Helen Hanson - Dark Pool

by Helen Hanson

  He’d considered the name Won Over before settling on it, but he was six years old when he created it. When his mom got sick, Dad spent all his time programming, and Travis wanted to be with him. So they hung together. He’d lost so much since those days.

  Then it hit him. |3ack2m3.

  Back To Me.

  Wasn’t that what this was about? Reclaiming. But he had to be careful. And move fast.

  Technically, a quick trip around the internet wasn’t in the same deal-breaking league as logging on to the hacker site, but that was the only reason he was here.

  He created a new profile and found his way to the threads for the elite. Nobody here would recognize him. He had zero currency in his account.

  All his old friends were here. ByteMe. DigitDog. MobiusLoop. AreEff. They wouldn’t recognize him with his new identity. He had to connect with one of them in a private chat room, but unless the other side knew his original handle, they would tell him absolutely jack.

  He checked the who-was-online-now-list, but that didn’t always help. If a user didn’t want to have the world know he was on, no one could tell. No real rules to it.

  Unless there was a recent post.

  All the people he knew hung out in the advanced threads of the forum. They stayed away from the newbie threads unless they were bored. At fifteen, he was an old-timer. But in his new identity as Back To Me, he was just another low-level noob. He didn’t want to appear out of nowhere since that always looked suspicious. Forum users kept watch for each other.

  He poked around on the threads with recent activity. He recognized many of the handles. Rants about this. Warnings about that. A flame war or two. Six months in prison and nothing really changed.

  And there it was. Kingphisher. Last posted yesterday at 11:52 p.m. Travis considered how to approach him. There’s only one reason he’s still trolling these waters. His last effort failed. And landed Travis in prison.

  But not this time. If Travis needed help, he’d get it. Somehow. He was due a few favors on the boards. But those favors were owed to his handle Won Over, not the new guy, Back To Me. He was going to have to make contact with someone and risk another shot at prison.

  AreEff was his best choice. Once he made contact, AreEff would recognize him in spite of the loser handle. They shared history, and their online rapport worked. AreEff was funny, scary smart, and had the discretion of a Mafia don’s priest.

  Kingphisher. Taking him down was worth any risk.

  Chapter Seven

  The Fairmont Hotel swarmed with the victims of Patty O’Mara’s swindle. All of Patty’s former best friends were now ensconced in Kurt Meyer’s camp. Kurt picked his way through his adoring fans to catch an elevator to his suite on the twenty-second floor. Before this weekend, most of them were beyond consolation. His speech ignited a spark.

  They thought they were investing wisely with Patty O’Mara. His investment fund traded privately so as not to inform other fund managers where he was moving their money. With the returns O’Mara paid his investors, everyone wanted to know the depth of O’Mara’s dark pool.

  Kurt knew his chances of finding the stolen money were on par with his chances of finding Jimmy Hoffa, but he needed their cooperation, their files, their memories. And pumping a little fight-back into these people couldn’t hurt. O’Mara robbed more from them than money. He stole a lifetime of their labor—wages stored up for retirement, college funds, deferred vacations, peace of mind. Dignity. He embezzled a piece of their souls. Kurt hoped he could take advantage of their pain.

  He entered the tower elevator already occupied by a young family of four and a pair of tattooed women wearing a significant amount of black leather. He pushed the button for his floor. True to his word, his staff was interviewing people. He had four people downstairs and two more in his suite to interview those who knew O’Mara personally. Anyone who had clocked actual face-time with the cheat. He would meet them as promised but mostly as a courtesy.

  The people invited to their weekend show at The Fairmont were the individuals listed as victims. Most of those who lost money did so with the assistance of professional, institutional investors—people paid handsomely to due diligence on the investor’s behalf—a fiduciary responsibility that was supposed to be legally binding. Banks, pension funds, insurance companies, university endowments, charitable organizations, union coffers—all served as sheep for fleecing by Patty O’Mara. Perhaps if more of the stolen money had been union dues, Patty and Jimmy might already be roommates.

  A dark, female hand slipped between the closing elevator doors. Kurt pressed the doors-open button, but she’d already pushed them apart enough to enter the compartment. An attractive black woman in her early fifties, she wore a purple sweater-dress with brass buttons and epaulets. She nodded his direction.

  They were the only ones left when the elevator reached the twenty-second floor. Kurt let the woman exit first.

  “Thank you, Mr. Myers.” She offered her slim hand to him. “I’m Vonda Creevy. I appreciate your effort.” She looked down at the floor. “It’s quite a mess.”

  “Are you heading to my suite?”

  “I am. I’m not sure that I have anything to offer, but I did know—I mean, I do know Mr. O’Mara personally.” Her eyes were a bright mahogany. “Funny how he seems almost past-tense.”

  “No doubt many wish he were.”

  Vonda’s short laugh reminded him of someone not quite ready to find humor in the loss. “A member of your staff asked me to come here. I gather you and I will be chatting.”

  “Absolutely.” He gestured to her. “Please, after you.”

  The suite door was unlocked when they entered. Two men milled about while his staff spoke with a forty-something couple seated on a curved sofa. Out the eastern window, the Transamerica building loomed within reach. The suite consoled the former patrons of Patty O’Mara’s financial fraud with a panoramic view of the city.

  “Ms. Creevy, please make yourself comfortable. One of my staff will speak with you first. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get a status from my assistant.”

  “Certainly.”

  A staff member came to greet her. Kurt took the opportunity to slip into the adjacent room. A young woman worked alone at the coffee table.

  “How are we doing, Steph?” He closed the door behind him.

  She lifted her head. “Moving like a glacier.” The spiky, brown hair barely covered her ears. “Most of these people hardly knew O’Mara. Can you imagine entrusting your life’s savings to a stranger?”

  “People do it everyday. Most don’t have your healthy skepticism.”

  “I’m usually called paranoid. Skepticism.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Gives it an air of respectability.”

  He hefted the stack of forms from the table. “So what’s the tally?”

  “Out of three hundred eighty-two current investors, two hundred thirty-seven only spoke with the man by phone. Of the one hundred forty-five who met him, sixty-seven considered him to be a close friend. Lucky them.”

  “Does that include the institutional investors?”

  “Yep. Some of those guys took it personally.”

  Kurt thought about the message from Vladimir Penniski’s thugs. Another jilted friend of O’Mara’s who took it personally. Penniski had the means to go after O’Mara himself. He didn’t have to hassle with Spencer Thornton’s group encounter.

  Kurt made plenty of enemies during the D. C. case, but members of Congress rarely took revenge in the way Penniski did. Penniski’s reputation varied from brutal to bloody. Kurt needed to stay alert, totally on task with this case. And watch his back.

  “Are you listening to me?” Stephanie’s squeaky voice penetrated his defenses.

  “I’m sorry. Brain drift.”

  “I said the two men in the other room have been waiting to speak with you.”

  “Of course, please bring them in.”

  Stephanie gave him the form that the men had filled out with their inform
ation. She went to retrieve them from the main suite.

  Kurt spent the next thirty minutes discussing their loss and their tenuous connection to O’Mara. They had power of attorney over their mother’s estate and thought they were investing wisely. Four years ago, they met with O’Mara and mistook him for an honest man.

  Losing the money dug to one level. Finding out O’Mara took them for dupes, dug to their pits. Facing their beloved mother with nearly all her assets stolen, dug to an early grave.

  Like survivors of a plane wreck, terrorist bombing, or high-rise fire—the stories were all the same, only the names and faces changed with each telling. He’d heard from many that bonds were formed during this conference at The Fairmont if only for the weekend. It served as an emotional fling for the survivors of O’Mara’s unnatural disaster.

  The brothers added nothing to his knowledge of the enemy. Kurt listened intently, took notes where appropriate, and averted his gaze when the men broke down in tears. He learned nothing new, only the intricacies of these particular broken hearts.

  The three men stood.

  “Jail time isn’t enough for O’Mara, gentlemen. His crime breeches the envelope of our judicial system. It is simply inadequate.”

  The two men nodded. Someone was on their side. Acknowledgement of the injustice seemed to restrain their despair.

  Kurt gave them his business card. It listed him simply—Investigative Services. Kurt Meyers, LL.M. For this case, he wasn’t anyone’s attorney, just the private investigator. His grueling year at NYU law school reduced to three little letters. “Call this number anytime. My people will keep you informed.” He ushered them to the main suite and recited the now-pat speech about doing what he could to find the money. They left as happy as they could for men who’d lost four million dollars.

  Stephanie approached him. “They look better than when they came in.” A necklace hung to her thighs over a floor-length knit dress. She wound the beads around her finger. “Another one waits. You ready?”

  He wasn’t. But he was paid too well for that to matter. For some of these people, he knew he was their only hope.

  “Who’s on deck?”

  She looked at the form on her clipboard. “Vonda Creevy.”

  “Ah. The lovely woman in purple. We’ve met.”

  “I hope I look that good when I’m her age.”

  Stephanie wore punky hair, garish make-up, and under her dress, combat boots. Smart, but not stylish. Only twenty-eight, and she didn’t look that good now.

  “I’ll take this one.”

  “Check out the notes first.” She showed him the clipboard.

  He read it. “Interesting. I can’t say I’m shocked.”

  Kurt went into the main suite and found Vonda Creevy staring out at the cityscape. “Ms. Creevy, we meet again.”

  “Vonda. Please call me Vonda.” She let him help her up from the seat. “I’ve never been fond of the name Creevy. Though it did come with a particularly wonderful man as part of the package.”

  Single and thirty, Kurt appreciated anyone who spoke highly of a spouse. Too many blabbed to the wrong people. If he’s a jackass, tell him. Then at least it might do some good.

  “Wonderful and fortunate.” Kurt smiled at her. “It seems Mr. O’Mara thought rather highly of you, too.”

  “I’ve been a litigating attorney for almost thirty years. Until this weekend, I didn’t realize Patty’s behavior toward me was unusual. That must sound painfully naïve.”

  They walked into the smaller room and sat on the sofa.

  “He made flattering comments to me. Not suggestive. He’d send notes, little gifts, and always chocolate truffles. With his level of clientele, I assumed he treated everyone the same way.”

  Kurt filled two water glasses from a pitcher. “And you found out that he didn’t?”

  “Some of the women I met this weekend were quite attractive.” Her head rocked from side to side before she shook it. “No. My experience was unique.”

  “So tell me about it.”

  “Roger and I originally met with him here in San Francisco.” She seemed to struggle for words. “He complimented me. You know. My outfit. My hair. His delivery was always so smooth that I never felt uncomfortable around him.”

  “I imagine you’ve had your share of compliments over the years.”

  “As a black woman in a court room, I’ve heard it all. Some men try to demean you with their comments. Objectify you. They aren’t particularly artful.” She gripped the arms on her chair. “Odd to say about a man who steals you blind, but Patty was a gentleman.”

  While Vonda Creevy and her husband suffered at the hands of Patty O’Mara, their lives would change little. Only a portion of their holdings had been in speculative investments. Yet even with their loss, she could still assess the man responsible with a cool clarity matched by few he’d ever met. She was special. The fact that she looked like Angela Bassett was a definite upside.

  “Did you keep the things he sent you?”

  She considered the question. “You know, I did. He always sent them to my office. The gifts are there. I filed the letters like any other paperwork.”

  “Did your husband see the correspondence?” Kurt straightened a pant leg.

  She shrugged, her palms turning toward the ceiling. “He might have at the office. I don’t know. I didn’t bother taking them home because there wasn’t anything that seemed relevant to our account. The messages seemed rather chatty for a fund broker. Would you like the files?”

  “I want everything you have from O’Mara.” He thought a moment. “Were any of the items mailed from unusual locations?’

  “Let’s see. There was Grand Cayman. Lovely place. Roger and I spent our twentieth anniversary there. Switzerland. Oh.” Her face stilled.

  She was an unusual woman. Smart. Kurt liked Vonda Creevy.

  “And Uruguay.” Her mouth turned down. “Isn’t Uruguay also known for its offshore banks?”

  Chapter Eight

  The clock in the living room chimed three. Travis was hanging over at Javier’s. After six months apart, they had some catching up to do. He promised to be home before four when Maggie’s shift started. Her only clean blouse needed ironing, and Dad still needed his dinner. She dropped some generic Advil, got dressed, and prepped a simple meal of leftovers for him—baked chicken, steamed rice, and carrots. She sat the ceramic plate on a TV tray in front of the worn leather couch.

  “I brought your dinner.”

  He wore jeans and an oxford shirt tails-out. He sat upright on the couch and stared at the silent television in front of him. His hand gripped a smoothed piece of soapstone. The dark veins on the back of his hand bulged with each flex. She took his hand into hers, unfurled each bony finger, and removed the rock.

  “Open your mouth for a pill.” Maggie placed the yellow tablet on his obedient tongue and let him erode it a bit before handing him a glass of water. His hand closed around a wad of play dough she dropped in his palm, his fingers quickly greeting the old friend.

  Her lips brushed his cheek, and she smoothed the stray, peppery hairs away from his tanned forehead. British Sterling filled her to the brim. “I need to go to work now.”

  His head lifted to her. His eyes twinkled as if he knew a funny joke and wanted to tell it, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate to smile.

  “I’ll be home around midnight.” She rubbed the back of his hand. “I love you.”

  Maggie grabbed her pack and went out to their mailbox. A dark, fit man directed movers from the driveway across the street as they hauled a workbench down the ramp of a van. A Siamese cat threaded through his legs marking him as its owner. With a single hand gesture, the workbench disappeared in the garage, and the cat, into a juniper bush.

  A woman bounced from the shadows wearing a white-flowered sarong and excessive make-up. Her blonde stopped two inches shy of her roots. A pretty face but not a happy one. She bore the countenance of constant disappointment. She said something to
the man in a language that Maggie didn’t recognize. Maggie slipped into the car with the mail before she was obligated to make any introductions. If they’d been around last night, they wouldn’t be anxious to meet her either.

  She drove her old Subaru to her waitressing job on Highway 1. A haute-Japanese influenced eatery du jour, Osakane bustled nightly with makers from the city in search of an opulent food fix on the beach. She parked in the employee section near the dumpsters.

  The Fender family mail sat in the passenger seat. She rarely scanned the envelopes anymore. It merely prolonged the agony. Like a Band-Aid, just rip it off.

  The first envelope presented her with a past-due notice for Dad’s medical care. The winch in her stomach ratcheted a notch. Ah, but she already had this bill at home. The amount due had merely shifted to the even-later column.

  The second envelope brought news of a tuition hike at school. She barely scraped enough for the last round. She could take less units, but that delayed graduation another semester. Graduation was supposed to equal real money. She needed real money.

  Her throat closed when she saw the third envelope from Barston Mortgage. Vibrations from her hand made the letter difficult to open. The page fluttered as she read the headline—Notice of Default.

  Foreclosure hovered over their home like a sharpened scythe. Expecting this letter to arrive didn’t lessen the impact. She forced herself to breathe.

  The notice was a preliminary step for the bank. They couldn’t kick the Fenders out of the house. Not yet. She’d have to meet with the loan officer. An article on the internet said they worked with people to come up with a payment schedule. She still had her job. That was something to be thankful for.

  She counted the remaining envelopes. Shit. Three to go.

  Even Russian roulette only offered one bullet.

  She opened the rest of the mail. PG&E power bill, another nasty-gram from the phone company, and an invoice from a bank for a safe deposit box. Her father didn’t even bank there.