Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (3 page)

Trisha’s extended illness had left each of the Fenders hollowed out like a rotted gourd. But for Maggie’s father, his disease continued the long march against his mind.

As he stood behind the foliage, she tried to make eye contact. All the familiar connections were missing. She’d seen pictures of dead people. It wasn’t like that. He was alive but somehow empty.

“Daddy?” She leaned toward him and took a step. “It’s me, Maggie. Can you hear me?”

Maggie walked closer. “Daddy? Travis is home.” She heard sharp laughter from the crowd.

His chin lifted, eyes drifting from side to side as if looking for a place to land. “Travis?” His eyes sagged in their sockets. “Where’s Travis?”

Good question. Maggie glanced behind her, scanning the faces. No Travis. “He’s here, Daddy.” She walked next to him, took the knife from his hand, and laid it on a stiff hedge. “C’mon, let’s find Travis.” She locked arms with him and led him down the path.

Two officers swarmed them and took control of her father. Maggie hadn’t noticed the arrival of the second patrol car. Or the camera crew. All eyes trained on her father, including Channel 5.

Crap. Another Fender on the nightly news.

Patrol lights bounced off the sergeant as he approached her. “We have to take him to the station for questioning. What’s your name, ma’am?”

She was going to ask on what charges and then remembered. “My brother and I found a man.” Her throat quivered over the words. “He’s dead.”

The sergeant’s face hardened. “Dead? Are you sure?”

Maggie nodded.

“What’s your name?” He motioned for another officer.

“Maggie Fender.”

When the second officer joined the pair, the sergeant said something to him, but Maggie couldn’t hear it over the thudding in her ears. “Ms. Fender says she found a deceased male. Where was this exactly?”

“He’s about half a mile south in the beach parking lot.”

“Go check the parking lot. I’ll stay with Ms. Fender,” Sergeant Garcia said.

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Martin Fender.”

“We were looking for Dad—”

“Whose ‘we’?”

“Travis. My brother. Well, half-brother, technically.”

“Travis Fender. That’s why the name sounded familiar. He’s out already?”

The rude question sharpened her focus. “We were looking for my father when we found the man in the parking lot. There was—” She covered her mouth. “There was blood on the ground. I checked for a pulse, but he was already dead.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

The question reminded her of Travis’ trial. Keep the suspect on the defensive. “We ran home to call. But you showed up for my father before we arrived.”

“Did you know the man?”

“No.” Maggie saw the police push her father into the back of the squad car. “Travis and I are coming to the police station, too.”

“Stay right here, please.” He left her to confer with another officer.

She knew what he was thinking. Dead body found in the proximity of a knife-wielding zombie. But it made no sense. Her father didn’t have any enemies.

And where the hell was Travis? For six months she’d carried this burden alone. Now when he could actually be of some use—

Ginger sidled up next to her. “I’m sorry, Maggie.” Her voice was sultry like a snifter of cognac enjoyed by the fire. While the face matched the voice, the rest of her required a muumuu to cover. “Can I do anything?”

Maggie’s thoughts chased the details of her routine. With Travis in prison, it centered on her father and paying their bills. Hopes of attending law school faded. “I’m going to follow Dad to the police station. Can you feed The Firm?” Their brother-sister beagles, Bailey and Belli, were named for the famous attorneys. Legal beagles nicknamed The Firm. Maggie ran her fingernails over her scalp. “We haven’t even been inside yet.”

“Go on, I’ll take care of them.” Ginger glared. “The reporters too if possible.”

“Have you seen Travis?”

“Isn’t he here?”

Maggie leaned in toward Ginger, but Sergeant Garcia chose that moment to return. Ginger retreated.

“My officers located the body in the parking lot. I need to get statements from you and your brother, Travis.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

Maggie recounted the details of her day. “Travis can give you his own statement as long as I’m present. But my father’s not competent to answer your questions. I’m his legal guardian. He gave me power of attorney for his financial and medical affairs before—well, back when he could.”

“This one’s beyond me.” The sergeant’s face winced in concern. “The county homicide unit is on their way. We’re going to detain your father at the station until I get specific instructions regarding his condition.”

“Jail?”

“He’ll be fine there. But, depending on what homicide finds, they may transport him to a more secure facility. Does your father have an attorney?”

The moron who handled Travis’ case didn’t qualify. Maggie could have done a better job defending him. “No. He doesn’t.”

“We’re doing the paperwork for a search warrant right now. Of course you can save us the ink and consent to a search of the place.”

No way she’d give the police permission to rummage through her home, but she knew her father wasn’t a killer. A programming nerd. A wannabe beach bum. A guitar freak. Not a killer. “I won’t give permission for a search, but I will allow an officer to walk through the house with an escort. No touching anything. You don’t like what you see, go get a warrant. Agreed?”

“Agreed. But I need your brother’s statement.”

Her protracted day still offered no horizon. Fatigue wormed its way through her body and crawled out as a yawn. She covered her mouth. “Excuse me,” said Maggie. “My brother was released from prison today. I don’t condone his actions, but he’s still my kid brother.” She stifled another yawn. “I’m his guardian, too. You’ll get your statement.” She left Sergeant Garcia standing in the driveway.

The young male reporter had a microphone in Maggie’s face before she reached Ginger’s house. “Miss Fender. Is your father’s arrest connected to your brother’s release from prison?”

She scowled at him, pushing the microphone away with the back of her hand. The drill reminded her of Travis’ fiasco. The response—once a part of her lips—came back like a second language, “No comment.”

Ginger opened the screen door and yelled. “You’re on my property now. Get off, or I’ll drag you off!”

The words had the desired effect.

She spoke again before Maggie hit the porch. “Carlotta called. Travis is with Javier.”

“He’s needed here, so of course he’s over there.” Maggie stamped her foot on the planking. “Sorry. Thanks. I told the sergeant he could walk through my house. No searching, just walking. Would you let them in for me? The guitars are the only thing I’m concerned about.”

“Of course, honey.” Ginger took a wide stance. She looked solid like a small refrigerator. “I love you both like my own, Mag, you know that. And I’m not the kind that offers advice before people ask.”

Maggie leaned back on a hip.

“But if I were, I’d remind you that while you’re a worldly twenty-two, he’s only fifteen. He celebrated his last birthday in prison, his father has a miserable disease, and his sister is acting like an ass.” She let the door slam. “But I’m not the kind that offers advice.”

“Good thing.” Maggie’s words bounced off Ginger’s broad back. She spun off the porch and ran over to Javier’s.

Javier Modesto’s family owned a desirable apartment complex in Half Moon Bay. Seventeen fashionable units situated barely a block from the beach. They’d converted two of the lower apartments into a single, large home for their family.

Javier’s mother, Carlotta, opened the door and ushered her in. “Margaret, it’s always so good to see you. You’re looking as lovely as a flower.” She led the way into the family room with a gliding motion that defied the use of actual steps. She often wore long, flowing skirts, and when she moved, it looked as if she were on rollers.

“I’m so sorry about your father. This error will no doubt be corrected quickly.”

Maggie had never heard her utter a negative word, and she staunchly professed to believe in Travis’ innocence. They should’ve hired her as his attorney.

“We are so happy to have Travis back. I’m sure it must be a joy for you.’

Joy. Yeah, that’s it.

“He’s in Javier’s room, dear.”

Carlotta Modesto was one of those women who kept a unilateral conversation flowing during the awkward moments of life. The Fenders may have abused that social nicety of late. She left Maggie alone in front of Javier’s door because she also understood the value of silence.

Maggie knocked, but she knew Travis would be in there alone because Mrs. Modesto would have arranged it. And Ginger was right, she had been acting like an ass. She’d never really forgiven him for putting the family through the ordeal of a trial.

Worries about their father had surfaced several years ago. They all suffered when Trisha died, but Travis’ trial took the last of his starch. An ache welled from within that made her knees wobble. She clutched the side of the door. She was Travis’ parent. And Daddy’s. Legally.

Everybody got a parent but her. Damn it.

She pulled long on the air, enough to sustain her insides from a cave-in. It was time she acted like the sole grown-up of the family. It was time to get her father out of jail. But first, it was time to forgive her little brother for being so freaking stupid.

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

Vladimir Penniski ground his cigarette butt on the concrete floor of the private visitation room. Smoking wasn’t allowed in San Quentin even if it improved the general smell. Friends-in-high-places couldn’t always keep a man out of Quentin, but the accommodations often improved. From outside the room, the guard opened the door for his attorney, Wade Staunton.

 

“The meeting go well?” Vladimir didn’t wait for his attorney to sit. He gestured toward the chessboard. As usual, Wade played white.

“Your release date’s been moved up to this week.” He sat at the metal table and led with a pawn. “The Governor is under pressure to reduce the prison head count. You’ll be out in two days. Your contribution to his reelection campaign was appreciated.”

“His appreciation didn’t keep me out of this rat hole.” Vladimir picked up a knight and pointed it at Wade’s chest. “Next time I give my money to anybody who runs against the ungrateful little prick.” He placed it on the board.

“Next time make sure there aren’t any boy scouts with video cameras when you commit aggravated assault.” Wade brought out a bishop.

“Barney’s face is much improved. Don’t you think?” Vladimir countered with his pawn.

Discomfort furrowed on the young attorney’s brow. “Your boys called me from the city. Kurt Meyers gave a rousing speech at Spencer Thornton’s gathering. The audience was ready to sign over their remaining assets.” He moved out a pawn. “But he’s not taking. This guy’s clean with a capital squeak.” He handed a file to Vladimir. “Thornton’s paying him handsomely. Your move.”

“Patty O’Mara is a chiseler, but he’s not stupid. He didn’t plan to get caught. I think the money is still out there, somewhere.” Vladimir lit another Dunhill. “Forty billion dollars can’t evaporate.” He slid his queen diagonally. “Check.”

“The SEC is intent on finding it, or what’s left of it, before O’Mara goes to trial. But he’s not cooperating.”

“O’Mara says he doesn’t know what happened to the money. Maybe he doesn’t.” Vladimir stroked his chin. “Maybe he doesn’t.”

“That’s only speculation. Not something we can investigate.”

“You can bet Myers will investigate it. Squeaky clean, my ass. He didn’t break the D.C. case without prowling through a few alleys.”

Wade sent a knight to block. “The SEC prosecutor, Samantha Merrick, she’s known for being thorough.”

“Do you know her?”

“No. She took over the job about two years ago. She replaced Daryl Betts after he met a tree head-on.”

Vladimir played another pawn. “Car accident?”

“Motorcycle. Betts took a wet curve too fast on the George Washington Parkway.” Wade studied the board and released his second knight. “I understand he didn’t believe in helmets.”

“Reckless?”

“Daryl Betts wasn’t exactly known for being a rule-follower at the SEC.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.” Vladimir placed his bishop. “I wonder if the lady investigator will be thorough enough.”

Wade leaned back in his chair. “What’s your concern?”

“The fund was managed entirely online. All transfers in or out were electronic. Even the few genuine trades O’Mara actually made were calculated and placed by a computer. He moved the money somewhere. Or someone else did it for him.”

“I’m sure Samantha Merrick will review anyone with access to the trade programming.”

“Anyone with authorized access.” Vladimir flicked the long ash.

The corners of Wade’s lips curled in amusement. “You think this was a hack?” He sent his queen onto the board.

“We need to consider the possibility that O’Mara had help, or he was dumb enough to get taken.” He stubbed out the butt. “I’d almost enjoy hearing that. Have the boys start looking around. I’ve got thirty million reasons to keep my options open.”

The guard opened the door. “It’s time.”

Vladimir knocked over Wade’s king with his bishop. “Check mate.”

“You can’t do that. It’s an illegal move.”

He patted Wade’s cheek. “That’s the problem with you. You think everybody plays by the rules.”

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

The Half Moon Bay Police Department nestled the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains along California’s central coast. Legendary Highway 1, which ran through town, seemed to draw out the crazies. Though the majority of the department’s efforts were spent on the usual seaside complaints. Underage drinking, overage drinking, suspicious vehicles, petty theft, graffiti, people and dogs barking or defecating unlawfully. They incarcerated few people accused of murder, even fewer nearing the geriatric stage of life. In Martin Fender’s case, disease accelerated the process with cruel confidence.