Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  by

  Boring Legal Stuff

  by

  Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.

  As a work of fiction, the names, characters, situations, and most of the places are constructs of the author’s imagination. If you seem to think otherwise, she will be flattered. Any resemblances otherwise to persons living or passed on is simply beyond her ability to control. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews.

  ISBN 978-0-9832027-3-8

  Cover art photos from Jared Frazer, Luis Villa, and Zonnabar.

  Published by Domino INK, P.O. Box 1614, Little Elm, TX 75068

  For Tom & Carrie,

  who sent me to the dictionary to look up words,

  let me guess at their crossword puzzles,

  and filled my world with books.

  Thank you for your sacrifice.

  I may never know the true cost.

  My love for you lives on.

  Chapter One

  Maggie Fender waited by the car as she watched Travis stride through the gates bearing a soldier’s posture. The brilliance of the afternoon sun burrowed into his raven hair and glinted of cool blue. It surprised her that he seemed to age since her visit last week. Even in worn jeans and a t-shirt, he appeared much older than his fifteen years.

  Prison undoubtedly changed a man. Or a boy. Now that he was paroled, Maggie wouldn’t waste any more sentiment on her half-brother, but she did want to kick his ass.

  The guard turned to watch Travis Fender leave the compound. Perhaps he was memorizing the boy’s features in case they were destined to meet again. So many parolees returned, if not to the medium-security Federal Correction Institute at Cumberton, then to some other lockable accommodation. Polite society preferred to keep track of those they feared.

  Travis stood over six-foot tall. From this distance, he passed as a man. Even his face didn’t readily reveal his youth. Not until he got really close, close enough to see the thirty-one hairs on his chin that still only met weekly. His half-year sentence—finally at a close—seemed to harden him. While the juvenile facility at Cumberton didn’t rival Alcatraz, any time spent in a cage counted as wasted.

  Maggie slid behind the wheel before Travis arrived at the car. She avoided eye contact as he stooped to get in. She wanted the five-hour drive and the interminable occasion for conversation behind her.

  Travis climbed in. “Thanks for coming. How’s Dad?”

  “Watching the same episode of Hawaii 5-O for the tenth time. How do you think?” She started up the car. It hesitated and then coughed to a sputter. Black smoke belched from the tail pipe.

  He tugged his jeans down his thighs. “How’re my beagle buddies?”

  “I’ve made this run once a week for twenty-six weeks. I’m not in the mood for small-talk.” Maggie peeled out of the parking lot.

  Travis laid back and closed his eyes, a small thing for which she was grateful.

  She wound south through the Sierra foothills for an hour before stopping at a gas station to check the oil. Low again. Dammit.

  “Get a quart of oil for me.” She stood by Travis’ open window.

  A single green eye peered at her. “So now you’re talking to me?”

  “No, I need oil. And thirty dollars worth of gas.” She wagged two twenties at him.

  His second eye closed her out.

  Heat climbed her chest. She slugged him hard on the shoulder.

  “Hey!”

  She hit him again.

  “Knock it off.”

  “If you hadn’t gotten your stupid ass busted, we wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t have to drive this piece of shit up to the mountains.” She kicked the tire then slugged him a third time. “And it wouldn’t need oil.” She dropped the bills in his lap.

  “Quit hitting me, you psycho.” He rubbed his tricep, but he got out of the car with the money and lumbered into the convenience store.

  Her day had started in Half Moon Bay at dawn that morning. Twelve hours round trip, and he couldn’t even help with the drive home. Her mood spiraled to the deep south on the trip away from Cumberton. She scrubbed the windshield using stinky water and a filthy sponge, letting the Sierra dust trickle back to mama earth.

  Six months in prison, and Travis still claimed he was framed. No one believed him. Not even his attorney. Only his father. But Dad thought the little girl down the street fronted his rock band back in ‘69. Character references like Dad could land a guy on death row.

  Travis came out with a quart of oil, a jumbo bag of Cheetos, two Mountain Dews, and a king-sized Snickers.

  She glared at his other purchases.

  “Six months.” He nodded at her. “I’m due.”

  Wasn’t Snickers on the menu at Cumberton?

  Oil drained into the engine reservoir while Cheetos poured into Travis’ mouth. Maggie filled the tank until the meter slowed to a stop at exactly thirty dollars. The piece of junk guzzled oil like a Mission Street wino but still got great gas mileage. This fill ought to see them back to the beach.

  Between Bay Area commuter traffic and the frequent need to recycle her coffee, Maggie pulled into their driveway after dusk. Travis jumped out before the car came to a complete stop. He rushed toward the front door.

  Maggie watched him disappear behind the overgrown juniper bushes that lined the walkway. Fifteen, and the kid still couldn’t wait to see his father. She loved their father too, but his recent behavior was starting to quantify her patience.

  She slumped out of the car and stretched. A long run on the beach would loosen her tight muscles, and enough sunlight remained. Maybe tomorrow. Today she wanted only a hot bath, a quiet bed, and empty dreams.

  Travis blasted from the house. “Where is he?”

  Disquiet ebbed her fatigue. “Isn’t he watching TV?”

  “The place is empty.”

  She left Travis standing on the pavement and ran to the Baker’s house a couple of doors down. Only the screen door kept the world at bay. “Ginger?” She banged on the doorframe. “You home?”

  A sturdy figure ambled from the shadow. “Maggie?” Ginger’s eyes creased in the dim light.

  “I’m looking for Daddy. Have you seen him?”

  The Samoan woman was small by island standards. “Not since I gave him his dinner. Did you check the garage?”

  “Travis said the place was empty.”

  A smile lifted her smooth, brown face. “How is he? How does he look?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Stupid. And even more handsome if you can believe it. Just like his mom.” She backed away from the door. “I’ve got to find Dad.”

  Travis was gone by the time she returned to the car. She sped around to the beachside of the house and nearly broadsided a bicyclist in the narrow street. Maggie climbed down the berm to the sand.

  “Daddy.” The sound of the surf competed with her cry. Dark slipped overhead like a closing lid.

  She ran north, up the beach. She could have gone south. It didn’t matter. There was nothing either direction to damper her hammering chest.

  A man dropped down from the roadside.

  Her lungs wheezed. “Travis. Damn it. Don’t do that!”

  “C’mon. I think he’s this way.”

  Travis was likely right. He often was in these types of situations. Logic and intuition converged in this kid to form uncannily accurate assessments. He got that from their father.

  It was Dad’s only obvious contribution to the kid’s genetic makeup because he could pass for his mother’s male twin. While Maggie seemed to inherit everything from her mother. Cornflower blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a ranci
d mistrust of the world.

  Maggie shoved him forward. “Let’s go.”

  While he took the lead, she was fast enough to stay within his draft. The tide had receded over the past hour, leaving a sturdier running surface. They sprinted down the beach as fast as the damp sand allowed.

  Maggie heard the screech of a lone shearwater looking to settle somewhere for the night. Then another cry that cooled her blood.

  Human.

  She slammed into Travis’ back and fell to his side. He grabbed her around the waist and helped her regain her footing. He prodded her shoulder. “C’mon.”

  They ran another hundred yards down the empty beach and climbed the embankment. The constant on-shore breeze shaped everything here. The coastline, the trees, the waves, and according to Ginger, even the people. Loose dirt and sand fell away beneath their feet. Scrub brush lined the winding path to a beach parking lot.

  “Wait.” Travis put his arm out to block her path.

  “What is it?” She brushed past her brother to find a man face down on the ground. She rushed to his side and pushed her fingers into his throat.

  No pulse.

  Blood punched her temples. “It’s not Daddy, Trav. I don’t know who he is, but he’s dead.” She dropped onto her haunches. “We need to call the police.”

  Her gaze fell on something pooled near the man’s head that reflected in the waning light. A shiver snaked along her spine.

  Travis came up from behind her and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here, Mag.” They jogged back to the path and down the beach.

  “Has Dad ever wandered away like this?” Travis asked in a tone that scared her.

  “We live on the beach. Everybody wanders.” But they both knew it was a symptom. “No, not after dark.”

  They heard a siren wailing up Highway 1. It turned toward them as they reached the beachside of their house. When they rounded the corner, the blue, red, and yellow lights flickered off trees, cars, and the worried faces of their neighbors.

  Ginger met them at the driveway. “It’s your father. He’s hiding in the bushes, and he won’t come out.” She pointed to the mix of ferns and hydrangeas at the dark end of their home. “Carl Pinkerton called the police. He said your father was making threats.”

  Travis broke in. “Dad?”

  “I tried to get him out of the bush, but he won’t budge.”

  Maggie saw Pinkerton resting on the handlebars of his custom racing bike. His three hundred dollar spandex in a righteous twist. Again. Weren’t all those endorphins supposed to make him mellow?

  She picked her way to the bushes. “Daddy?”

  “Trisha?”

  Maggie’s heartbeat stuttered. Trisha was the name of her dead stepmother. “It’s not Trisha, Daddy. It’s me, Maggie.” She got no reply. “Travis came home today. He’d sure like to see you. Why don’t you come out?”

  “Travis and I went fishing this morning.”

  “He only got back today. You haven’t seen him yet.” Conversations with her father never stayed linear anymore. Maggie glanced back and saw Ginger talking to the police. She didn’t see Travis. Proximity to police couldn’t bring him any comfort.

  “He shouldn’t have said it.” Her father stayed in the bush. “It’s not his anymore.”

  Maggie was confused. “Who? Travis?”

  “It’s mine. I told him that.”

  Her head dropped. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Please come out of the bush. Talk to me out here.”

  The police officers flanked her from behind. She heard murmuring from her neighbors. First, Travis. Now, her father hiding in a bush. Could this day get any worse?

  “Please come out.”

  The leaves rustled. The police trained a flashlight on the foliage. Martin Fender unfolded into a tall man—over six-foot four. Her handsome father with soft blue eyes clutched a Bowie knife in his left hand, and the front of his shirt was soaked with blood.

  Chapter Two

  Kurt Meyers listened to Spencer Thornton’s speech with the rest of the crowd awaiting his cue.

  “I don’t know about you—” The crowd held a collective breath. “—but I want my damn money.” With Thornton’s declaration, the crowd gathered in the Venetian Room of San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel erupted with applause. Thornton steeped in their adoration for a full thirty seconds before attempting to resume control. When the crowd quieted, he added, “Or give me the bastard’s head.” Only nervous laughter followed that comment. Not everyone could afford Spenser’s generosity.

  Kurt had studied the investor list. Spencer Thornton’s losses in Patrick “Patty” O’Mara’s investments—if a Ponzi scheme could ever be called an investment—totaled in the tens of millions, but his real loss was pride. His self-image didn’t easily reconcile with being anyone’s dupe. Especially not an old friend like Patty O’Mara. Although Thornton’s other hundreds of millions in preferred stocks, global holdings, and media outlets could still keep his notorious parties awash with French champagne, he had personally recommended O’Mara Securities to a number of business acquaintances and lost face. Given the reputation of some of those acquaintances, Kurt figured much more than Spencer’s face might be at risk.

  Kurt understood the casualty list better than the federal prosecutors did. Since Thornton had invited him to attend this rally-of-the-profoundly-screwed, he’d scrutinized the victims with the fervor of a dermatologist in a leper colony. Only the people in the Venetian Room weren’t nearly as jolly.

  “Your life hasn’t changed a damn bit, Thornton.” A bitter voice—likely fueled by the open bar—called out from a rear table. “That thief stole my life savings!”

  The hubbub fomented to a swell. From the famed stage, Spencer shushed down the crowd with his hands. “A fair statement.” He eyed the audience. “And I could conduct my investigation without you.”

  Murmurs broke from the crowd. Kurt saw others admonish the ungrateful, bitter-voiced man. They knew where this was going.

  “But I didn’t.” Spencer let the comment settle like volcanic ash.

  In fact Spencer Thornton footed the entire lavish affair. For two days and two nights he’d poured their drinks, catered their meals, comped their rooms, and commiserated with their shameless treatment at the hands of O’Mara. Without Thornton’s largesse, many of these former investors wouldn’t have had the means to attend. The weekend culminated at this final rah-rah held in the opulent Venetian Room where Tony Bennett first sang I Left My Heart in San Francisco. As one of the fleeced had quipped, “At least hearts are replaceable.”

  Patrick Ryan O’Mara—Patty, to his friends, and anyone who put money in his hedge fund was considered a friend—allowed the earliest investors to walk away with fists full of hard earned cash, provided by the later investors, to establish an illusionary pattern of a high return on investment. He hadn’t bothered with bookkeeping. Various other fund managers called on the Securities and Exchange Commission to investigate the unlikely earnings of O’Mara’s fund. But the SEC was overseen by O’Mara’s buddy from Harvard, Catherine Boson, who never uncovered the facts. Along the way, forty billion dollars vanished.

  “Tonight,” Spencer continued, “I introduce to you a man who is an attorney by education, an investigator by profession, and one fu—, excuse me, one ugly pit bull by reputation.” He waited for the laughter to subside. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Kurt Meyers.”

  From a front table, where he sat with the stiffed-big-time and select members of Spencer’s pressroom, Kurt rose to clamorous applause. As he climbed the stairs to meet Spencer on stage, he received a sincere catcall from a surgically-renovated blue-hair at the next table. Spencer stepped out from behind the lectern to clasp his hand.

  While Kurt wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes, a well-publicized Washington scandal—tax evasion by those writing the laws—recently utilized his prodigious investigative abilities to nail a few congressional asses to the wall. The background work was knotty
and tedious, but it played particularly well in Peoria. Without understanding all the details of why, everyone was instantly impressed.

  Kurt motioned to settle the din, but Spencer spent far too much money on this event to let any emotional publicity remain untapped. Spencer Thornton—friend to the financially sheared. The crowd shared a single lament. There was no awareness ribbon for this cause; as usual, the green was taken.

  Spencer Thornton’s dazzling white smile contrasted with the gold-on-gild damask-lined room. Not exactly Kurt’s taste, but he made a vow never to disappoint a stupendously wealthy client. And the thought of sharing a stage once graced by Nat King Cole, Marlene Dietrich, and Count Basie gave him reason for pause. Spencer took a seat at the edge of the stage while Kurt adjusted the lapel microphone given to him by the stagehand. Silence stretched across the room.

  “Mr. Thornton has briefed you on my background over the course of this weekend. One thing you may not know is that I am an ardent student of history. The Fairmont Hotel provides an abundant backdrop for someone so inclined. In the 1890s, silver magnate Bonanza Jim Fair bought this property to build his family’s estate. When he died, his daughters decided to build a hotel instead, as a tribute to their father.”

  Kurt kept his eye contact on steady-scan, trying to connect with the audience. Some seemed puzzled, some rapt, others just drunk. With money on the line, he held their attention.

  “Opening day for the hotel was planned for April 18, 1906.” He nodded at the knowing groans from the audience. “That’s right, the day of the Great Earthquake.” Blue-hair in the front hiked her skirt. “The Fairmont survived the earthquake, but raging fires swept the city and gutted the hotel.” He sipped from the water glass provided. “You, my friends, have been financially gutted.”

  Heads shook. Grunts were audible. He thought he heard sobbing. Pain often companioned with truth, but truth honored those devastated by disaster. Anything less was patronizing.