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.”
“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.”
Chapter 68
M
arvin 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.
What was Dee doing at the icehouse?
Marvin kept clear of the meadow. He saw Dee go into the icehouse. Five minutes passed before Dee emerged from within the hillside bunker. Dee still had his headphones on. Marvin watched him walk up the hill and vanish once again into the woods. Marvin let several minutes pass with no sign of Dee before it felt safe to reveal himself. It took Marvin a minute to cross the meadow, about a football field worth of tall grass, and reach the icehouse door. A wooden fence, three posts long, stood to one side of the icehouse entrance. The icehouse door was built into the hillside. Light-colored grass grew everywhere. Bright green moss clung to the crumbling concrete of the icehouse’s outer wall. The wooden door was latched, but not locked. Marvin lifted the latch and pushed the door open. A shaft of light cut a triangular shape that widened with the opening door. Marvin stooped low to clear the door frame and stepped inside.
The room was both dark and dank. He looked to his left, saw nothing. He looked right. For a moment, Marvin couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t take in what he was seeing. Arms. Legs. A body. A girl’s body. She looked like a crumpled ball somebody had tossed aside. It had to be her—Lindsey Wells. Marvin’s heart sank.
Then she moved.
“Lindsey! Lindsey Wells! God, I’ve found you!” he cried out.
Lindsey let out a muffled sob.
Marvin rushed to Lindsey’s side, falling hard and slamming his knees painfully against the concrete floor when he reached her. He touched her shoulders. She fell against his chest. Marvin’s eyes adjusted to the minimal light. He could see Lindsey’s restraints for the first time: wrists bound, feet tied, she’d been blindfolded and gagged, too.
Marvin undid her blindfold first. He wanted her to see that she was safe.
Lindsey’s eyes were wide and filled with fear. Her head shook violently from side to side. Her screams, suppressed and unintelligible because of the gag, communicated a profound terror.
“It’s okay,” Marvin said, clutching her shoulders. “You’re safe now, Lindsey. You’re safe.”
Lindsey kept shaking her head violently, screaming through her gag, thrashing her body wildly about.
Marvin flashed on a thought. Why was the door left unlocked?
“Lindsey, I’m not going to hurt you,” Marvin said.
A voice behind Marvin answered. “But
I’m
going to hurt
you
.”
Fear swept through Marvin’s body, inducing a momentary paralysis. Marvin tried to turn around, but a thick arm wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze. Hard. The man holding him stood, pulling Marvin off the floor. The only thing Marvin could see was Lindsey, those wide eyes, frozen in terror. Marvin felt something sharp press against his side; he flinched in pain. He flailed his body about, making every effort to get free, but to no avail. Marvin felt the knife pressing harder.
“Close your eyes, Lindsey!” he shouted. “Close them tight and keep them closed!”
The tip of the knife pressed hard against Marvin’s skin. He felt it puncture, then tear, followed by an agony without equal in his memory. Marvin screamed. The sharp point of the knife ripped through his clothes and dug deep into Marvin’s belly without much resistance.