Daniel Palmer - Helpless

“And you think you found an outlier with Cortland?”

“I do. That’s why I arranged the meeting. I lied and said I had a rich client who needed reputation management services. But my real intent was to gauge their reaction when I brought up PrimaMed.”

“And?”

“And I started with Boyd. I checked, but he’s not on PrimaMed’s board of directors.”

“Helpful?”

“No, not really,” Marvin said. “Then I asked myself, does he invest in PrimaMed? I mean, that is his primary business. Well, turns out public information about mutual fund investing is pretty limited. But Boyd’s own marketing material shows that one of his funds does in fact invest in PrimaMed.”

“So?”

“So, I looked to see how the fund performed. Is PrimaMed a winning stock? Mostly I’m curious about a specific quarter—when the unfortunate James Mann incident occurred.”

“What did you find?”

“Not much. Hedge fund managers guard their investment strategies with religious zeal. But Lorne Cuthbert does not.”

“Who’s Lorne Cuthbert?” asked Tom.

“He works for Boyd. Bottom-rung guy. I figured he’d give up some information if I gave him the right motivation.”

“And?”

“And I followed him to a bar. Sat on the stool next to his. Pretended that I knew him from an investment seminar, then asked if he cleaned up on PrimaMed like I did.”

“You lied?”

“I deceived,” Marvin said.

“To achieve the objective,” added Tom. “So?”

“We got to talking. He didn’t like that my payday eclipsed his paltry bonus. He was told it was a closed deal. Boyd shorted a lot of PrimaMed stock. Cuthbert, all drunk and fuming mad, recited the numbers off the top of his head.”

“So you think Boyd shorted the stock knowing Mann was going to be arrested and made a profit?”

Marvin nodded. “I checked the stock price for that time period,” Marvin said. “It was flat all quarter, except for a big dip when James Mann got arrested.”

“But how did Boyd know the arrest was going to go down?”

“I’m guessing our friends at Cortland turned Mr. Mann into a child pornographer. And then they tipped off the FBI. But I don’t think that’s Cortland’s only scam. I think they’re inventing online reputation attacks of their own, framing innocent people in the process, and then profiting on the big bucks these corporations pay to clean up the mess Cortland intentionally made.”

“You think Boyd and Cortland did the same thing to me?”

“I do,” Marvin said.

“Why?” asked Tom.

“That, my friend, is the next question to answer.”

Marvin Pressman cleared his checkpoint, two metal posts marking a wide, well-maintained path in the Willards Woods complex of running trails. He glanced down at his watch and couldn’t believe what he saw. Unless there was some mechanical failure, Marvin was on pace to complete his thrice weekly five-K run in under forty minutes.

Under forty!

His first attempt at running lasted about five minutes and ended in much wheezing. But he stuck with it, kept pushing himself past the wall. He still had another lap to go, but by his calculations, this was shaping up to be a record-setting effort for the eight-pounds-lighter attorney.

Apple Race, here I come, thought Marvin, who now believed Tom’s prediction that he could enter the Shilo road race in October and actually finish. Marvin kicked off his third and final lap with a self-congratulatory pump of his fist. He preferred running through the woods. The trails in Willards Woods were extensive, clearly marked, and less painful on his joints than pavement. He especially enjoyed running in the late afternoon, when he was typically the only runner on the trails. He hated being passed by faster runners. He tended to push himself harder to keep pace, finding that little spurt of adrenaline short-lived and costly in terms of finishing.

He never listened to music when he ran, preferring to enjoy the natural sound track instead. His runs were sacred time, not to be squandered. Here, among the tall trees and chirping birds, Marvin freed himself from e-mail, phone calls, and yes, even those outdated faxes.

And Marvin had much on his mind of late.

The Tom Hawkins case had gone from being just another job to a borderline obsession. He’d defended innocent clients before, but Tom was something else entirely. Someone was out to destroy the reputation of an innocent man, and Marvin wanted to know why. If it was an extortion plot by Kip Lange, why make no demands? Coincidently, Marvin’s investigators discovered that Frank Dee had gone on vacation. Interesting timing for a trip away, Marvin thought.

Marvin sensed himself closing in on an answer but was still fumbling in the dark for the light switch. If it was a player Tom coached, how could the computer sabotage have been so sophisticated? If it was Cortland, who seemed capable of such feats, what was the motive? Murphy? He would have framed Tom for Kelly’s murder, if anything. And how did Boyd fit into all this? Marvin wondered. He had uncovered Roland’s connection to Cortland, but the motivation for destroying Tom just wasn’t there. Roland’s troubles with Tom stemmed from his jealousy over Adriana. But according to Tom, Roland didn’t become hostile until after Tom’s arrest.

Marvin reached the halfway point of his final lap, but instead of running ahead, he stopped and looked down another path. Something caught his eye. About fifty yards down another trail, Marvin noticed a man stretching. Even from a distance, Marvin could tell that man was Frank Dee.

Dee wore a black workout suit and had headphones cupping both ears. Dee picked up a pair of small handheld weights and began walking away from Marvin. Marvin didn’t have his cell phone with him, or he’d have called Tom. Marvin took several cautious glances about but saw nobody else in the vicinity. He followed Dee, walking down a trail he didn’t know and never took. He kept enough distance so that Dee wouldn’t notice the tail.

Dee walked at a slow pace, but his swinging weights obviously intensified the workout. Dee turned off one trail and onto another after covering about half a mile’s distance. Marvin followed, maintaining the same safe distance between them. Dee should be in California, visiting family, according to the waitress Marvin’s investigator had interviewed.

What was he doing here in the woods? Where was he headed?

Marvin didn’t worry about journeying deeper into the forest. There were plenty of posted trail maps to help him find his way out. Marvin used tree cover to keep himself hidden whenever he felt particularly exposed. Dee’s headphones stayed on the entire time.

Marvin felt confident he couldn’t be heard.

Dee changed trails again; this one followed a narrow, winding stream with slow-moving water only a few inches deep. Marvin checked a posted trail map and confirmed his suspicions.

They were now in south Shilo.

Damn, how he wished he could call Tom.

Dee followed the water. The wooded trail ended at a wide-open meadow, alive with colorful wildflowers and swaying grasses. Marvin lashed himself to a tall pine tree at the meadow’s edge and watched Dee mash down the tall meadow grasses as he made his way toward a hillside. Here the stream fed a much larger body of water.

Marvin now knew where they were: the Willard Pond Icehouse.

The old icehouse was built into the hillside where Dee was now headed. A farmhouse had once stood there, but it had been abandoned long ago and was now broken and dilapidated. Before refrigeration, farmers used icehouses, typically built near water, to keep food perishables fresh. The Shilo historical society had funded a restoration project a few years back that kept the Willard Pond Icehouse from crumbling, but they couldn’t afford to save the farmhouse.