Daniel Palmer - Helpless

“And what did they find on your computers?”

“A lot of child pornography.”

“Including the stuff I allegedly sold to you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Who knew about the NDA?” asked Tom.

“A handful of people in the company,” Mann said. “The CEO, of course. Paul. Folks at the FDA. Some of our clinical trial vendors. It was endgame. Like I said, we had all the press releases ready to go. Word was getting around.”

“Why would somebody want to make it look like you were a child pornographer?”

“I don’t know,” Mann said, sitting straighter on the bed, perhaps trying to convey to Tom that he still had some dignity remaining. “Listen, you’ve got to believe me. I’m in this like you are. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m being framed. Just like you.”

He’s not lying to me, Tom assessed.

“How far would you be willing to go to clear your name?” Tom asked.

“As far as I had to go.”

Tom nodded. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” Tom said. “We’ve got to find who’s the real supplier of these pictures I had. You’re apparently a client of this supplier. You’re going to work backward until you find the real distributor.”

“But I told you I didn’t download any child pornography. I’m innocent. Just like you.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Tom said. “As far as I’m concerned, you do know how to find the dealers. If you don’t, you’re going to learn so I don’t have to.”

“That doesn’t seem fair to make me take all the risk,” Mann said.

“Life isn’t fair, James. But I am giving you a chance. I supply the names of the girls. You find the distributor. If you succeed, we both win. I’d say it’s a pretty fair trade.”

“What if I refuse?”

“You’ll probably end up a convicted child pornographer, and I’ll probably clear my name.”

Mann thought, then nodded.

As Tom pulled into the parking lot of the Plenty Market, he noticed one peculiar thing. The parking lot was empty. The supermarket store lights were off as well. Tom checked his watch. It was quarter past nine at night, and according to the sign taped to the inside window, the market had closed over an hour ago.

Where was Boyd? Tom wanted to know.

Tom heard a loud whistle. The supermarket’s back door opened, expelling a thin shaft of yellow light that illuminated a narrow column of dark asphalt. A silhouetted figure emerged from the doorway. It was Roland. He held open the back door and motioned for Tom to come inside.

Tom didn’t realize there was additional parking by the loading zone, and now observed two cars taking up four available spaces. One of the cars, the Mercedes, he knew belonged to Roland. Tom entered a dimly lit stockroom, noticing Roland had on a neatly pressed dark suit. The stockroom was a cavernous, dry space with stacks of corrugated boxes sitting atop wooden pallets. A small office fronted by a large plate-glass window stood to Tom’s right. Tom saw a heavyset man seated at a desk inside that office.

The other car had to be his.

For a moment Tom thought it could have been Lange’s.

“Shopping after hours?” Tom asked Roland.

Roland didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes did the talking, and they didn’t appear pleased. Roland closed the door. Tom thought he heard it lock.

Roland walked past Tom and went to the back of the stockroom. Tom took a quick look behind him as he followed. The guy in the office stayed put.

Roland stopped, then turned to face Tom. He kept his arms at his sides.

“Where’s Lange?” Tom asked. “Is he here?”

“I didn’t find Lange,” Roland said. “I lied.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I needed to get you down here, and I knew if I told you I’d found Lange, you’d come. I don’t like to leave things to chance.”

“What are we doing here, Roland?” asked Tom. “I’m not a big fan of being lied to.”

“We need to talk.”

“About?”

“Adriana. Why’d she post your bail?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I’m guessing she felt sorry for me. She hasn’t returned any of my calls. Why don’t we call her now and get this straightened out?”

“I told her not to call you back,” Roland said. “She already gave me her story.”

“And?”

“And she said she felt sorry for you.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“I don’t believe her.”

“Oh.”

“This is really tough for me,” Roland said. “I consider you a friend. One of my best. So I’m going to keep this as simple and straightforward as possible. Are you sleeping with my wife?”

Tom glanced behind him. The big man was still safely tucked inside his office. Tom didn’t know where this was headed, but every instinct told him it wouldn’t be someplace he wanted to go. Roland kept his expression about as revealing as the cardboard boxes behind him.

“Roland, this is crazy. You’re dead wrong if you think I’m sleeping with your wife. Let’s stop this right now, before it escalates.”

Roland stayed calm, calmer even than the night he confronted Bob at the club with the same accusation.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Roland said. “Are you sleeping with my wife?”

“No. I’m not.”

Tom kept his arms at his sides. Roland’s folded across his chest. Neither man spoke. The only sound Tom heard was a constant humming from the large walk-in cooler to his right.

“I don’t think I believe you,” Roland eventually said. “Last chance to convince me. Why did my wife put a hundred-thousand-dollar bet on you?”

“Roland, I’m just as curious as you are.”

Roland’s face slipped into a snarl. “Are you fucking my wife?” he shouted.

“If I were, don’t you think that’d be a stupid way to hide an affair?”

At that, Roland unhinged his folded his arms and let out a deep sigh. He studied Tom a long while. “Didn’t the SEALs train you in how to lie without being detected?”

“They trained me to do a lot of things,” Tom said.

“I bet.”

“I think now would be a good time for both of us to cool off,” Tom said. “Let’s have a sit-down. Me, you, and Adriana. We’ll talk tomorrow, with clearer heads.”

Tom moved to leave, but Roland grabbed him by the arm.

Tom spun around and locked eyes with Roland. “You don’t want to fight me,” he said. He kept his voice calm. “Bad odds. A lot worse than your wife’s bet on me.”

“I told you, I don’t fight.”

“Have a good night, Roland. We’ll talk.” Tom took two steps toward the rear door.

From behind, Tom heard Roland whistle loudly.

Damn, how he wished he could do that whistle.

The man seated inside the office emerged. Heavy jowled, with an oil slick of dark hair, he waddled over to Tom and blocked the way out. He wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt and a poorly knotted red knit tie that arched over his considerable belly. His name tag, pinned to his shirt, identified him as both Gill Sullivan and the general manager of the Plenty Market.

Tom eyed Sullivan with suspicion. “I’m guessing he’s not here to offer me a special on ribs,” Tom said, turning around to look at Roland.

Sullivan stood grinning, his arms folded and resting upon his massive midsection.

“Do you want to spend all your pretrial time locked up?” Roland asked.

“That’s not your call to make, Roland. Thanks to Adriana—who I’m not sleeping with, by the way—I’m a free man until my trial.”

“Not if you violate the conditions of your bail.”

“Well, I’m not going to do that.”

“Here’s my proposition to you, Tom. Admit to me that you’re having an affair with Adriana, or spend the night in the walk-in refrigerator here.” Roland pointed to the large refrigerator, coated in steel on all surfaces, big enough to park a VW Bug.