“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
Rainy 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.