Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (31 page)

 

 

The nine o’clock ransom deadline for Monday morning choked Maggie like an anaconda. Her breathing came rapid-fire in short strokes. Pressure built up behind her eyes and hammered away at her skull. She veered around another idiot on Interstate 280.

 

Using O’Mara’s mythical money for their father’s ransom was another of Travis’ delusions. He could easier sell passage to Atlantis.

Two million dollars.

Their father’s life in exchange for two million dollars. If they liquidated absolutely everything they owned, including the dogs, it might total fifteen thousand. That was money she needed for her father’s long-term care, Travis’ future, a car that kept the oil off the driveway.

Because of the heavy rain, traffic was lighter, but the drivers all the more stupid. Her patience waned toward the others on the road. Were they going anywhere important? Did any of them have a loved one in danger?

When she told Travis about her plan to visit Vladimir Penniski, he wanted to go with her. Someone had to stay home in case her father escaped, or the kidnapper called, or to watch the dogs. She knew it was lame, but she didn’t want him coming with her. Travis had his work to do, and she had hers. He needed to do his computer thing because he felt useful.

Mainly, she didn’t want him along because he risked going back to prison. One of the terms of his probation was that he wouldn’t associate with known criminals. Vladimir Penniski was about as well-known a criminal as John Gotti. To think how she made Travis suffer while Dad was the real hacker in the family. Another Fender family footnote in the file labeled ‘irony.’

Travis found Penniski’s private address in ways that Maggie did not want explained. He probably went to a hacker forum, but she chose to believe he googled it to preserve her shrinking sanity. Whatever. Within ten minutes of asking, he printed directions and a map. She hadn’t really considered what she was going to say to Vladimir Penniski, but she was already on the Embarcadero and Folsom was the next street.

A metered parking spot was empty, but she needed more time than they allowed. More time. Daddy needed more time. Travis got too much time. Time was running out. She turned into the first parking garage on Folsom and paid fifteen dollars she couldn’t afford.

Maggie wore one of her better ensembles for this outing. A worn, but serviceable belted shirtdress in navy blue, blue heels, and a jaunty off-white sweater. It was jaunty because she tied it casually about her neck to hide the stains in the front. With her father’s black umbrella, she looked every bit a career girl on the move.

With a mix of concave and convex exterior surfaces, Penniski’s building was a towered structure of mostly glass that touted the best views in the city. Maggie strode into the lobby as if late for a fire. She closed her umbrella and hung it on her forearm.

The place reeked of gotten-gain—ill or otherwise—and it smelled heavenly. By contrast, it reminded Maggie that one of the dogs had barfed on the rug that morning. In all the commotion, she’d forgotten to clean it up.

One of the lobby guards strode toward her from his station. Of course, it was a secure building to keep out the riff-raff. Unless the riff-raff was a resident. Maggie’s heart raced like a greyhound. She’d never even make it to the elevator. As the guard closed in, his badge declared him not a guard but a Lobby Ambassador, and his name was Calvin.

She dripped her sweetest smile. “Oh, Calvin. Vladimir’s mother told me to ask for you when I arrived.” She reached for his hand.

Calvin appeared confused but let Maggie take it in both of hers. “Mr. Penniski’s mother?”

“Yes, darling, Sofia. She’s arranging a surprise party for him four weeks from Friday.” Maggie wrapped her arms around his bicep. She hoped he didn’t feel her sweat. “We simply must keep this a secret until then. Can we count on you, dear?”

Maybe it was mentioning the nose-biter by name, or maybe he was the only straight man on the concierge staff, but Calvin fell under the spell. “Absolutely, Ms.— ”

“Brianna, darling. Brianna Morgana.” Maggie walked Calvin toward his station and closer to the elevator. It had cardkey access only. “We’re going to have about thirty guests. I’ve arranged for a jazz combo to entertain. But we still need a caterer for the wine and food. Sofia specifically wanted your recommendation.”

His brown eyes sparkled. “We have an amazing roster of caterers for our clients.”

Three men, all in business suits, entered through the front door. Calvin greeted one of them. Maggie exchanged glances with them all.

“Tell you what. You select the top three, and then we’ll decide.” Maggie fell in behind the men. “Let me pop up and see Vlad for a moment. If I don’t, Sofia will never forgive me.”

“Of course, Ms. Morgana.” Calvin nodded. “I’ll have it ready when you return.”

She walked to the elevator at a pace brisk enough to catch up to the three men, one of whom gallantly held the door open for her. Maggie waved at Calvin before it closed. By the time she hit the 42nd floor, she was alone.

She rang the bell at the only condo facing the bay. A husky man with curly black hair and an amused expression opened the door. She’d used the last of her bluster in the lobby. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Maggie considered running to the elevator when the man said, “Miss Fender, won’t you please come in.”

At the mention of her name, any remaining courage wilted. He took her umbrella without asking and placed it in a stand by the door. Apparently, she was expected. Maggie stepped forward to bolster her determination and stave off collapse. “Yes, thank you.” Even if these animals threatened her father’s life, she stayed with polite.

But her focus had been on the man, and when she walked inside the room, the view overwhelmed her. She could see the Golden Gate, the Bay Bridge, Pier 39, and damn near Nevada. The expansive sight gave her a slight case of vertigo.

The gentleness of the second voice startled her. “Miss Fender. It is a lovely view, isn’t it? I enjoy watching the faces of my guests when they first enter this room.” It came from a man of about forty-five wearing a tailored smoking jacket over black, satin pajamas. She recognized him instantly. He looked ridiculous. She might have laughed at his absurd attire if he weren’t capable of murder.

“Mr. Penniski. My father has been missing since yesterday. Do you have him?”

She didn’t think her qualms were obvious, but he swept to her side as if she might swoon. Maybe he was always this way around women.

He gestured to a pair of teal club chairs and sat in one of them. He was fit, agile, and moved like a panther sizing up a gazelle. “Please, sit.”

She searched for the man who’d let her in, but he’d been replaced by a slightly larger model. It wasn’t until the first man returned with glasses of ice water that she realized there were two of them. Probably the same two men who came looking for her at the restaurant. What the hell was she thinking coming here? He placed the glasses on the cocktail table between the chairs. Her mouth felt like the Kalahari.

Penniski would never kill her here. He wouldn’t want to stain his platinum wool carpet with her blood. And she was thirsty. Maggie accepted the chair across the watering hole from her predator.

“Now. What makes you think I have anything to do with your father’s disappearance?” His steepled fingers smacked of condescension but aped concern. Friendly in the eyes, a hypocrite in the heart. His attitude pissed her off. Time to step on the dog’s tail.

“You don’t seem surprised that I’m here. How did you know my name?” She steepled her fingers to mirror his actions.

The gesture seemed to frustrate him. “I’m sorry about your father’s situation. I know you must be quite upset. But I had no hand in it.”

“How did you know my name?” Maggie reached for a glass but decided against indulging. Already one person poisoned.

Penniski took the second glass of water and ran a finger around the rim. “Your family has been on every broadcast for the last twenty-four hours. Has there been any news of him?”

“My family has not. Only my father. How do you know him?”

He laid a foot upon his other knee and leaned toward her. “You want answers, I’ll tell you. But first, I’m going to ask some questions. Did your father know Patty O’Mara?”

“My father has Alzheimer’s. At the moment, he doesn’t even know me.” She dialed back the attitude. “I don’t believe they’ve ever met.”

Vladimir Penniski pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one out. The pack looked imported. He found a silver lighter in the other pocket and lit it without asking her if she might be bothered by the smoke. Apparently, the smoking jacket wasn’t entirely for show.

He drew hard on the first drag. “That mick stole thirty million dollars from me.” Vladimir’s genteel veneer cracked.

Maggie scanned the penthouse. Seemed he still had plenty of money.

“I’m not accustomed to losing anything, lady.” Vladimir’s smile left her chilled. “Maybe your father knows where my money went.”

“My father is not a thief.”

“O’Mara kept his computers at the same place where Martin Fender—” He pointed his cigarette at Maggie. “—your father worked. They must have come into contact. I want the money that bastard stole from me. And you must think your father has it. Otherwise, why would you come looking for me?”

Travis did. She didn’t. “I came looking for you because my father can’t take care of himself, and now he’s missing. Someone tried to kill him earlier this week, and your henchmen have been asking about me at work and in my neighborhood.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and willed herself not to cry. “I don’t know what happened to O’Mara’s money.”

When she finally opened her eyes, Vladimir Penniski’s gaze swathed her in pity. “I don’t have your father. I did plan to speak with him. By the time my boys arrived, your father was already gone. I have thirty million reasons to wish him well.”

Maggie considered his response. “My father lost the love of his life to a wretched disease, and now—” She tightened her quivering jaw. “And now his mind is crumbling.” But she’d said enough. She rose from her seat. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Penniski. I appreciate your letting me in to speak with you.”

He stood with her. “I’m impressed you made it all the way up here. What kind of story did you give them?”

Heat swarmed her face. “I told them I was working with your mother on a surprise party.”

The boys and he laughed. “That’s a good one. Not likely to work for somebody who looks like one of these mugs.” He jacked a thumb at the bigger man. “Spunky girl. I like that.”

Frightened girl. Stupid girl. Desperate girl.

Maggie used the moment of levity to approach the front door. Vladimir Penniski opened it for her and returned her umbrella. He shook her hand before she left, and in spite of his denial over kidnapping her father, she felt like washing.

She kept her poise in the elevator car because a camera was surely watching. The ride down was mercifully quick. She didn’t want to continue her saga with Calvin, so she hung back some moments to re-con the lobby. He conversed with an attractive, black couple and their two sons. He bent down to the smaller boy and pulled a coin from the child’s ear. As the kid squealed, Maggie made for the exit.

Before she stepped into the rain, she popped out her umbrella. A taxicab pulled up to the curb in front of the building. A man slid out from the rear seat and entered Vladimir Penniski’s exclusive building. Maggie hid behind her umbrella, so she wouldn’t run into Fyodor.

 

 

Chapter Fifty-Five

 

 

As Kurt promised, the spikey-haired lady brought the list of investors suing Patty O’Mara for recovery of their money to Travis. According to the paperwork, some federal court had recently declared the investors a class, so they could sue the skivvies off O’Mara as a monolithic entity. But the people on the list had to actively join the group. Kurt said he expected that they all would.

 

Travis pored over the information Dad had buried for him to discover. The amount of financial data was staggering. He’d found bank accounts, numbered accounts, routing numbers, passwords and verified credentials in the name James Hendricks and another dude named Robert Sands.

O’Mara used the alias Robert Sands and still owned active accounts around the globe. Once O’Mara realized the money was missing, he must have left them idle, or Dad controlled them. Either way, O’Mara wasn’t in a hurry to openly complain. Travis used an indirect route to test the accounts, to see if the feds had them on lockdown. No lockdowns anywhere, leading him to believe that the feds didn’t have a pulse on Robert Sands.

Plus, Dad had streamed a copy of all the information O’Mara kept on the investors—names, addresses, account numbers, routing numbers, even birthdays and anniversaries. The dude was shameless. His father, too.

Travis knew that Alzheimer’s was a miserable disease, but did it change the man beneath? Ever since Dad’s diagnosis, everyone felt compelled to share a horror story about a grandma-gone-wrong. Alzheimer’s changed some of these people into foul-mouthed ragers when the person had been peaceful. Or vice versa. But would it change an honest man into a thief? He wasn’t an absent-minded klepto but a genius-level mastermind of Great Train Robbery proportions. If Travis remembered the story correctly, all those guys eventually got caught.

When was Maggie coming back? He shouldn’t have let her visit Penniski alone. And what the hell was he thinking with his trash talk to Kurt Meyers? Ego wrote that check. The idea of moving that kind of money around the world like poker chips was off the hook. Compared to tapping phone companies, enslaving drone computers, or jacking credit card numbers, this was climbing Mount Everest.

But was it really there?

Travis hadn’t verified that the money was in all those accounts. Right now he needed access to two million. Only two million. Kurt Meyers and the investors could wait.

His muscles tensed as he tried to think. Travis had all the source code to the computer programs his father wrote. Idea after idea swept past him on a riptide. Travis needed to grab a good one and let the half-assed ones float.