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Authors: Helen Hanson
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the phone in over a year. “Who’s calling, please?”
The breathy exhale set Maggie’s nerves on edge. “Hello?”
Silence dangled like a spider.
Until the call went dead.
Chapter Eleven
Kurt Meyers’ temporary San Francisco digs comprised the entire 41st floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. From 550 feet above Montgomery Street, his office overlooked the islands of Yerba Buena, Angel, Alcatraz, and Treasure breaching the cerulean blue of the bay. For manmade attractions, the vista included an eyeful of the Bay Bridge, the Embarcadero, Coit Tower, and the Golden Gate Bridge. If it weren’t for the forty-three files on his desk, the fifteen appointments scheduled for the next two days, and the twenty-seven phone calls he needed to return, he might have time to enjoy the view.
Stephanie buzzed him from the outer office. “Ms. Vonda Creevy and company are here to see you.”
Kurt checked the clock. Eleven-thirty, exactly. He wasn’t surprised.
He opened the door for Vonda. The and company was a young man with a shaved head wheeling a stack of three file boxes. She reached out to shake Kurt’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
“Vonda, it’s a pleasure. Come in.” Vonda and the young man followed him inside. Kurt pointed to the conference table. “Why don’t we leave the boxes here?”
The young man loaded the boxes onto the table and headed out the door with the dolly.
“Thanks, Pete,” said Vonda before turning to Kurt. “I’ve brought everything I can find that Patty O’Mara touched. It’s more than I remembered.”
Kurt opened the nearest box. He removed a jewelry box made from burr elm, inlaid with floral scrolls and a couple dancing. “It appears he was fond of you.” Pachelbel’s Canon in D played when he lifted the lid.
“He was more fond of my money.” Vonda sat down. “I used to love that song. But that music box cost me one million dollars.”
“Ouch.”
“As much as that hurts, I’ve been through worse.” She took several thick folders out of another box. “These cards are from O’Mara over the years. I feel a little foolish.” Vonda’s cheeks rose with embarrassment. “They didn’t strike me as suggestive at the time.”
“I thought litigation attorneys were masters of nuance?”
“My husband, Roger, says I’m the bloodhound who has no scent.” Vonda handed him a card. “I received this after investing the initial amount with Patty.”
The card itself was eggshell white and of a fine, sturdy stock. Embossed on the front were Patty O’Mara’s initials. P. O.
Those initials summed up the feelings of his former customers.
Inside was O’Mara’s handwritten note.
Vonda,
Delighted to have you as part of my investment family. My friends from The Rockstag Group are gathering this Saturday evening at Carat Grove Vineyards in Napa. Musicians from the Symphony will be on hand to entertain. Should be lovely. I hope you’ll consider joining me for a taste.
My best to you,
Patty
Suggestive. That was one word for it. Kurt handed her the card. “Did you attend?”
“I considered it, but I think Roger was busy that night.”
He smiled at her lack of guile. “I’m not certain Roger was invited.”
Vonda rearranged herself on the padded chair. “Perhaps he wasn’t.”
“May I see that card again?” He took it from her. “The Rockstag Group. Have you heard of them?”
“No.”
He surveyed the table. “What else have you brought me?”
They sifted through the items together. The letters and cards numbered in the scores. She hadn’t received anything from O’Mara since he’d been arrested.
Most had a postmark from his palatial home in Hillsborough, CA. The judge had graciously allowed O’Mara to continue residing there with an electronic ankle monitor until his case came up for trial. If convicted, the court’s trustee would likely force the sale of the O’Mara castle to help compensate those royally screwed.
O’Mara
The breathy exhale set Maggie’s nerves on edge. “Hello?”
Silence dangled like a spider.
Until the call went dead.
Chapter Eleven
Kurt Meyers’ temporary San Francisco digs comprised the entire 41st floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. From 550 feet above Montgomery Street, his office overlooked the islands of Yerba Buena, Angel, Alcatraz, and Treasure breaching the cerulean blue of the bay. For manmade attractions, the vista included an eyeful of the Bay Bridge, the Embarcadero, Coit Tower, and the Golden Gate Bridge. If it weren’t for the forty-three files on his desk, the fifteen appointments scheduled for the next two days, and the twenty-seven phone calls he needed to return, he might have time to enjoy the view.
Stephanie buzzed him from the outer office. “Ms. Vonda Creevy and company are here to see you.”
Kurt checked the clock. Eleven-thirty, exactly. He wasn’t surprised.
He opened the door for Vonda. The and company was a young man with a shaved head wheeling a stack of three file boxes. She reached out to shake Kurt’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
“Vonda, it’s a pleasure. Come in.” Vonda and the young man followed him inside. Kurt pointed to the conference table. “Why don’t we leave the boxes here?”
The young man loaded the boxes onto the table and headed out the door with the dolly.
“Thanks, Pete,” said Vonda before turning to Kurt. “I’ve brought everything I can find that Patty O’Mara touched. It’s more than I remembered.”
Kurt opened the nearest box. He removed a jewelry box made from burr elm, inlaid with floral scrolls and a couple dancing. “It appears he was fond of you.” Pachelbel’s Canon in D played when he lifted the lid.
“He was more fond of my money.” Vonda sat down. “I used to love that song. But that music box cost me one million dollars.”
“Ouch.”
“As much as that hurts, I’ve been through worse.” She took several thick folders out of another box. “These cards are from O’Mara over the years. I feel a little foolish.” Vonda’s cheeks rose with embarrassment. “They didn’t strike me as suggestive at the time.”
“I thought litigation attorneys were masters of nuance?”
“My husband, Roger, says I’m the bloodhound who has no scent.” Vonda handed him a card. “I received this after investing the initial amount with Patty.”
The card itself was eggshell white and of a fine, sturdy stock. Embossed on the front were Patty O’Mara’s initials. P. O.
Those initials summed up the feelings of his former customers.
Inside was O’Mara’s handwritten note.
Vonda,
Delighted to have you as part of my investment family. My friends from The Rockstag Group are gathering this Saturday evening at Carat Grove Vineyards in Napa. Musicians from the Symphony will be on hand to entertain. Should be lovely. I hope you’ll consider joining me for a taste.
My best to you,
Patty
Suggestive. That was one word for it. Kurt handed her the card. “Did you attend?”
“I considered it, but I think Roger was busy that night.”
He smiled at her lack of guile. “I’m not certain Roger was invited.”
Vonda rearranged herself on the padded chair. “Perhaps he wasn’t.”
“May I see that card again?” He took it from her. “The Rockstag Group. Have you heard of them?”
“No.”
He surveyed the table. “What else have you brought me?”
They sifted through the items together. The letters and cards numbered in the scores. She hadn’t received anything from O’Mara since he’d been arrested.
Most had a postmark from his palatial home in Hillsborough, CA. The judge had graciously allowed O’Mara to continue residing there with an electronic ankle monitor until his case came up for trial. If convicted, the court’s trustee would likely force the sale of the O’Mara castle to help compensate those royally screwed.
O’Mara
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