DARK POOL

By Helen Hanson

Maggie Fender’s law degree remains a daydream as she supports her ex-felon half-brother and their incoherent father. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, Dad’s rarely lucid, but when he’s accused of murder, only the gorgeous Russian neighbor flickers Maggie’s hope.

In the news, disgraced hedge fund manager Patty O’Mara awaits trial for bilking investors out of forty billion dollars. The legendary dark pool wizard offered phenomenal profits. But the SEC discovered O’Mara never made a single legitimate investment. His fund was a total scam.

Maggie’s Dad barely functions, but her hacker brother swears Dad is sending them vital messages about O’Mara’s pot of gold. A private investigator hunts for the money and aims to find it before a notorious Russian mobster. When their efforts focus on Maggie’s father, her remaining hope turns to rampant fear.

She’s the only adult left in her family, and her weary camel won’t carry a single extra straw. Her teenage brother’s hacking skills landed his ass in prison, but he swears he was framed. No fans of the Fender family, the local police assume Dad ran away when he goes missing. Maggie will never find her father without help.

But who can Maggie trust when everyone has betrayed her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Oct 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983202738

Helen Hanson

Helen Hanson is an experienced artist and tutor. As a professional printmaker, she exhibited her landscape etchings in galleries and exhibitions throughout the UK. She was a council member of the Society of Women Artists and is a fellow of the Society of Botanical Artists.

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Chapter One

Maggie Fender waited by the car as she watched Travis stride through the gates bearing a soldier’s posture. The brilliance of the afternoon sun burrowed into his raven hair and glinted of cool blue. It surprised her that he seemed to age since her visit last week. Even in worn jeans and a t-shirt, he appeared much older than his fifteen years.

Prison undoubtedly changed a man. Or a boy. Now that he was paroled, Maggie wouldn’t waste any more sentiment on her half-brother, but she did want to kick his ass.

The guard turned to watch Travis Fender leave the compound. Perhaps he was memorizing the boy’s features in case they were destined to meet again. So many parolees returned, if not to the medium-security Federal Correction Institute at Cumberton, then to some other lockable accommodation. Polite society preferred to keep track of those they feared.

Travis stood over six-foot tall. From this distance, he passed as a man. Even his face didn’t readily reveal his youth. Not until he got really close, close enough to see the thirty-one hairs on his chin that still only met weekly. His half-year sentence—finally at a close—seemed to harden him. While the juvenile facility at Cumberton didn’t rival Alcatraz, any time spent in a cage counted as wasted.

Maggie slid behind the wheel before Travis arrived at the car. She avoided eye contact as he stooped to get in. She wanted the five-hour drive and the interminable occasion for conversation behind her.

Travis climbed in. Thanks for coming. How’s Dad?

Watching the same episode of Hawaii 5-O for the tenth time. How do you think? She started up the car. It hesitated and then coughed to a sputter. Black smoke belched from the tail pipe.

He tugged his jeans down his thighs. How’re my beagle buddies?

I’ve made this run once a week for twenty-six weeks. I’m not in the mood for small-talk. Maggie peeled out of the parking lot.

Travis laid back and closed his eyes, a small thing for which she was grateful.

She wound south through the Sierra foothills for an hour before stopping at a gas station to check the oil. Low again. Dammit.

Get a quart of oil for me. She stood by Travis’ open window.

A single green eye peered at her. So now you’re talking to me?

No, I need oil. And thirty dollars worth of gas. She wagged two twenties at him.

His second eye closed her out.

Heat climbed her chest. She slugged him hard on the shoulder.

Hey!

She hit him again.

Knock it off.

If you hadn’t gotten your stupid ass busted, we wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t have to drive this piece of shit up to the mountains. She kicked the tire then slugged him a third time. And it wouldn’t need oil. She dropped the bills in his lap.

Quit hitting me, you psycho. He rubbed his tricep, but he got out of the car with the money and lumbered into the convenience store.

Her day had started in Half Moon Bay at dawn that morning. Twelve hours round trip, and he couldn’t even help with the drive home. Her mood spiraled to the deep south on the trip away from Cumberton. She scrubbed the windshield using stinky water and a filthy sponge, letting the Sierra dust trickle back to mama earth.

Six months in prison, and Travis still claimed he was framed. No one believed him. Not even his attorney. Only his father. But Dad thought the little girl down the street fronted his rock band back in ‘69. Character references like Dad could land a guy on death row.

Travis came out with a quart of oil, a jumbo bag of Cheetos, two Mountain Dews, and a king-sized Snickers.

She glared at his other purchases.

Six months. He nodded at her. I’m due.

Wasn’t Snickers on the menu at Cumberton?

Oil drained into the engine reservoir while Cheetos poured into Travis’ mouth. Maggie filled the tank until the meter slowed to a stop at exactly thirty dollars. The piece of junk guzzled oil like a Mission Street wino but still got great gas mileage. This fill ought to see them back to the beach.

Between Bay Area commuter traffic and the frequent need to recycle her coffee, Maggie pulled into their driveway after dusk. Travis jumped out before the car came to a complete stop. He rushed toward the front door.

Maggie watched him disappear behind the overgrown juniper bushes that lined the walkway. Fifteen, and the kid still couldn’t wait to see his father. She loved their father too, but his recent behavior was starting to quantify her patience.

She slumped out of the car and stretched. A long run on the beach would loosen her tight muscles, and enough sunlight remained. Maybe tomorrow. Today she wanted only a hot bath, a quiet bed, and empty dreams.

Travis blasted from the house. Where is he?

Disquiet ebbed her fatigue. Isn’t he watching TV?

The place is empty.

She left Travis standing on the pavement and ran to the Baker’s house a couple of doors down. Only the screen door kept the world at bay. Ginger? She banged on the doorframe. You home?

A sturdy figure ambled from the shadow. Maggie? Ginger’s eyes creased in the dim light.

I’m looking for Daddy. Have you seen him?

The Samoan woman was small by island standards. Not since I gave him his dinner. Did you check the garage?

Travis said the place was empty.

A smile lifted her smooth, brown face. How is he? How does he look?

Maggie shook her head. Stupid. And even more handsome if you can believe it. Just like his mom. She backed away from the door. I’ve got to find Dad.

Travis was gone by the time she returned to the car. She sped around to the beachside of the house and nearly broadsided a bicyclist in the narrow street. Maggie climbed down the berm to the sand.

Daddy. The sound of the surf competed with her cry. Dark slipped overhead like a closing lid.

She ran north, up the beach. She could have gone south. It didn’t matter. There was nothing either direction to damper her hammering chest.

A man dropped down from the roadside.

Her lungs wheezed. Travis. Damn it. Don’t do that!

C’mon. I think he’s this way.

Travis was likely right. He often was in these types of situations. Logic and intuition converged in this kid to form uncannily accurate assessments. He got that from their father.

It was Dad’s only obvious contribution to the kid’s genetic makeup because he could pass for his mother’s male twin. While Maggie seemed to inherit everything from her mother. Cornflower blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a rancid mistrust of the world.

Maggie shoved him forward. Let’s go.

While he took the lead, she was fast enough to stay within his draft. The tide had receded over the past hour, leaving a sturdier running surface. They sprinted down the beach as fast as the damp sand allowed.

Maggie heard the screech of a lone shearwater looking to settle somewhere for the night. Then another cry that cooled her blood.

Human.

She slammed into Travis’ back and fell to his side. He grabbed her around the waist and helped her regain her footing. He prodded her shoulder. C’mon.

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.

Chapter Two

Kurt Meyers listened to Spencer Thornton’s speech with the rest of the crowd, awaiting his cue.

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.

Chapter Three

Martin Fender stepped out from behind the bush as if a game of hide-and-seek had ended. Maggie moved toward him.

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.

Trisha’s extended illness had left each of the Fenders hollowed out like a rotted gourd. But for Maggie’s father, his disease continued the long march against his mind.

As he stood behind the foliage, she tried to make eye contact. All the familiar connections were missing. She’d seen pictures of dead people. It wasn’t like that. He was alive but somehow empty.

Daddy? She leaned toward him and took a step. It’s me, Maggie. Can you hear me?

Maggie walked closer. Daddy? Travis is home. She heard sharp laughter from the crowd.

His chin lifted, eyes drifting from side to side as if looking for a place to land. Travis? His eyes sagged in their sockets. Where’s Travis?

Good question. Maggie glanced behind her, scanning the faces. No Travis. He’s here, Daddy. She walked next to him, took the knife from his hand, and laid it on a stiff hedge. C’mon, let’s find Travis. She locked arms with him and led him down the path.

Two officers swarmed them and took control of her father. Maggie hadn’t noticed the arrival of the second patrol car. Or the camera crew. All eyes trained on her father, including Channel 5.

Crap. Another Fender on the nightly news.

Patrol lights bounced off the sergeant as he approached her. We have to take him to the station for questioning. What’s your name, ma’am?

She was going to ask on what charges and then remembered. My brother and I found a man. Her throat quivered over the words. He’s dead.

The sergeant’s face hardened. Dead? Are you sure?

Maggie nodded.

What’s your name? He motioned for another officer.

Maggie Fender.

When the second officer joined the pair, the sergeant said something to him, but Maggie couldn’t hear it over the thudding in her ears. Ms. Fender says she found a deceased male. Where was this exactly?

He’s about half a mile south in the beach parking lot.

Go check the parking lot. I’ll stay with Ms. Fender, Sergeant Garcia said.

What’s your father’s name?

Martin Fender.

We were looking for Dad—

Whose ‘we’?

Travis. My brother. Well, half-brother, technically.

Travis Fender. That’s why the name sounded familiar. He’s out already?

The rude question sharpened her focus. We were looking for my father when we found the man in the parking lot. There was— She covered her mouth. There was blood on the ground. I checked for a pulse, but he was already dead.

Why didn’t you call the police?

The question reminded her of Travis’ trial. Keep the suspect on the defensive. We ran home to call. But you showed up for my father before we arrived.

Did you know the man?

No. Maggie saw the police push her father into the back of the squad car. Travis and I are coming to the police station, too.

Stay right here, please. He left her to confer with another officer.

She knew what he was thinking. Dead body found in the proximity of a knife-wielding zombie. But it made no sense. Her father didn’t have any enemies.

And where the hell was Travis? For six months she’d carried this burden alone. Now when he could actually be of some use—

Ginger sidled up next to her. I’m sorry, Maggie. Her voice was sultry like a snifter of cognac enjoyed by the fire. While the face matched the voice, the rest of her required a muumuu to cover. Can I do anything?

Maggie’s thoughts chased the details of her routine. With Travis in prison, it centered on her father and paying their bills. Hopes of attending law school faded. I’m going to follow Dad to the police station. Can you feed The Firm? Their brother-sister beagles, Bailey and Belli, were named for the famous attorneys. Legal beagles nicknamed The Firm. Maggie ran her fingernails over her scalp. We haven’t even been inside yet.

Go on, I’ll take care of them. Ginger glared. The reporters too if possible.

Have you seen Travis?

Isn’t he here?

Maggie leaned in toward Ginger, but Sergeant Garcia chose that moment to return. Ginger retreated.

My officers located the body in the parking lot. I need to get statements from you and your brother, Travis.

There’s not much to tell.

Maggie recounted the details of her day. Travis can give you his own statement as long as I’m present. But my father’s not competent to answer your questions. I’m his legal guardian. He gave me power of attorney for his financial and medical affairs before—well, back when he could.

This one’s beyond me. The sergeant’s face winced in concern. The county homicide unit is on their way. We’re going to detain your father at the station until I get specific instructions regarding his condition.

Jail?

He’ll be fine there. But, depending on what homicide finds, they may transport him to a more secure facility. Does your father have an attorney?

The moron who handled Travis’ case didn’t qualify. Maggie could have done a better job defending him. No. He doesn’t.

We’re doing the paperwork for a search warrant right now. Of course you can save us the ink and consent to a search of the place.

No way she’d give the police permission to rummage through her home, but she knew her father wasn’t a killer. A programming nerd. A wannabe beach bum. A guitar freak. Not a killer. I won’t give permission for a search, but I will allow an officer to walk through the house with an escort. No touching anything. You don’t like what you see, go get a warrant. Agreed?

Agreed. But I need your brother’s statement.

Her protracted day still offered no horizon. Fatigue wormed its way through her body and crawled out as a yawn. She covered her mouth. Excuse me, said Maggie. My brother was released from prison today. I don’t condone his actions, but he’s still my kid brother. She stifled another yawn. I’m his guardian, too. You’ll get your statement. She left Sergeant Garcia standing in the driveway.

The young male reporter had a microphone in Maggie’s face before she reached Ginger’s house. Miss Fender. Is your father’s arrest connected to your brother’s release from prison?

She scowled at him, pushing the microphone away with the back of her hand. The drill reminded her of Travis’ fiasco. The response—once a part of her lips—came back like a second language, No comment.

Ginger opened the screen door and yelled. You’re on my property now. Get off, or I’ll drag you off!

The words had the desired effect.

She spoke again before Maggie hit the porch. Carlotta called. Travis is with Javier.

He’s needed here, so of course he’s over there. Maggie stamped her foot on the planking. Sorry. Thanks. I told the sergeant he could walk through my house. No searching, just walking. Would you let them in for me? The guitars are the only thing I’m concerned about.

Of course, honey. Ginger took a wide stance. She looked solid like a small refrigerator. I love you both like my own, Mag, you know that. And I’m not the kind that offers advice before people ask.

Maggie leaned back on a hip.

But if I were, I’d remind you that while you’re a worldly twenty-two, he’s only fifteen. He celebrated his last birthday in prison, his father has a miserable disease, and his sister is acting like an ass. She let the door slam. But I’m not the kind that offers advice.

Good thing. Maggie’s words bounced off Ginger’s broad back. She spun off the porch and ran over to Javier’s.

Javier Modesto’s family owned a desirable apartment complex in Half Moon Bay. Seventeen fashionable units situated barely a block from the beach. They’d converted two of the lower apartments into a single, large home for their family.

Javier’s mother, Carlotta, opened the door and ushered her in. Margaret, it’s always so good to see you. You’re looking as lovely as a flower. She led the way into the family room with a gliding motion that defied the use of actual steps. She often wore long, flowing skirts, and when she moved, it looked as if she were on

Reviews for DARK POOL

[tagharrell · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Dark Pool" When, I read the tibit, about "Dark Pool" by Helen Hanson, I knew I wanted to read it. "Dark Pool," also, peak my interest for two reasons; The first, it was amazing who done it type mystery, secondly the the father(Martin fender) has Alzheimer's( my mother, also has Alzheimer's). In "Dark Pool" starts out Maggie Fender, went to pick up her half-brother Travis from medium security prison, he only 15 yr.; but, he look like he about 18. He went to prison, for hacking into a computer server. Travis, knew he was set up, but no be lives him. On, their way home, Maggie clinker of old car, was on it last leg. She, hoping that they made it. When, they arrive home, Maggie/Travis father (Martin) was missing. Martin, has Alzheimer's, they search the beach, went up to the parking lot, they see something. Both of them ran, to see if it was their father, it was not. But, who is this man, cover in blood. Maggie, turn around Travis was gone. So, Maggie walk back to the house, call police. But, when she got up closer, see notice that the police was already there. Her father(Martin), was in the bush cover with blood & had a knife in his hand. Maggie, inform the police, that her father has Alzheimer's, that he did know what he had done. Also, she let them know, about the unkown man, down the street in the parking lot.Kurt Meyers, listen to Spencer Thornton speech to the stock holders, that he was going to help them get their money back, from Patty O'Mara. Patty O'Mara ran a ponzi scheme, stole 40 billion from stockholders. In which, Spencer Thornton, lose about several millions of dollars, in the ponzi scheme. As, Kurt was trying to figure out, how the money was stolen, he get call from Patty, to meet him as he house. When, Kurt got arrive, Patty, found on the floor. Later, he died, without telling anyone what happen to the money he stole. Kurt, came across that Martin Fender, use to work at the servers, where O'Mara had his computers set up for the transactions. Ok, will not tell anymore. In "Dark Pool", got so many twists & turns in it, will keep you guessing, who & where is the money. Shhh, will tell you that the Russian mob thinks that Martin Fender, faking Alzheimer's, he the one that stole the money. Another person, is sending letters wanting 2million or else. Plus, a lot more, can't say without spoiling, your read. I was sent a copy of "Dark Pool" by Helen Hanson, to read & review her book, if I wanted, too. Thanks, Helen for writing a wonderful book, the characters was well written, it like almost watching a movie, you can picture what each one was doing. Giving "Dark Pool" five stars, it is a great read.So, go get your copy of "Dark Pool", today. I promise you will enjoy reading, it.