Helpless (14 page)

“The guy tried to make it with my wife,” Roland said. “What more do you need to know?”

“Why’d you invite him to your party if you knew what he had done?”

Roland scoffed. “Tom, I’d have thought you, of all people, would understand the advantage of a surprise attack. Bob showed up here with his guard down, and I just scared the absolute crap out of him. That’s why I invited him.”

Tom recalled the look Roland had flashed Adriana the afternoon he stopped by their house to ask about Kip Lange. Ironic, thought Tom, that he had lied about Lange’s jealous streak to a man who really had one.

“You weren’t really going to hit that guy, were you?” asked Tom.

Roland just laughed. “Nah, I was going to pull back. But I must say, you still got your speed, Tom. Haven’t lost a step.”

Tom grunted. “For a second there, I thought you were going to really pummel him.”

Roland chuckled again. “I don’t get mixed up in any physical altercations,” he said. “It’s bad for business.”

“Good to know,” Tom said, feeling only a modicum of relief. Roland might be loosely wired, but at least he wasn’t dangerous.

“I just said I wouldn’t hit him. I never said he wouldn’t get hurt.”

“Oh, you have guys who do that for you?” Tom asked with a slight laugh, believing Roland had to be kidding.

“Keep flirting with Adriana and maybe you’ll find out for yourself.” Roland kept a serious expression, then cracked a broad smile, laughed loudly, and slapped Tom hard on the back, but in a playful way.

Tom returned a smile of his own, but it didn’t last long. It didn’t matter that he and Roland hadn’t spoken much in the past several years. Tom knew when his friend was serious.

Chapter 19

R
ainy drove the fifty-six miles from Boston to Shilo without the aid of her car stereo or air-conditioning. Both were on the fritz. She wondered how long it would take the Bureau’s notoriously cumbersome bureaucracy to fix her work-issued sedan.

Wendy Toman, a kind-eyed woman of forty-eight and one of the best victim-witness coordinators Rainy had ever worked with, read through Mann’s case file during the trip. Wendy was an “all business, all the time” kind of gal, which Rainy greatly appreciated on these long drives. There was never any talk about Wendy’s three kids or doting husband, which meant Rainy didn’t have to reproach herself about not even making time for a date.

In truth, Rainy wasn’t
all
that concerned about her anemic social life. Thirty was the new twenty, or so she often told herself. Rainy’s mother, however, believed that thirty was the same damn old thirty, and worried that her daughter was destined to become a lonely cat person. Rainy continued to assure her she didn’t even have a cat.
Not yet, you don’t,
her mother would counter. For now, the job was Rainy’s life, and she was committed to making it the best life possible.

Rainy’s mission in Shilo was a straightforward one: to make an official identification of the girl in the photograph. Rainy hadn’t had any luck figuring out how Mann got Lindsey’s naked pictures. Rainy had contacted all the major cell phone providers, but their on-staff security experts assured her they had no foreign code on their servers, nothing that could give someone access to private text messages. Even if a hacker managed to gain access, it didn’t explain how they’d know which messages contained pictures of naked teens.

Had Mann obtained Lindsey’s image solely through the file-sharing feature of Leterg? Rainy wondered. Had Lindsey been coerced by Mann into sending those pictures? If so, she could charge Mann with production—a fifteen-year mandatory minimum.

He can’t do enough time,
Rainy thought.

Rainy worried about Lindsey’s reaction. The girl was about to learn that the FBI had found her naked pictures on the computer of a suspected child pornographer. Wendy had come along to guide Lindsey through the tumultuous aftershocks of finding out her revealing images had been made public. She’d work quickly to establish a trusting relationship. Lindsey would have a safe place to share her feelings and express her sorrow. Victims who grieved openly and freely were less likely to turn against themselves.

Lindsey Wells’s home was a stately custom colonial on a quiet street, tucked inside a pleasant, tree-lined neighborhood. Rainy rang the doorbell. Nice chimes. She doubted she’d ever have a doorbell of her own. She assumed she’d always be a buzzer girl, just like her fellow apartment dwellers in Cambridge.

Lindsey opened the door without hesitating. No reason for caution when there was no reason to fear.

“Can I help you?” The girl sounded nervous when she saw the two women.

“Lindsey Wells?” Rainy asked.

“Yes?”

Rainy took out her badge and flashed it to Lindsey. “I’m Special Agent Loraine Miles with the Boston FBI. This is my colleague, Wendy Toman.”

“Hello, Lindsey,” Wendy said in a soothing voice. “We’d like to speak with you about something.”

“About what?” the girl stammered.

“Are your parents home?” Rainy asked.

“My mom’s here. She’s with her bridge club.”

“Maybe it’s better if we talk together,” Wendy said.

Lindsey opened the door wider and motioned for the agents to follow. They passed through a bright foyer and into a high-ceiling kitchen with dark cabinets and even darker granite countertops. Fruit magnets on the stainless steel refrigerator held pictures of Lindsey, Lindsey and her friends, and Lindsey and her mother.

Where’s Dad?
Rainy wondered.

The kitchen opened up into a large family room, with a television big enough to watch while cooking. A group of four women sat around a foldout table, playing cards.

A woman who looked like Lindsey would in thirty years stood and approached. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Mom, they’re with the FBI,” Lindsey said.

Rainy noticed how the girl’s legs were trembling. The mother’s coloring went from summer kissed to pale. Her fingers touched her lips as her eyes grew wide. She came into the kitchen with quick, hurried steps.

“Is everything all right?”

“We’re here to speak with your daughter about something that should be discussed in private,” Rainy said. “Is there a place we can talk?”

The woman introduced herself as Cathleen Wells, glanced at the agent’s identification, and led the women into a first-floor office. Once there, they stood in a close cluster.

Wendy spoke first. “I want to start by saying we’re not here to arrest anybody. Nobody is in trouble with the law. We’re here to help.”

Wendy tried to sound reassuring, but Lindsey didn’t look convinced. Her coloring hovered near translucent. Rainy continued by explaining her role with the FBI’s cyber crimes squad and, more specifically, crimes against children.

Lindsey’s eyes betrayed her, making a connection. “So what does this have to do with me?”

Cathleen Wells nodded vigorously. “Yes, what does all this have to do with my daughter?”

Rainy opened her case file, took out an envelope, and handed it to Lindsey. In that envelope were the pictures she believed were of Lindsey. The images were sanitized, so they didn’t show anything revealing. Lindsey flipped through the short stack of photo printouts.

“We found these pictures on the computer of a suspected child pornographer.”

Lindsey put her hand to her mouth, perhaps even stifling a cry. “H-h-how ... ?”

“Well, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me. Did you send these pictures to anybody?”

Lindsey shook her head vigorously, giving her most emphatic “No way” nonverbal response. Rainy called that the “liar’s reaction.” She’d seen it dozens of times, whenever suspects were confronted with their actions. Perhaps they believed the extra exuberance would miraculously negate the truth.

“Do you know a James Mann? Is that name familiar to you?” Rainy asked.

Again a shake no, but this time with far less conviction. Rainy believed that answer to be true.

“You’re not in trouble for this, Lindsey, if that’s your concern,” Wendy said. “But we need to know some things if you can help us.”

“Like ... like what?”

“Like when you took these pictures,” Wendy said. “And where.”

“I was just playing around with my cell phone,” Lindsey said, tears filling her eyes. “It was a bunch of months ago.”

“From here?” Rainy asked.

Lindsey nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“It just helps us,” said Rainy.

Lindsey sucked in her lower lip, pushed it out, and sucked it in again.
A nervous habit,
Rainy thought.

“Wendy will help you through this, Lindsey. Okay? You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Are these on the Internet? Can my friends see them?” Lindsey asked.

“I can’t answer that at this time,” Rainy replied. “Once your images are out there, there’s nothing we can do to get them back. You have to prepare yourself. They might show up again one day. You have to be ready for that possibility. We don’t know everybody who has downloaded these pictures, and I can’t promise that we’ll ever find out.”

Lindsey nodded slowly, as though she was inching her way into this new reality.

“I’m going to help you through this,” Wendy said, setting a comforting hand on Lindsey’s shoulder. “I promise everything is going to be okay.”

Thank God for Wendy Toman,
Rainy thought.

Cathleen’s expression showed pure disgust as she looked through the pictures of Lindsey. “We are going to have a long talk about this, young lady,” she snapped.

A woman from the bridge club made a trepid entrance into the office. Cathleen introduced her as Adriana Boyd.
Attractive,
Rainy thought.
In a
Desperate Housewives
kind of way.

“Is everything all right?” Adriana asked.

Cathleen flashed Adriana an upset look. “No,” Cathleen said. “I’d say things are not all right. Not in the least. Just be glad you have a son and not a daughter.” Lindsey grimaced as though in pain.

“What’s going on?” Adriana asked.

“These people are with the FBI,” Cathleen said to Adriana. “Apparently, they found pictures of Lindsey ... compromising pictures ... during some child porn bust.”

Rainy was surprised and a little dismayed by Cathleen’s candor. Cathleen perhaps sensed she’d crossed a line, because she said to Rainy, “Oh, don’t worry. Adriana is one of my closest friends. She’s like family to us. Especially since my divorce.”

“Is Lindsey in any trouble?” Adriana asked in a way that a concerned aunt might speak.

Rainy assured her that she was not, then went on to explain the situation and her role with the FBI.

When Rainy had finished, Adriana appeared as distraught as Cathleen and Lindsey. “Oh my,” she said. “What happens next?”

Rainy’s lips tightened as she tried to temper her officiousness with a softer tone. She wasn’t a mother herself, but she could certainly empathize with a mother’s concern. “Well, I have other images from our investigation, but for reasons of privacy, I’ll show them only to the school superintendent. We’ll try to make other victim identifications. Wendy’s here to help Lindsey through the witness process. If Lindsey wants, she can make a victim impact statement. It’ll be read aloud in court if the accused is found guilty of the crime.”

“Then what?” Cathleen asked.

“Then we’re going to try to figure out how the guy we arrested came to possess pictures of your daughter. We’re going to track down his source, or sources, and try to shut them down.”

“Can you do that?” Cathleen asked.

“Well, it would speed things along if Lindsey would be honest about who she sent these pictures to.”

“Mom, I swear I didn’t send them to anybody! I swear. Somebody either got my cell phone or hacked into my account or something.”

Cathleen frowned at her daughter.

“What happens to the person who did this?” Adriana asked. “The person who sent these around, I mean.”

“He’ll be charged with interstate trafficking of child pornography.”

“What does that mean?” Cathleen asked.

“It means whoever did this will spend a long, long time in jail.”

Chapter 20

R
ebecca Bartholomew had been Tom’s favorite neighbor on Oak Street. Rebecca was the first to greet Tom after he moved back into his former home. Tom wasn’t surprised that days later she again stopped by unannounced.

“Want some pie?” she asked, flashing him some berry-rich homemade delight.

“If you don’t mind a mess, I’d love the company,” Tom said.

The pie, he knew, was an excuse for her to check up on them. It was just Rebecca being Rebecca.

The bulk of Tom’s belongings remained packed inside boxes and milk crates. The boxes and crates were strewn about the living room and upper hallway of the split-level home.

“Is this all you own?” Rebecca asked, evidently surprised by Tom’s lack of possessions.

“One day and a rented van was all it took to move me here,” Tom said with a degree of pride. “That’s why I’m a big fan of my milk crate storage system. Just flip ’em over and, voilà, you’re moving.”

Jill had been quite helpful with the move. They talked some on the trip up and back, but not very much. She’d been quiet in the days since her mother’s death.

At Marvin’s suggestion, Tom and Jill began seeing a social worker to help facilitate the transition to her new custodial parent. Tom found it reassuring to know that Jill’s quiet demeanor was normal for this stage of the grieving process, according to Maggie, the social worker.

Rebecca followed Tom into the kitchen. She stepped over an open toolbox, then navigated a field of corroded parts that Tom had removed from the newly disassembled kitchen sink. Rebecca made it safely to the refrigerator without tripping and seemed well aware of the accomplishment.

“We’ve been getting a lot of takeout,” Tom said to Rebecca, who looked inscrutably at the sink and about the kitchen mess.

“I was going to make us a cup of tea,” she said, as if to imply that was no longer an option.