Helen Hanson - Dark Pool by Helen Hanson

bundled beneath a gray cable-knit sweater that Trisha had knitted for a birthday. He looked Travis full in the face, said, “Thanks, Carl,” and took a drink.
    Travis’ exhale shot out leaving his lungs dry. Maggie warned him this would happen, but it hadn’t prepared him for the loneliness that filled his chest like a cold fog. Carl was his father’s older brother. Travis heard of him, but he died in Cambodia when Travis’ dad was only seventeen.
    Travis touched his father’s shoulder. “Dad, it’s me.”
    “Hey.” He looked at Travis as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m glad you’re finally home.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “We missed you. Mom said you’d be home soon.”
    His words pierced Travis’ heart like an awl. He hugged his father, clutching his back, but his father winced. Travis had forgotten the knife wounds, the scabs still tender to the touch.
    “I kept it for you, all this time. They won’t know where to look. But you will. You will.” His father turned toward the sea.
    Travis’ buoyancy seeped into the ether. He shuddered. His father’s fleeting coherence was disturbing. He hurried back into the warmth of the kitchen, the security of Maggie’s recognition.
    Her back was toward him when he saw her. She hung up the phone and turned to him. Her expression gave him no comfort. “What’s wrong?”
    She shook her head. “I just spoke to the police. The man who attacked Dad. He worked at The Rockstag Group.”
    No warmth in here either. “You think he was looking for me?”

 
     
Chapter Thirteen
     
     
Kurt grew impatient along with the lobby crowd of Br’er Rabbit, the latest Asian-inspired dining rage in the city. With a population of over thirty percent, he wondered why the Asian factor was limited to mere inspiration. He preferred to work through meals, but it was on Spencer Thornton’s oh-so-many dimes, and if he wanted Asian-inspired, he got it. Spencer had yet to arrive or call, in spite of being twenty minutes late. Kurt paced as best he could in the confines created by thirty hungry strangers.
     
    His last appointment at the office had put a serious check on his mojo. A retired couple lost their home in Hurricane Rita. Rita bore the misfortune to come on the slippery heels of Katrina, garnering a significantly mitigated outpouring of sympathy and tax dollars. Their rebuild was initially frustrated because the post-hurricane building code became more stringent and materials were limited. Ultimately, that problem dwarfed with the realization that Patty O’Mara was a thief. Now they worked year-round as camp hosts at an RV park in the Mojave just to survive.
    “Kurt.” Spencer’s voice boomed above the din.
    Kurt hoped the briefing wouldn’t take up his whole afternoon. They hadn’t spoken since the night Spencer introduced him at the Fairmont. He had so little to tell.
    Spencer pushed through the rabble and pointed toward the maître d’s desk. Kurt got there first, but Spencer’s arrival sparked the man into action. “Please, this way Mr. Thornton.”
    Gray hair and eyes, at fifty-five Spencer was the epitome of San Francisco style. He wore a wool blazer, black turtleneck, and shoes from a designer whose name ended in a vowel. Kurt sported his Brooks Brothers best with a pair of J. M. Westons. Compared to Spencer, Kurt felt two standard deviations away from West Coast hip.
    As they trailed the maître d’, he couldn’t imagine where they were going. A backroom for special guests, perhaps. The place was packed. Square columns of teak, fashioned to look like bamboo, stood floor to twelve-foot ceiling. Deep reds warmed the concrete beneath their feet while green silks softened the walls in fabric foliage. Throughout the restaurant, water trickled down knobby glass panels, splashing river rocks at the bases. The effect was soothing in such a noisy environ and served to separate the dining areas. They landed at a large, padded booth, an oasis of tranquility