Daniel Palmer - Helpless

“No.”

“Okay, then. Any idea what happened to Lindsey?”

“You’re the cop.”

“FBI.”

“Whatever.”

“So, any ideas?”

“Maybe she ran away. That’s what people are saying.”

“Why would they say that?”

“Because she was sleeping with the coach.”

Roland Boyd approached from down the hall.

“Hey, Dad,” Mitchell said. “This is that agent from the FBI. We met at the parking lot before. Remember?”

Roland said that he did.

“She’s asking me about Lindsey Wells.”

“Why are you asking my son about that?” Roland said.

“I’m assisting with the investigation into Lindsey’s disappearance.”

“Under whose authority?” Roland asked.

“My own,” Rainy said.

“Do our police know about this?”

“I’ve left a message with Sergeant Brendan Murphy, so yes.”

“He doesn’t have to talk to you.” Roland placed his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder.

“No, he doesn’t,” Rainy agreed.

Roland stayed quiet for a long second. “Forgive me for being so discourteous. The whole town is praying for Lindsey’s safe return,” Roland continued. “You can imagine why we’re all so on edge, as parents.”

“I can imagine,” Rainy said.

“Well, if there is anything we can do to help, you just let us know.”

“Well, actually, there is,” said Rainy.

“Oh?”

“I’d like to have a look at your son’s computers. I’ve brought one of our computer analysts from Boston with me. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to create mirror copies of the machines to conduct our own forensic analysis. I’ve brought some paperwork to sign that would authorize the search.”

“We don’t have to permit that, you know,” Roland said.

“Of course not.”

Mitchell looked at the older Boyd, then back to Rainy.

“Have at it,” he said. “But I’ve had to rebuild all the machines.”

“Rebuild?”

“Got hit with a virus,” Mitchell explained. “Nearly ruined my machines. Salvaged some stuff, but lost a bunch, too. Basically, every computer I’ve got is a new install. Not sure how it’ll help.”

“Just so we’re clear, you don’t mind if we search your computers? You’ll sign the consent search forms?”

Mitchell nodded. “If you think it’ll help find Lindsey, I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” he said.

Again that smile.

Rainy felt like she was playing a game. A losing one at that. Rainy and Carter followed Mitchell upstairs. Roland Boyd followed. Mitchell showed them the alcove where he kept what he called his computer lab.

“Why all the machines?” Carter asked him.

“Got to stay on top of technology if you want to stay ahead,” Mitchell said.

Roland Boyd stepped closer to his son. “Mitchell’s got a great head for business and technology. Those are the skills of tomorrow. He’ll do quite well.”

Carter connected his equipment to the first of Mitchell’s three computers. The screen flickered on. The computer was locked. The background image on the screen was a skull colored to look like the yin and yang symbol.

“What’s that?” Carter asked.

“Oh, I have them on all my computers,” Mitchell said. The boy turned around, pulled down his shirt collar, and showed them his tattoo. “Got the same design in ink,” he said with his back turned. “I think it’s the ultimate symbol of life. The yin. The yang. And death.”

“The skills of tomorrow,” Rainy muttered into Carter’s ear.

“This will take a little while,” Carter said. “We appreciate your being so cooperative.”

“No problem,” Mitchell replied. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Mitchell left the alcove. Roland followed him out. Rainy sat down on a chair.

“What do you think?” Carter asked when they were alone.

“I think a yin and yang skull makes for one macabre calling card,” she said.

Tom drove past a dozen hand-painted signs on his way to Marvin’s office. WE LOVE YOU LINDSEY, one of them read. COME HOME SOON, read another. They’d painted Lindsey’s jersey number on many of them.

The first volunteer search effort to look for Lindsay was getting underway. She’d been missing for almost twenty-four hours. Jill’s name was on the volunteer list, along with the names of hundreds of other town residents.

Marvin spoke before Tom had a chance to sit down. “Cortland is fishy,” he said. “And Boyd is caught up in something big.”

“Big in what way?” Tom asked.

“I can’t put all the pieces together yet,” Marvin said.

“Well, what pieces do you have?”

“I think Boyd is somehow profiting off Cortland’s clients.”

Tom looked mystified. “How so?” he asked.

“What do you know about short selling stocks?”

Tom formed the shape of a zero with his fingers. “Zip,” he said.

“It’s a common investing practice,” Marvin explained. “Basically, the investor is making a bet a stock price will drop. But here’s the tricky part. When you short a stock, you’re essentially selling something you don’t own.”

“Oh, that clears it up,” Tom said.

“Think about an agreement between you and a broker. You sell a stock you don’t own, but you have to buy it back. You hope that when you buy it back the price went down, not up.”

“Illustrate please,” Tom said.

“Okay, hypothetically, you think a stock is going to take a dumper. Say it’s trading at a hundred bucks a share, and you think it’s overvalued and going to drop. In this hypothetical example, you short the stock and sell a thousand shares that you don’t own at a hundred bucks a share.”

“Who buys stock that I don’t own?”

“A broker. But they do it with a promise you’ll buy those shares back. So step one, the broker has to give you cash for the stocks you sold but didn’t own. Bang! They put a hundred grand into your account.”

“So it’s like a loan,” Tom said.

Marvin nodded emphatically. “Exactly,” he said. “It’s like a loan. The broker essentially adds the fake shares that you sold to their books. But you’re legally obligated to buy back the thousand shares at some point in time. Either when you want to cover the buy or the broker requests that you cover. You follow?”

Tom gestured yes with a quick head nod and motioned for Marvin to continue.

“Now, let’s say that stock tanks by fifty percent. You decide it’s time to cover that thousand shares. How much do those shares cost you?”

“Fifty grand,” Tom said. “Fifty bucks a share for a thousand shares.”

“How much did the broker dump in your account?”

“A hundred grand.”

“Forgetting the commission and fees you’d owe, what’d you clear?”

“Fifty grand,” Tom said.

“That’s a nice payday,” Marvin added.

“But what if the stock goes up and you have to cover?”

“Then if you’re asked to cover, you’d buy the shares at a loss.”

“And you think Boyd is doing this with Cortland’s help?” Tom asked.

“Well, that I don’t know,” Marvin said. “But I think Boyd may have somehow profited off the misfortune of Cortland’s clients.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It all comes back to my fascination with outliers,” Marvin said.

“Right. In a world of patterns, the evidence that deviates the most from the norm is often the most interesting,” Tom said, paraphrasing what Marvin had once said.

Marvin nodded. “Cause and effect. Rafael Nadal uses a lighter racket with a thinner grip than most men on tour. The result? He generates more spin than Bjorn Borg. Even with outliers like Nadal, there’s always an explanation.”