Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (27 page)

 

After suffering rejection from four more restaurants, Maggie thought a few moments by the surf would refresh her gloomy spirit. She drove to a secluded spot and strolled the shore until past sundown. When her engine refused to turn over, she wasn’t really surprised. Her day was more surreal than Dali’s melted clocks.

 

The Fender family budget didn’t stretch far enough to cover a cell phone. She trekked back to the highway and worked up the courage to flag down a passing vehicle. Contrary to her reigning luck, it was a friendly older couple returning from a farmer’s market and not a serial killer.

While the couple had a cell phone, coverage was poor in the area, so she couldn’t call Travis. The night was a waste. Her feet hurt, her back ached, and her spirit was still gloomy. She and the wife sat in the car while the husband coaxed Maggie’s engine to life.

By the time she got home, quiet blanketed her neighborhood. Even the usually boisterous sea offered little to breach the silence that greeted her. A light was on inside Fyodor’s house. She chided herself for noticing.

The Firm met her at the door without barking. They knew the distinctive rattle of her car and assessed her to be friend not foe. Maybe they smelled her. With dogs, who knew?

Dad was probably asleep by now. Her father often wandered into bed without fanfare. Maggie longed for the days when he sought her out simply to kiss her forehead.

She followed a light coming from the kitchen and smiled when she saw Travis slumped on the table with his cheek nestled in the crook of his arm. Drool pooled beneath his open mouth. Maybe he OD’d on computer access. He’d gone without for almost a year. Well, he was supposed to, anyway.

When she laid her purse on the counter, he stirred. “Hey,” she said, to let him know she was in the room. Maggie didn’t want to startle him into a freak-out. Travis hadn’t slept regular hours since he’d returned from prison. Then again, his homecoming had been strange enough to disrupt any healthy patterns.

He smiled back at her, his mouth stretching to a full yawn. “Arrr. What time is it?” He lay back on the table.

“After nine. I went for a walk on the beach, and then my stupid car wouldn’t start.”

“Bummer. How’s the job hunt?”

“Almost as good as my car.”

“Oh, hey.” Travis snapped upright in his seat as if by puppeteer control. “You’ve got to see this.”

“Can I sit?” She pulled out a chair from the table. The dogs sniffed her weary feet.

“You’re going to need to.” He hit the power button on the computer. “Patty O’Mara is dead.”

Maggie felt a strange deflation at the news. She didn’t know the man. At best, she thought he was a despicable financial predator who deserved severe punishment. Yet, she hoped he’d pull through his medical emergency. Someone needed good news this week. “Was it a heart attack?”

“Poison.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She sighed. “How? Who?”

“Strychnine laced chocolate. They don’t know who.”

“Talk about a waste of good chocolate.”

“Not funny, Magpie.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m wiped.” She pushed her chair away from the table. “I’ll say a prayer for the rest of the O’Mara’s before I collapse.”

Travis grabbed her wrist. “Stay. I still need to show you something.”

“What?”

Travis’ pupils dilated. “Another email. It came in right after dinner.”

“From Dad?”

“No. It’s from an investment house in Brussels.”

“Brussels. In Belgium. What’s it about?”

“It’s a notice about some new investment opportunities. Some green companies offering stock for sale. It came to an email address at Dad’s weird domain name. The one with all our names in it.”

Bailey put his head on Maggie knee, and she stroked his face. “Miranda Rights or something.”

Travis checked the screen. “AMirageVistasRight.com.”

“Whatever. It sounds like spam.” Even as the words left her mouth, they tasted false. But, her brother didn’t need encouragement. “Did it address him by name?”

“Sort of. It’s addressed to James Hendricks. Check it out.”

She peered at the email name. [email protected]. Even with the odd spelling, Maggie’s heart panged. Dad told everyone about meeting Jimi Hendrix at the ’67 Monterey Pop Festival. Even she could recite the story by now. Hendrix was his favorite guitarist. Travis’ theory gained steam.

Her face must’ve given her away. Travis pointed his finger. “You know I’m right. Dad would pick a name just like this. A name that means something to him but not so exact as to look stupid. Like using Cher.”

“Daddy couldn’t stand Cher. He thought Sonny was the talented one. And the pretty one.” She weighed the evidence. “But so what? An email that might be for Dad from an investment house in Brussels. If it had come through the post office, we’d call it junk mail. People use fake names all the time when they sign up for things. Ginger still gets mail from Omaha Steaks addressed to her dead cat.”

“Waggles?” He smiled when he said it.

“C’mon, Trav.” She dropped a shoe and rubbed one of her feet. “We’ve got enough real issues without making up new ones.”

“Maybe this email isn’t—” Travis whipped his head around as if he heard a noise. “Where’s Dad?”

“I just got here, remember?”

“Yeah. Right.” He loosened his posture. “Sorry. I fell asleep.” He pushed back his chair. “Maybe I should check on him.”

Her spine tingled, leaving Maggie unsettled. She rose to follow him but detoured to the porch. “He’s not outside.” She hustled to Dad’s room.

Travis cracked the door, breaking the darkness. He reached inside and hit the light switch. Maggie gasped.

The bed was empty.

She noted the fear on Travis’ face. “I’ll check our rooms,” she said. “You sweep the downstairs.” He nodded, and she ran for the stairs.

He rarely came upstairs, anymore. “Daddy?” Maggie bounded the steps two at a time, flipping lights on as she went. She checked the bathroom first, sweeping back the shower curtain to be certain it was empty. The bedrooms were clear, too. Nothing in the closets or under the beds. No Bogeyman. And no Daddy.

“Travis?” He didn’t answer, but she found him in the kitchen leashing up the dogs. “Did you check everywhere?’

“He’s not here. The front door was locked but not the back door. I’ve got to go look for him.”

She grabbed a flashlight from a basket on the counter. “I’m coming with you.” Her breathing heaved as if she’d finished a run.

“Maggie.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed gently into her flesh. “One of us has to stay here.” His luminous eyes settled on her like a full moon over the roiling sea. “If I’m not back with Dad in ten minutes, you’ve got to call the police.”

 

 

Chapter Forty-Seven

 

 

Travis hung near the wall with Javier while concerned neighbors and police streamed through his living room. They’d combed the beach for over two hours. Now, it was close to midnight. Even before the police arrived, Mr. Modesto organized a neighborhood search party. Carl Pinkerton stayed home, citing a concern for his safety—someone did try to murder Dad earlier in the week. But everyone else the Fenders knew pitched in to carry a torch. Fyodor Umanov, however, was not at home. That fact agitated Maggie, probably for several reasons. Travis wasn’t sure what to believe.

 

“Travis,” Maggie called to him from across the room. Apparently, the police had more questions.

Javier held out his fist for a bump.

Travis inhaled as if added oxygen might keep his insides steady. This guy, Sergeant Garcia, appeared genuinely interested in finding Dad. But Travis’ experience with the police had been too one-sided to foster trust.

Maggie gave him her hurry-up-and-get-your-ass-over-here look, but he needed the moments to regroup. Besides, all the people milling around forced her to a base level of polite. He walked as if it were his last mile.

He joined their conversation near the patio door. “Sergeant Garcia.”

“Travis.”

Maggie’s disapproval worked its way out into a tapping toe.

He pretended not to notice. “What’s the status of the search?”

“We’ve cleared the beach a mile in either direction and released your father’s photo to the media. Fortunately, the weather isn’t severe. Do you know if he wore a jacket?”

“You’re not treating this as a kidnapping?”

“There’s no evidence that supports the theory at this time. No ransom demand. No forced entry. No sign of struggle. You were asleep at the table when he went missing, correct?”

Heat flooded Travis’ face. “Yeah.”

“People with Alzheimer’s routinely wander away from home.” The officer turned to Maggie.

“If he didn’t have that diagnosis, they wouldn’t be doing anything. Apparently, adults are allowed to run away.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Sounds pretty good right about now.”

“Dad’s jean jacket was on his rocker. It’s the only one he wears lately.” He looked to Maggie. “What if he’s cold?”

“Cold? What if he’s in the hands of the freakin’ nose-biter?”

“Ms. Fender. If you find evidence that Vladimir Penniski or anyone else abducted your father, I promise we’ll investigate. But we’ve looked around, and there’s no reason to suspect foul play. Your neighbor told us that your father was right handed? Is this correct?”

“Yes. Why?”

“We use the dominant-hand theory when conducting searches. Generally, people lost or wandering will make right turns when right handed. Lefties do the opposite.” The officer waited as if expecting Maggie to comment. “He’ll likely turn up as soon as it’s daylight. Someone will recognize him from the news, and we’ll bring him home.”

Maggie did respond with something, but Travis quit hearing any words. It was all just noise.

His heart pumped an extra beat. Dad didn’t wander off. He may have gone for a walk, but he always came home on his own. Even after Brian Carter attacked him, he showed up at the house with the bloody knife. Travis knew. His father wasn’t coming back.

If Vladimir Penniski took Dad, then his father had to have some tie-in to the O’Mara money. The emails were hints, teasers, trails, not facts. He needed more than gut-certainty to get help from the police. Or Maggie.

“Travis.” His sister stared at him. Sergeant Garcia was gone.

“What?”

“I asked you a question,” Maggie said. “Did Dad eat dinner?”

“Yeah. I fed him. We ate chili and spuds.”

“I don’t think he wandered off.”

“He didn’t. Someone took him.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take the emails more seriously.”

His throat went lumpy. “I’m sorry I didn’t watch him closer. You told me—”

“This is not your fault.” She pushed the heel of her hand into her eye. “But you and I are going to find out what the hell is going on.”

“You think Dad is involved with Patty O’Mara?”

“I know he’s involved in something, Trav. Something wrong.”

“You feel it too.”

“I didn’t at first, and I sure as hell didn’t want to give you any fuel. But we’ve had freaks coming out of the woodwork ever since Dad was attacked. I can’t live like this.”

He leaned against the wall. “What do you want to do?”

“You get online and find out everything you can about Dad’s activities. I’m going to call Kurt Meyers. If he wants to help, I plan to let him.”

“What about Dad?”

“Mr. Modesto said he’d get a fresh crew to keep searching, and we have the media working on our side for a change. But if Dad doesn’t come home, or we don’t hear from whoever took him—” She leaned in to Travis. “I’m going to visit the nose-biter.”

 

 

Chapter Forty-Eight

 

 

Before dawn, Maggie and Travis drove out to the New Mercy Cemetery to look for their father. They usually brought wildflowers when they visited Trisha’s grave, but today, Daddy was their only concern. Before dementia dominated his personality, he often played guitar by Trisha’s graveside. It was a logical place to look, but logic seemed to have little influence over him these days. The entire cemetery was empty except for a startled covey of quail and a buck mule deer.

 

They drove around town checking places their father might go, but exhaustion set in hard. By the time they got home, their house was clean and quiet. Ginger and Mrs. Modesto were the only ones lingering after clearing the place. They’d stayed in case Dad returned. Maggie wasn’t certain she’d thanked them before she heard the front door close.

On the TV, their father’s handsome face decorated the local news shows and filled Maggie with dread. He hadn’t returned home. The official search now expanded to a radius of two miles, including the ocean, as volunteer boaters scouted the waves. Per police instructions, searchers concentrated on culverts, thick vegetation, drainage ditches, or any accessible structures offering a place to hide. For missing Alzheimer’s patients, the theory was that Dad might be afraid of being found as if he were a child in trouble. Maggie noted that these were also prime places to search for a corpse.

Travis stared at the TV, his hand shoved so far down into his pockets he slumped.

“How old is that picture of Dad?”

“It’s from my high school graduation.”

“Wow. It barely looks like him anymore.”

“It’s the only one I could find.” Maggie sagged over the back of the couch. “The other station ran his mug shot.”

“Ah. The Fender family photos.” Travis pulled her laptop out from under the couch and walked to the kitchen. “You want more coffee?”

“No. I’m out of stomach lining.” The acid in her belly threatened to ignite.

She turned off the TV and willed herself to follow him. Maggie poured a short glass of milk and let the cold liquid douse the smoldering brew. She covered her mouth as the pain migrated elsewhere.

The need for sleep competed with her need to find her father. Even the dogs finally settled down from all the commotion and slept soundly in their beds by the back door. Smart plan.

Travis had his plan, too. But what was hers? Crying hadn’t brought Dad home. Where had he been all night?

Thoughts flickered through her head like fireflies. A man tried to kill him this week. The man’s widow thought the Fenders might have the answers. What a joke.