Free Helen Hanson - Dark Pool by Helen Hanson

sent other correspondence from points scattered across the globe. Überfriendly, oozing with charm and veiled double entendres, the messages notably lacked any acknowledgment that Vonda had a husband. As they reread the letters, crimson burnished the dark amber of Vonda’s face.
    Her chin dropped. A letter fluttered into her lap. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice his interest the first go-round. You must think I’m quite a bumpkin.”
    “On the contrary. I think you’re so happily married, you couldn’t have imagined the man hitting on you. I find that refreshing.” Kurt opened another letter. “Besides, from what I can see, O’Mara was artful. He always gave you an easy out. Perhaps in deference to his own ego, but still—” He took some notes on his pad. “I’m beginning to see why people thought so highly of him. That kind of confidence is tough to engender.”
    “Confidence.” Vonda’s voice grew stern. “As in con-man.”
    “Unfortunately. So what’s in the other boxes?”
    The collection of gifts decorating Vonda’s office represented a veritable tour of nations with secretive banking laws—From Switzerland, the music box. From Bahrain, a pearl-encrusted photo frame. From Uruguay, a leather desk pad. From Andorra, a goat-hair rug. Patty O’Mara also sent her rum cakes from the Caymans and a case of Pinot Gris from Luxembourg. Of the rum cakes and Pinot Gris, the only evidence of the original gift was Vonda’s remembrance.
    “I gave the rum cakes and wine to my staff. Plus the truffles. He always sent chocolate truffles.” Her gaze drifted over the gifts. “What’s next?”
    “Now I get to work and earn my exorbitant fee. My staff will ferret through everything in the boxes, make copies of the letters. We look for leads. You know the drill.”
    “All too well.” She stood and walked to the door. “Though I prefer your side of the table.”
    Kurt followed her. “Who doesn’t?”
    She clasped his hand. “Thank you, Kurt. Let me know if I can help.”
    “I will. Thanks, Vonda.” He waited until she was down the hall. “Stephanie.”
    Multiple chain loops swayed from Stephanie’s ear as she made her way into his office. “Is this the O’Mara loot?” She swung a notebook in her hand.
    “Yes. We need copies of all these cards and letters. I want a separate list that compiles the following information.” He paused while she got ready to take notes. “The date each letter was sent. Postmark. Return address. Any names mentioned within the correspondence. People, places, companies. Tag each letter with a code and cross-reference it to the list.” He gave her a moment to catch up. “Any questions?”
    She scratched behind her ear with the pen. “What about the goodies?”
    “Right. Copy the labels. Anything with writing on it, I want a copy.”
    “You got it.” Her pen scribbled to a stop. “Spencer Thornton called. He wants an update from you. I told him you were with someone. He said to call him later.”
    “Thanks, Steph.”
    He wandered back to the boxes and pulled out random letters from the files. The feeble read-between-the-line effort of O’Mara’s pseudo-love letters left him vaguely depressed. A guy with O’Mara’s assets, and he wrangled for someone else’s wife. Then again that could’ve been her most attractive quality.
    The missives O’Mara sent Vonda Creevy were different from those he sent to other investors. His typical style was formal but friendly. Kurt found the invitation to the winery event at the top of the stack and read it again.
    The Rockstag Group. Maybe they were another investment house. Not that O’Mara actually invested any money. Once the roof caved in on the O’Mara Fund, no one could find any substantive investment trades. The money movement was a high-stakes shell game. Ponzi would have been proud.
    Kurt dropped the note back on the pile and went to his computer. Might as well start here. He ran an internet search on The Rockstag