the couch cushion, her face losing color. Travis pressed on. “Do you remember the name of the forum?”

“It had the word ‘hat’ in it. Does that help?”

FastHats.com. The forum used in his defense. “It does, ma’am.” He tried to keep his cool. “What was your husband doing at the site?” He glanced at Maggie and Ginger.

“He was trying to hire someone for a job.” Barbara’s head wobbled. “I know now, it was probably you.”

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

 

The living room felt too small to contain the mass of Maggie’s remorse. Over a year now, Travis had lived under her condemnation. She tried to treat him decently, in spite of his actions that had put their family through torture. He was still a kid. She didn’t remind him of the damage he’d wreaked on the family. Not every second. For six of those months he’d been conveniently locked in prison. But his guilt and the cost extracted from their family swung over their every conversation like a hangman’s noose.

 

All this time, he was innocent.

Dear, God. Would he ever forgive her?

Barbara babbled on about her dead husband with no regard for the pain he’d inflicted. The bastard dropped Travis in jail and tried to kill Daddy. Blood rushed to Maggie’s head. She was ready for another go-round with this broad, but Ginger’s gaze pinned her to the couch.

“What about the money?” Travis’ voice soothed even Maggie. “You said he came into some money, but then it stopped.”

“He told me it was from his online businesses. But he always had cash, lots of it. People use credit cards for online purchases. I knew something wasn’t right.”

“Where do you think he got it?”

Barbara picked up her handkerchief from the floor and folded her arms about her. “All I have are suspicions.”

Maggie observed the exchange between Travis and this woman. The intensity of Travis’ attention seemed to hold her suspended. Neither one of them acknowledged that there were others in the room. He questioned her with a proficiency unmatched by his incompetent attorney at the trial. Maybe the difference was simple. The attorney didn’t believe he was innocent.

“Why do you think your husband came here that night?”

Barbara’s brown eyes flickered around the room. “Even before the trial, his behavior had become more erratic. Odd phone calls. Meetings at night.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I thought it was another woman. I even followed him. He never went anywhere but work or to my cousin’s house. And Brian was well-groomed by nature, but during this time, he quit caring about his appearance. So it wasn’t a woman.” Her breath shuddered. “The night he ended up here, he told me he was going to my cousin’s. He seemed upset about something.” She twisted the handkerchief around her left pinkie. “Could he have gotten that money from your father?”

Maggie’s heart thumped so loudly, she thought the others might hear it. She studied Travis’ face to see his reaction and to keep a grip on her own. But the kid had game. The only change she detected was a snort, like a bull after the matador snapped his cape.

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 Hospital, 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.”