Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (2 page)

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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.