by Helen Hanson
Kurt drove up the exit ramp and into the natural light. As he wound his way through the city toward Interstate 280, San Francisco’s reluctant sun emerged. The day was still crisp, but tension over this meeting elevated his body temperature. He hit the air conditioner button. While the clouds cleared from the sky, thoughts cumulated in Kurt’s head.
The SEC’s San Francisco regional office was down Montgomery Street from Kurt’s office, but Samantha Merrick worked at headquarters in D.C. A case this volatile required HQ involvement. Jurisdiction be damned. Samantha’s flight landed in an hour.
Ten-odd years later, his conversations with Samantha still stirred him. They’d never really been an item. Timing always worked against them. The summer he decided to make a move, she left for Europe and met an Italian footballer. By the time she returned without Alberto, he was in law school at NYU dating a performance artist from the Village. No surprise that relationship didn’t last either.
Samantha came to visit him in New York one weekend, but his sister decided to tag along at the last minute. Finally, the investment house job that brought Samantha to Wall Street coincided with his acceptance of a position with Alhambra, Simon, and Fitch in D.C. White boy rhythm struck again.
Samantha and he had spent enough time together to know they shared an ease in any situation. But the comfort level between them effected a weird repellant—as if love required turmoil and angst to be true. Too much accord intimated a familial essence, deeming the relationship unseemly—or worse—without any flames.
Kurt knew he leaned toward stodgy. He tried to amp his image with his car. The Brits on the superhot car show, Top Gear, called the A8 fussy. It wants to be wild but isn’t. Like Justin Bieber in leather. Kurt should have bought the stick shift.
A siren cut into his daydream, reminding him of the encounter with the ambulance the day before. The recorder pen in his breast pocket gained weight. His hand clapped over it. It resembled any other pen, but this seemingly mundane object bore malevolence.
Kurt concentrated on his meeting with O’Mara. He’d spent the witching hour developing specific questions to ask everybody’s friend Patty. But stripped down, the list covered only one topic. Where’s the money?
The car ahead of him braked before veering off the freeway. Exit 25. This was his exit. Kurt swerved before he missed it.
He stayed in the right-hand lane and yielded to a group of Harleys before merging onto Woodside Road. Kurt watched the clean-leathered pack as they headed toward the coast. Probably a bunch of CPAs. Several attractive women rode past him.
Maybe he should buy a motorcycle.
O’Mara’s estate sprawled across ten wooded acres. Built by an Eames wannabe architect in the mid-twentieth century, the home’s geometric panels, painted in primary colors, irritated more than a few neighbors. With time, the trees and a renewed appreciation of Eames took root. Once the court rendered the inevitable conviction, few expected O’Mara to keep the house. Restitution was a noble cover for retribution.
Patty had been inside with his ankle monitor for over five weeks. The media sentries had waned since O’Mara’s arraignment. Other stories captured the headlines. Celebrity meltdowns, heinous acts of violence, the latest political embarrassment. Now, a lone news van manned O’Mara’s gate.
Kurt pulled his Audi past the van to the intercom box on the driveway. He pushed the call button.
A male with a British accent intercepted, “May we help you?”
“Hi. I’m Kurt Meyers.”
“Very nice, sir. What can—”
The two-person news crew climbed out of the van with cameras and microphones. Apparently, they smelled a story.
“Kurt. This is Patty. I’m buzzing you through the gates.”
A lump clogged his throat. “Thank you.”
The gate motor whirred to life, pulling the doors apart from the center. Kurt idled through the wrought iron jaws and let them close behind him. The cameraman recorded his entry while the female accompanied the action with commentary. Once they ran his license plates, he imagined the media firestorms would descend upon his office. Surely, O’Mara would have expected this outcome. Kurt did, and he’d warned Stephanie to plan for the worst.
O’Mara’s driveway cut a swath through mature spruce, Douglas fir, and redwoods. The dense arbor obscured what lay beyond the next curve. The Audi crept along the cracked asphalt. A roadside chipmunk watched him pass as if he were the object of everyone’s fascination. Finally, a view of the exquisite home penetrated the canopy.
Photos of this house dominated the nightly news for a solid month when O’Mara’s hedge fund finally earned the investigative interest of the SEC. The sharp angles of the home jutted from the greenery as a child’s block amid the grass, appearing forgotten, incongruent, and utterly magical.
In spite of the cranking AC, perspiration soaked Kurt’s shirt. He approached this meeting with eyes nailed open, but still, people said the aura around the man was intoxicating. Going rounds with the power brokers in D.C. hardly prepared him for meeting this charismatic charlatan. D.C. crooks stole like common thieves—when their victims weren’t paying attention. Not O’Mara. He’d unclasp grandmother’s pearls from a lady’s neck and then use them to strangle her—with a smile never leaving her face. Spencer Thornton said he could charm the fantail off a horny peacock.
The asphalt melded with pine needles as he neared the house. The driveway forked to encircle the home. The first road led toward the rear of the house, probably for deliveries and service issues. Tire tracks indicated a recent passage. The heavily used second road opened up into a sizable parking area on the eastern side of O’Mara’s house. The third road swept directly to the man’s front door. He parked in the lot next to a California oak and let the cool air run over him a moment while he collected his briefcase, thoughts, and courage.
Kurt took the pen from his shirt pocket and set it on the seat beside him. It was a risk taking it inside. As far as this interview was concerned, Patty called all the shots. O’Mara resources were still formidable.
But the goons would break legs. Or kneecaps. Maybe skulls. What was standard procedure for Russian intimidation? He didn’t think that was O’Mara’s style. Sure, Kurt could report Vladimir’s thugs. That would only make them more careful when they disposed of his body.
He checked his briefcase, again. There wasn’t much in it—notebook, actual tape recorder, real pen, mints—but he wanted to dress for his role as efficient investigator. Clean breath never hurt.
O’Mara’s red front door was closed. No one waited to greet his guest. Not that Kurt expected Patty himself to be lounging out there, but a little fanfare was in order. Kurt rolled the window down and turned off the ignition.
The mirror in the sun visor revealed a man with trouble. His pale blue eyes swam in fatigue and indecision. Only the square of his jaw feigned control.
He grabbed the pen from the seat and put it in his briefcase. He opened the car door and put his feet on the ground, suddenly unsure if they would hold him. A siren’s moan wafted through the woodland.
The briefcase hung from his arm like an anchor. He shut the door and took several steps toward the house. The moaning seemed to follow him, an apparition sent to taunt his acquiescence to evil.
The knot in his belly tightened. He couldn’t live like this. Vladimir’s goons be damned. Kurt would report them. Besides, the police would need a decent lead when they found his corpse.
He returned to his car and tossed the pen through the window onto the passenger-side floorboards. The action levitated his mood. He bounded toward the house and his meeting with Patty O’Mara.
Kurt landed on the porch at precisely the appointed time and rang the bell, but the siren now screamed from somewhere down the driveway. He watched through the thicket for any sign of the offending vehicle. As the ambulance crashed into view, the front door slapped open and a man in white rushed out. The man stood in the driveway, fanning his hands in the air. The ambul
ance screeched to a halt in front of the house. Kurt stepped behind a tree to keep the path clear.
But for whom?
Two men spilled from the ambulance.
The man in white spoke in gasps, “It’s Mr. O’Mara. He’s stopped breathing.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The drive back from Le Horizons held none of the tingly anticipation of Maggie’s first visit. Instead of dining ocean side amid the hubbub of delighted patrons, her new best hope was to bring them their coq au vin with a smile. She didn’t hold much hope of landing a job there right now. Too many out-of-work programmers trying to make ends meet. The other three restaurants also took her résumé but told her they weren’t hiring. At least the drive along Highway 1 was never a waste.
If there was any chance of keeping the house, she had to get a job. It was tough to come up with a payment schedule based on zero income. Dad’s social security check couldn’t all go toward the house. But losing the house might mean losing Dad.
A flicker of hope smothered again by her world.
She needed a dose of Denesha. They usually hung out after work when their schedules allowed, but this week left Maggie scrambling. She considered stopping by the restaurant, maybe catching her before her shift, but the thought of running into Peter wasn’t so appealing. Then again, there wasn’t anything left for the little knicker-wad to do to her.
The dinner-shift change was due to start, so Maggie took a spur road between the coast and her former employer. Denesha was probably working either lunch or dinner as they hadn’t yet replaced Maggie. Figures, the one restaurant hiring listed her as a pariah.
The place hadn’t changed physically in the four days since Joe fired her. However, the atmosphere felt foreign, unwelcoming. If she could take back the punch, she would, but only because she needed a job. She wondered if the jerk’s nose was still swollen.
As she drove by, Maggie didn’t see Peter’s or Denesha’s car in the lot. She parked on the street half a block away. Denesha usually came from this direction. Maggie didn’t want to press her luck by driving on private property. Joe wouldn’t care, but Peter might make a stink. Maggie had enough trouble without rattling the lid to Pandora’s box.
She watched the rear door of the restaurant. One of the guys from the kitchen brought out a bag of trash. Another former coworker came out for a smoke.
A car pulled up alongside hers. Denesha leaned over the passenger seat toward Maggie. “Hey, girl. Let me park, and I’ll be right back.” She nodded and drove off.
Maggie was out of the car when Denesha returned. She gave her friend a hug. “Thanks for all your help. How’s Peter’s nose?”
“You didn’t break it, just gave him a righteous bloody nose.”
“Good thing. He’d be all lawyered up by now.”
“Amen to that.”
“Someone has been calling my house asking for Dad,” Maggie said. “I think it’s Peter.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. That man has no joy.” Denesha stood on one leg. “How goes the job hunt?”
“Haven’t bagged one.”
“Check the Half Moon Bay forum. There’s a thread about new businesses. You might catch one before it even opens.” A hint of concern clouded her face. “How was your date with the Kremlin?”
The butterflies took flight in Maggie’s stomach again. “Nice. Really nice. He’s polite, funny, thoughtful, and rock-solid gorgeous.”
Denesha rolled her eyes. “So I’ve heard.” She crossed her arms. “What does he do?”
A natural question but not the way Denesha asked. “Private security services. Why?”
She shook her head. “Nothing really, but I got a call from Morgan on the way here. She worked last night and said a couple of guys came in for dinner. They were asking about you.”
“Two guys asking about me. Why? What’s this got to do with Fyodor?”
“Maybe nothing, but they were Russian guys. Two burly Russian guys with accents. They said you’d served them before. When she told them you didn’t work here anymore, they wanted to know where you worked now. She got the impression they wanted to find you.”
Maggie had been with the restaurant for well over a year. “I don’t remember any Russian customers. What did they look like?”
“Morgan said they were both big guys, one a little larger, and really well dressed. You know, suits, nice shoes. Ordered an expensive bottle of wine.”
“Credit card?”
“Nope,” Denesha said. “I asked. They paid cash.”
Maggie had never served anyone like that. Why would they be looking for her?
“You look scared,” Denesha said. “Who are these guys?”
“I don’t know. Fyodor only moved in this week.” Maggie didn’t know a single Russian then suddenly a gorgeous one finds her oh-so-fascinating. Sure. Her front-yard theater must be hugely entertaining. But why would two other Russians want to find her?
The last thing she needed was more complications. She’d break the date for the weekend. She was in no mood to be played.
Denesha put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not sure how much more I can take.” Maggie bit her lip. “Dad knifes a guy. That strange woman attacks Travis, and he thinks every nonsensical utterance from Dad is a psychic message. Maybe prison affected him. I don’t know, but it’s too much weird for one week.” She checked the time on her watch. “Your shift is going to start. I’m going home. If you hear anything else, call me.”
“And you call me.” Denesha hugged her extra long. “If you need anything.”
“Thanks, Neesh. I will.”
Maggie climbed back into her car. Why would someone look for her at the restaurant? She had regular customers, but the other wait staff would have recognized them. The only one with an accent was the blind German woman who dined with her yellow lab. At five-ten and one-hundred thirty pounds—max—the German lady was hardly burly. Even the lab was scrawny.
Maggie started the car and drove off with a brain full of confusion. Fyodor hadn’t been around the neighborhood long enough for her to detect a pattern, but she planned to avoid him. The thought made her weary.
When she arrived on her street, his car wasn’t in sight. She grabbed the mail and went inside. She could be overreacting. Fyodor seemed like genuine, fun company. Maybe she was blowing up this little molehill into a mountain. Letting stress do her thinking.
It was a little early for dinner, but she liked to keep Dad on a routine. Her father sat on the couch with The Firm at his feet. The two beagles scampered to Maggie when she entered the room.
“Hey Daddy.” She massaged his hand as he worked his rock. “Are you hungry?”
His eyes seemed to search her face for something familiar, a toehold to keep him in this dimension. But just as quickly, the moment passed. He got up and walked out of the room without saying a word.
Maggie followed him, but he only moved to the back porch. The dogs waited by their bowls for her. She decided to try her luck with them.
Bailey and Belli feasted on dry dog food while Maggie mulled over the Russians who wanted to find her. Who the hell were they? All the scenarios that played out left her anxious.
She rummaged through the pantry and found rice to accompany her gumbo. Not exactly in the same league as her meal last night, but it was wholesome. She set a pot of water on the stove to boil. Time to check on Daddy.
Travis and Javier dripped their way up the beach with surfboards in hand and wet suits open to the waist. A ripple of relief washed over Maggie. Hearing about the Russians at the restaurant had amped her angst. But seeing Travis with a surfboard again backed her down from jumpy. Maggie waved at Javier who cut a path toward his house.
The rear door slid open. Travis and her father entered, dogs scrambling past them. Dad sat at the kitchen table.
“How’s the surf?”
“Mostly ankle breakers, but after six months in Cumberton, I’ll take it.”
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His beaming smile forced one from her. “I’ve started dinner. It’ll be about twenty minutes, yet.”
“What are we having?”
Maggie poured the rice into the boiling water and stirred. “Gumbo.”
“Sounds good. Huh, Dad?” He strode over to his father and put an arm around him. “You want something to drink?” Her father didn’t move, but Travis got some milk for him anyway. He always liked milk with meals.
“I dropped off more résumés today, but nobody was hiring. Or I’ve been blackballed from every decent restaurant on the coast.” The spoon landed on the counter with more force than she wanted. “I’m not sure which.” When Travis came to her side, she started shaking.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Everything.” Hair spilled over her face. “I’m sorry. I stopped by Osakane and talked to Denesha. She said a couple of Russian guys were in there asking about me. They said—”
“Russian guys. Were they big guys?”
The knot in her belly tightened. “How did you know that?”
“Javie said he saw two brawny, Russian dudes in suits. They were talking with Frodo this morning and pointing at our house.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The clamor of the EMTs attending to Patty O’Mara rivaled the noise of a football huddle. Pointed conversation, delineation of tasks amid the backdrop of a crowd-sized cacophony, all with a single team objective—save the man’s life. Any one of these guys could have been a sheep sheared by O’Mara. Kurt wondered if it would make any difference in how each person performed.
Police sirens blazed another trail of noise through the tony neighborhood. Kurt overheard snippets of the medical team’s conversation. After an initial assessment, the EMTs from the fire department called the police. He didn’t know whether this was standard procedure for patients under house arrest, or if they suspected foul play.