Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (18 page)

“You either need less coffee or about six more colors to make it work.” She stood with her hands on her hips. “Do you have time to talk? I want to show you something one of the guys found.”

“Give me two minutes to change.”

She disappeared behind the closed door.

Kurt took off the stained shirt. The new one had several pins and cardboard stays that he removed before it would shake free from the packaging. He buttoned it up, repositioned his tie, and stashed the spare in his desk drawer.

Stephanie knocked once before entering with a file. “It’s nothing earth-shaking, but I wanted to make sure you saw this.”

He pulled down the points of his collar. “Do these look even?”

“I could get a level and check.” Stephanie’s persistent sense of humor was the yang to her amazing insight.

“Give me the file.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “What am I looking at?”

“Along with being the Pied Piper of Wall Street, O’Mara’s background was in programming. When he started his trading company, he ran his own IT department. He hired people to help with the programming, but he managed the software. He rented a cage for his servers at a big data center in Redwood City.”

“What’s the name of it?”

“Silicon Valley Server Farm.” Kurt perused some material printed from their web page. “That’s pretty common.”

“Like I said. Not earth shaking but another facet to the diamond.”

“How many employees at the data center?”

“Forty seven.” Stephanie took the file and pulled out the report from Dun & Bradstreet.

“Has the SEC checked them out?”

Pink glittered around the heavy black liner as she rolled her eyes. “Government agency. They couldn’t find their own ass with a mirror.”

She had a point. Even if she didn’t, Spenser Thornton’s cash and Kurt’s own good conscience required that he be thorough. He’d rather waste an afternoon than leave a card face-down. “I’ll head over there this week. Can you find a name for me?”

“Jack Scarson, their operations manager. You have a meeting with him tomorrow at eight. Don’t be late.”

“Thanks.” He handed her a note with the name Travis Fender listed. “This kid got busted for hacking into a company called The Rockstag Group. Check him out for me.”

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

 

Travis grabbed a jacket and wandered outside to hang out with Dad. Kind of like they used to do, but then again, not at all the same way. Dad sat in his chair with Belli’s head laid across one shoe.

 

When Travis approached, Dad didn’t move. His eyes fixed at some point along the shoreline. There was nothing to see but the surf. Then again, even for Travis, watching the surf was often enough.

“What are you watching, Dad?” Travis scooted a chair in close and sat down. “Is there something out there?”

His father turned toward him, but there wasn’t any recognition in his eyes. Some days he appeared vacant. Travis wondered what it was like to be on the other side of that stare.

“C’mon, Dad. Let’s go for a walk.” He took his father by the hand and helped him up from the chair. The older man cycled a deep breath and followed Travis’ lead down to the beach. This time, both dogs scurried to join the pack.

The steady glow of the morning sun allowed only patches of fog to remain along their stretch of coast. Bailey and Belli ran ahead to sniff out treasures left in the strand. Dad kept even pace with Travis—stopping when he stopped, moving when he moved.

Three female joggers ran past them. One jogger, way older than Maggie, eyed Travis with an interest that made him uncomfortable. She seemed the kind who would consider his age a challenge. He’d met her type before.

He met a few guys like that in prison. But between his size and making friends with some Native Americans, a black eye was the worst he’d endured as far as anyone else could see.

They turned toward the house as they came upon a young couple with small, twin boys building a sandcastle. The woman worked on a moat while the man filled a castle-shaped bucket. The boys patted sand into place around the castle’s prominent keep.

“It’s safe there,” Dad said to the boys.

The woman smiled, but the boys stopped working. Travis returned a smile and led Dad away from the area. The Firm ran around the castle and then hied over to Dad’s side.

Maggie had lectured him on reading substance into Dad’s weird sound bites. But Dad was trying to communicate. Maybe she carried too many burdens to carry any hope.

“What was safe, Dad?”

His mouth moved, but he didn’t make any sound. He grabbed Travis’ hand. Frustration flashed across his face.

“Did you make something safe, Dad?”

This time, he didn’t try to talk but simply squeezed Travis’ hand.

Travis didn’t bother asking anything else. Playing twenty questions wasn’t going to reveal the truth. He had to think like Martin Fender.

 

When they arrived back at the house, Maggie was standing inside dressed for job hunting. Travis recognized the sadness as she watched Dad. It was the look of loss. When whatever you had was gone forever. He’d seen that same expression in the mirror the day he landed at Cumberton. And the day his mother died.

Maggie opened the door. “How’s the weather?”

“Crisp and cool,” Travis said.

She lifted a chin toward her father. “How’s Daddy doing?”

“I’m a little tired, Maggie.” He walked past them both with a pair of beagles at his heels.

Travis clamped his mouth, figuring it was probably hanging open like Maggie’s. Talking to Dad was like talking on a cheap cell phone. They could never count on the reception.

“So where are you applying today?”

Her face tinged in pink. “I’m going to the French restaurant that Fyodor took me to.”

“That nice, eh?”

“I’ll hit some other places, too, but it’s that nice. The staff seemed to enjoy working there.” She took a hair thing off the counter and worked her hair into a ponytail.

He knew she didn’t think much of her real mother, but Maggie looked just like the pictures he’d seen. Maggie said her mother was a liar, a cheat, and an emotional manipulator. Travis could add only one thing to that list, beautiful.

“I’d rather serve live shark on paper plates than work with another bitchy staff.”

Maggie got on well with the rest of the crew, but that Peter dude did not like his sister. Peter’s dislike was toxic. Maybe he was making the crank calls to Dad.

“I’ll be back when I get a job or my frail ego succumbs to defeat.” Her teeth flashed, and then her face went gloomy. “You going to be okay?”

“Go. Get out of here.” He shooed her toward the front of the house. “We’re covered.” He didn’t like it when she got all motherly. He didn’t need it. But mainly, she didn’t do it well.

Travis cleaned the counters and put out some fresh supplies for The Firm. Javier appeared at the back door and let himself in.

“Hey. We alone?” Javier glanced around the room.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, man. I had to move the laptop last night. There was a water leak in the apartment upstairs. Pop went in to scope out the place for damage. He gave me full warning before he did.”

“Your pop’s a good man.” Travis nodded. “Thanks.”

Javier opened the fridge and got out the iced tea. He caught a plastic cup that Travis tossed. “Is Maggie dating that Russian dude across the street?”

“One date down. Another on tap. Why?”

“Saw him on the way over here. What’s he do?” Javie loaded up the tea with sugar.

“Security of some sort,” Travis said.

“Know much about him?”

He tired of dueling. “Spill it.”

“Nothing to spill. Neighborhood watch, you know. Couple of bulky suits rolled by his place in a big sedan early this morning. Dudes were all speaking Russian.” Javier shrugged a shoulder. “I guess. They were looking and pointing at your house, and they sure didn’t need any security.”

“You think they were up to something?”

“Maybe they wanted to know if your sister is hot. I don’t know. But they were checking out your place, and I thought you should know. You’re the man of the house now.”

Man of the house. The thought hadn’t occurred to Travis until Javier gave it voice. “That’s all I need. Trouble with bulky Russians.”

Javier swept his bangs toward an ear. “Been a rough week since you got sprung from the big house. It was quiet before you got here, man.”

“Frodo seemed like a nice guy. Maggie likes him.”

“Frodo from the Shire?”

“Fyodor. From Moscow.” Travis sat up on the counter. “Would you know these guys if you saw them again?”

“Sure.” Javier turned toward the back door. “You up for a board meeting later?”

“If the surf looks good. Hey, don’t say anything to Maggie.”

“Nah, man. I won’t. Gotta jet,” Javier said.

“See ya.”

Travis filled the sink with hot water and added ammonia. He grabbed the mop from the pantry and went after the floor. But Javier’s comment lingered.

It was quiet before you got here, man.

It all started when he got home from Cumberton. Dad knifing the dude from The Rockstag Group. Maggie losing her job. Carter’s wife landing on their lawn. AreEff confirming Kingphisher as a Rockstag insider. Russians invading the neighborhood.

Dad leaving clues.

But about what?

When Dad set this all up, he only had moments of bad. Why would he set up the domain to last beyond his ability to communicate and then lock out Travis? Travis couldn’t shake the belief that the domain was important. He leaned the mop against the refrigerator.

Maggie’s laptop sat on the desk with the power cord plugged into the wall socket. What he needed to do wouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes. Travis stepped out of the room and went down the hall to check on Dad.

Asleep.

He fired up the machine and waited for access. Then he navigated back to the website and logged in. Even if the files were compiled, he might as well download them. Maybe he could make sense of them. Probably not.

After saving the files, he opened the Email Manager at the domain. But Dad hadn’t created any email addresses for that domain. If Dad wanted to send or receive messages about this domain name, why not use email? It was easy, fairly reliable.

How could Dad get a message through with no email account?

Travis had to think like his father.

He clicked the button to create an email account. He didn’t have to make an email account with a specific name. He could make a catch-all account for any mail coming to the domain. This way, any email address ending in @AMirageVistasRight.com would be delivered.

[email protected]. Delivered.

[email protected]. Delivered.

[email protected]. Delivered.

Maybe it was a waste of time, but he had nothing else to try. It felt good to take a step, any step, in any direction. Dad was holding onto something. That much was certain. But like anything in Dad’s mind, it took effort to pry it loose.

Maggie thought the domain name was another of Dad’s last throes before slipping into the abyss. He was so centered on Trisha back then—they all were—they didn’t appreciate how deeply he’d already sunk.

Anything that showed up to the catch-all account Travis would forward to his gmail account—Viagra ads and all. He didn’t need to tell Maggie about the idea because she’d think it was lame. He’d already broken his promise to stay off the computer. A promise and a condition of his parole.

 

 

Chapter Thirty

 

 

Kurt rode the elevator to the subterranean parking garage of the Transamerica Pyramid. Stephanie arranged to have his black Audi A8 washed, waxed, and waiting before his meeting with Patty O’Mara. Important meetings necessitated a gleaming auto.

 

A skinny, white kid with bleached blond hair slid out from behind the wheel. Wearing black leather pants like a second skin and a charcoal gray shirt, the kid radiated car thief not valet. He came around to the passenger side of the car and offered to take Kurt’s briefcase. Kurt waved him off and opened the door. He dropped his briefcase onto the passenger seat and passed the kid a twenty.

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.