Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (26 page)
Read Helen Hanson - Dark Pool Online
Authors: Helen Hanson
Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - Alzheimer's - Computer Hacker - Investment Scam
“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.”
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?”
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.
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.
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.
