by Helen Hanson
“Like this magnificent hotel on April 19, 1906, you are changed forever.” Applause skittered across the room.
“I’m not acting as an attorney in this case. Mr. Thornton hired me to investigate this travesty, in part, based on some high-profile successes. These successes were fueled by long hours, a systematic review of paperwork, and the outrage I felt for the abuse of trust perpetrated by the criminals.” The crowd roared.
“But let me be clear.” He spoke louder. “I make no promises to you that your money will be returned.” That got their attention. “What I do promise is to examine every document, follow every lead, and question every seeming dead-end to try and find the money. And I’m going to need your help.” He pointed to another table where his six assistants stood. “My staff will be available in the Empire room to begin the review process. Some of you had close ties with Patty O’Mara, and I plan to interview you personally. We don’t know where this investigation will lead, but I’ll work with whatever information you provide.”
He noticed two men in dark suits enter from a side door to the corridor. They didn’t carry themselves like the others in the crowd. The men were about the same height, and though both were stocky, one was particularly so. And unlike the victims in the room, neither man wore any hint of defeat.
“You’re obligated to assist the federal investigators, and I don’t want to interfere in that effort. I’m here as your advocate. Personally, I want the sonovabitch to hang, but if I can, I’d rather help you rebuild.” A cheer rose from the room. “And remember—”
A “shh” passed from table to table to quiet the audience.
“This hotel may have been gutted by fire, but those two sisters rebuilt her. Exactly one year later to the day, on April 18, 1907, The Fairmont Hotel finally made her debut. And she’s been watching over this beautiful city now for over one hundred years!”
The crowd went wild.
Happy Days Are Here Again started on cue. Spencer met him at center stage. “That shit was good. You ever think of going into politics?”
“Only with a bulldozer.”
People rushed the stage and blocked Kurt from using the stairs down to the floor. He found a clear spot and jumped. A stream of hand shakers came at him. A wizened crone wearing a caftan hugged his waist. That was as far as she could reach.
He extricated himself from the throng and made it to the bar. He’d held off from imbibing until his part of the program had concluded. A glass of Graham’s Port awaited this precise moment. The first sip warmed this throat.
“Nice speech, Mr. Meyers.” The thick man spoke with a Russian accent.
Kurt turned to face the two men. Their dark suits easily cost a grand each. “Thank you. Are you guests of Mr. Thornton’s?”
They exchanged a glance. “We work for Mr. Penniski.”
Kurt coughed. “Vladimir Penniski?” Another pigeon in Patty O’Mara’s cage. One of the bigger pigeons. A decidedly unhappy pigeon with connections to the Russian mob. He had declined Spencer Thornton’s invitation for the weekend. The fact that he was serving time at San Quentin for biting off a man’s nose might have been a factor.
“He understands you are trying to locate the money.” Apparently only the thick man did their talking.
“I am.”
“Mr. Penniski would consider it a special favor if you let him know of your progress.”
Kurt exhaled. “I’ve been retained by Mr. Spencer Thornton to investigate, but I’m obligated by law to report any assets that turn up to the court-appointed trustee.”
“Go ahead.” The thicker man poked his finger into Kurt’s chest. “But make sure we hear first.”
Chapter Three
Martin Fender stepped out from behind the bush as if a game of hide-and-seek had ended. Maggie moved toward him.
“That’s far enough, ma’am.” An officer’s voice warned from her left.
She whipped around to him. “He’s my father.”
“I don’t care if he’s Superman. You stay here.” The officer on Maggie’s right flashed a badge at her father. “I’m Sergeant Garcia with the Half Moon Bay Police Department. Sir, I need you to put down the knife.”
Her father’s face glistened under an eerie light cast by the porch lamps. Slender fingers grasped the knife like a child clutching a balloon string. He ruminated his tongue and didn’t respond to the command.
“Sir. I’m going to tell you one more time.” Sergeant Garcia drew his service pistol. “Drop the knife.”
Maggie stared down the officer. “Please! He has Alzheimer’s. Let me talk to him.”
“It’s true. He does have Alzheimer’s.” Ginger called from the rear.
Sergeant Garcia, a pockmarked Hispanic man with a full mustache, motioned Maggie forward. “You get one chance.”
She nodded.
There was no recognition on her father’s face. Neither was there any apparent concern. Not for the police. Not for the knife. Not for the dead man in the parking lot.
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 a
re 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?”