Forgotten (17 page)

“I told her to contact the police departments that originally reported the disappearances, see who’s still missing and who’s not, see if maybe there’s some potential source of the kids’ DNA in an old evidence file somewhere.”

“You mean like a toothbrush, a comb, something personal, from which DNA could be extracted?”

“Yes.”

“I think that’s a perfect solution for the time being. So no, I don’t think you were wrong in telling her this might not be the right time.”

“Gen, this is the first time in my career I feel my personal feelings may be coloring my judgment. Maybe it’s becoming a father for the first time that has me conflicted.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your judgment, my love. And it’s okay to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Sometimes you see more clearly from someone else’s vantage point.”

“Then there’s the matter of this being about Woods. It all goes back to him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Was I honestly doing the right thing by passing off the case to another agent? Was I really thinking of what was best for Madeline Williams and the other parents and families who still harbored hopes of having their sons returned when I sent Portia Cahill to deal with Woods? Or was it cowardice on my part because I did not want to revisit that place I’d gone to before?”

“John, there’s nothing cowardly in facing the truth. And the truth is that if Sheldon Woods had any idea you were involved in the effort to find Christopher Williams’s body, he’d have made everyone’s life a living hell. Not just yours, but Mrs. Williams as well.” She shook her head. “There’s no question in my mind—absolutely none—that if he knew, there’d be no chance to recover any of the others. He’d be too busy playing with you, John. So no, it isn’t cowardice, and you did the right thing.”

When he didn’t reply, she added, “It isn’t like you to second-guess yourself. This isn’t something you normally do.”

“I don’t normally deal with the likes of Sheldon Woods.”

“Time to put it to bed.” She stood, taking his hands and pulling him up with her. “Time to put
me
to bed. Lock up the back while I lock the front. I’ll meet you upstairs. This is only my second night home in a week. I intend to make the most of it.”

EIGHTEEN

“I
n here, Miranda,” Portia called out from the kitchen when she heard the front door slam.

“Well, isn’t this cozy.” Miranda took two strides into the kitchen before stopping in her tracks. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, you’re not. Might have been nice to know you were coming home this morning, though, just in case.”

“I doubt you’d have wanted me to call when I was leaving at four this morning.” She flashed a smile at Jim. “I’m Portia’s sister, Miranda.”

“Jim Cannon.” He extended his hand to her. “Wow. If it wasn’t for your long hair, I don’t know if I could tell the two of you apart.”

“You could if you knew us better. For one thing, I’m the smart one.” Miranda smiled.

“Oh, you wish.” Portia laughed.

“Don’t I, though,” Miranda muttered and glanced at the coffeepot. “Is there enough for me?”

“There should be. I just made it.” She indicated hers and Jim’s cups. “This is my second cup, but Jim just got here five minutes ago.”

“Oh.” Miranda frowned. “Pity.”

“Jim’s here to pick me up. We’re going to meet with Woods’s brother today. At least we’re hoping he’ll meet with us,” Portia added. “Jim met him once before, back during the trial, so I’m hoping that will get my foot in the door.”

“It could get the door slammed in your face,” Jim reminded her.

“Been there and done that already once this week,” Portia said. “Neal Harper practically threw me out on my ass yesterday.”

“Who’s Neal Harper?” Miranda asked.

“He’s a self-described journalist who has logged almost as much time with Sheldon Woods as the prison guards over the past few years. He claims to have been researching a book he’s supposedly writing about Woods,” Portia explained. “His wife—soon to be ex—referred to him as ‘creepy.’”

“She’s got that right.” Jim nodded. “He’s a very strange little man. Used to hang around the court room a lot, called my office every day wanting to interview me.”

“Did you let him?” Portia asked.

Jim shook his head. “He told my sister that he wanted to talk about what it felt like to have a client like Sheldon Woods.” Jim shook his head. “Not something I wanted to discuss publicly.”

“Hey, I’ll bet you could have gotten a book deal out of it,” Miranda told him.

“If I was going to write a book, it wouldn’t be about Sheldon Woods,” he said.

Miranda filled a cup and sat at the table across from Portia. “So what did I miss while I was gone?”

“Lots.” Portia brought her up to date with the short version.

“Yow. Someone else’s kill in one of Woods’s graves?” Miranda grimaced. “I guess you’re thinking copycat?”

“Yes and no. The profile of the victims is the same, but the MO is not.” Portia put her cup down. “The boy we found buried on the Amish farm was not assaulted.”

Miranda frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If someone is mimicking Woods, you’d expect him to have the same motive. The sexual assault of the boys was what drove Woods, not the murders, right?”

“Right. He killed as a means of disposing of his rape victims.”

“So now you have a killer who’s killing because…” Miranda paused. “Why is he killing?”

“Not sure. I need to discuss this with Annie. John and I think maybe he’s trying to get Woods’s attention, or possibly mine. But for what purpose?” Portia shrugged. “Haven’t figured that out yet. I’m hoping Annie has some thoughts on it.”

“I’m sure she will.” Miranda glanced at the clock on the wall, then downed the rest of her coffee. “Gotta run. I need to get in to the office before eleven to give John an update on the Maine case and get my reports all in order.” She smiled. “Did I mention that Will and I are meeting up in San Antonio tonight? He got held over a little longer than he expected, and I have time coming to me, so I thought I’d take a few days off and join him.” She rinsed out her cup at the sink. “Must go unpack, then pack for Texas, then get into the office and out again by this afternoon.” She made a face. “I’ll never make it.”

“You won’t as long as you’re standing here talking about it,” Portia noted. “But we should be going, too.”

“Where are you off to?” Miranda asked from the doorway.

“To Dufree Island. Woods’s brother lives there. It’s one of those little islands in the Chesapeake,” Portia told her. “You know, one of those you can only reach by ferry.”

“Oh, a ferry ride.” Miranda grinned. “I love ferries. They’re so romantic, don’t you think?”

Portia ignored her. She turned to Jim. “Ready?”

“I am.” He stood and passed his empty cup to her when she put her hand out for it. Turning to Miranda, he said, “It was nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. I hope I see you again,” she replied. She stepped aside as he passed her on his way to the hall. Behind his back, she mouthed the words to her sister: “He really
is
hot.”

Portia rolled her eyes, kissed her sister on the cheek, and said, “Send me a postcard from the Alamo.”

“Y
our sister seems to be quite the character,” Jim said as he pulled away from the curb.

“Miranda thinks she’s a real comedian,” Portia replied drily.

“She certainly amused me.”

“Yeah, well, some people will laugh at anything.”

He did laugh then. “You were starting to tell me about your impressions of Neal Harper when Miranda came in.”

“Right. Did I mention that his wife says she’s going back to using her maiden name? Strange, since they’ve only been separated for a couple of weeks.”

“Well, you said she described him as ‘creepy.’ Did she elaborate on that?”

“No. I asked, but she’d already hung up. After talking to him, though, you can bet I will follow up with Candace Wilson. The negative vibes came right through the phone. She really has a lot of hostility toward him.”

“Maybe you can get her to talk about that.”

“I’m certainly going to try.”

“Do you see him as the killer?” Jim asked as he headed toward the highway.

“I don’t know. My impression of him wasn’t very favorable, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.” She turned in her seat to face him. “I can’t decide if he’s fascinated by Woods or at what he thinks is a golden opportunity to make a killing with this book of his.”

“Are you ruling him out as a suspect?”

“Oh, hell no.” She shook her head from side to side. “On the contrary, I think he bears watching. Plus he pissed me off big time. I’m going to see if I can get a warrant for those notes he took when he was interviewing Woods.”

“He’s not going to want to give those up.”

She grinned evilly. “I know.”

“So, you’re saying it doesn’t pay to piss off the feds.”

“You betcha.”

“What exactly did he do?”

“Got snarky. I asked him if Woods told him how many kids he’d killed, if he told him where he left the bodies, and you know what that little asshole said? He told me I could buy his book. Then he threw me out.” She was irritated all over again just thinking about it. “We’re talking about the lives of children, and he’s playing tough guy, Mr. Cool, being cocky about the whole thing.”

She shook her head. “This case is bringing out the worst in me, I swear it is.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Because I hate it when anyone is cavalier about other people’s lives.” Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was staring straight out the front window. “It’s so easy to be glib when you have nothing at stake. When it’s someone else’s life that’s on the line. It’s harder when you know that if you don’t do the right thing—if you don’t do enough to stop it—someone is going to die.”

“I feel the same way.”

“You mean as a defense attorney?”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes your clients are guilty, right?”

“I suppose sometimes some of them are. I never ask.”

“How can you not ask?”

“Because I’m bound by what my client tells me. If he tells me he’s guilty, it would be damned hard for me to build a defense to prove otherwise without being deceitful in court.”

“But sometimes you know, don’t you?”

“Sometimes my gut tells me something my client doesn’t, yes.”

“So if you know that someone has committed a murder, how can you try to prove he didn’t do it?”

“I don’t have to prove that he’s innocent. I have to show that the prosecutor hasn’t done his job in proving his case. He—or she—has the burden of building a stronger case than I do.”

“Isn’t that rolling the dice a bit?”

“Sometimes. But if the DA is bringing the case to court, he should have the evidence he needs to get a conviction. If he does his job, justice will be served. If the DA gets lazy, doesn’t do his homework, doesn’t check and double-check the evidence and the witnesses, doesn’t make certain that it was a clean arrest, then he’s likely to lose.”

“Have you ever watched a guilty man walk out of the courtroom because you did a better job than the DA?”

“Why not ask me if I’ve watched an innocent man be led away in chains?” His words were suddenly clipped, his vexation apparent.

“Because I’ve had way more experience with the guilty than with the innocent.”

“Try seeing it from the other side of the table sometime.”

His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, and he drove in silence until they reached the turnoff for the ferry.

“I guess you park over there.” She pointed out the window toward the lot where several vehicles had already been parked and two small groups of people stood milling around.

Jim turned off the engine and got out of the car and walked to the small guard station at the end of the lot. When he returned, Portia was standing off to one side, looking down over the pilings into the narrow canal that led into the bay.

“Something going on down there?” he asked.

“I’m just watching the crabs,” she replied.

He looked over the edge. “Undersized, too small to be caught this year, so they’re cocky, unafraid.

This time next year, they’ll be out there hiding in the seaweed, trying to escape the traps and the nets. How do you suppose they know?”

“I guess every species has its own form of survival instincts.” She looked beyond him, to the dock. “Is that the ferry?”

“That would be her.”

“It looks as if there’s only one car on board,” she observed.

“Must be a resident of Dufree,” he told her. “The ferry ride for residents and their cars is free. For visitors, they want a hundred dollars for the car.

Each way.”

“Two hundred dollars to float your car across the bay?” Her jaw dropped. “Are they kidding?”

“Nope. They’re just very conscious of the environment. The guy in the booth said they have few roads, and the ones they do have aren’t in great shape. They’re afraid the newer, heavier cars, like the big SUVs a lot of people drive, will damage them.”

“Then why don’t they just ban SUVs?”

“I guess they don’t want to discriminate.”

“So what are you supposed to do with your car?”

“Lock it and leave it here in the lot.”

“Are you okay with that?” She glanced back over her shoulder at the pretty Jag sitting off by itself.

“I don’t have much choice.”

“Maybe we should have brought my rental. I wouldn’t feel as bad leaving that alone here.”

“Isn’t that government issued?”

“They don’t have one for me yet, so I’m keeping the rental until something becomes available.” Or until I leave, she could have added, wondering not for the first time if John’s inability to find a car for her was due more to his uncertainty about her commitment to the unit than it was to a shortage of vehicles.

“You sure you want to come with me?”

“Now would be a strange time for me to decide that I don’t, after driving almost an hour and a half to get here.”

She looked out past the ferry. “That must be Dufree Island.” She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. “The lot doesn’t look all that secure.” She glanced at the guard in his little shelter. “I could take that guy with one hand behind my back.”

“I guess he thinks that shotgun he has behind the counter provides all the security he needs.”

“I guess that and the police car parked over by the dock could serve as a deterrent.”

The groups of people they’d noticed earlier began to move toward the dock.

“Is it time?” she asked.

Jim glanced at his watch. “Right on time. The ferry is supposed to leave at one. The guard said they try to keep to the schedule, but that the captain will shove off if he thinks he has everyone on board.”

“What if you’re late?” Portia frowned and fell in step with Jim.

“I guess you have to wait for the next trip.”

“Or plan on being early.”

They walked the length of the dock and stepped aboard the double-decker boat. Aluminum lawn chairs were set up on the lower deck, and on the bow was an observation area with a railing of thick metal.

“What’s your pleasure?” Jim asked as they made their way through the small crowd that had boarded before them. “A deck chair, or you could do the
Titanic
thing up there on the bow.”

“Maybe we can go up to the top deck and sit.”

“Looks like the steps are blocked off.” He pointed toward a chain across the bottom of the stairway that led up.

“Right. I guess the
Titanic,
it is.” Portia walked toward the bow, one hand on the railing as the ferry pulled away from the dock. “Though I have to say, I did see the movie and hated it.”

“What, you don’t like the sort of love story that rips your heart from your body?”

“That one ripped a little too hard for me,” she told him. “I like happy endings.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “You don’t like happy endings?”

“I don’t know of anyone who’s ever really had a happy ending.” Jim shrugged.

She stepped up to the bow and leaned on the rail. “My sister is going to have a happy ending,” she told him. “She and Will are perfect for each other.

They’re very happy together.”

“That’s one.”

“John—my boss—and his wife, Genna, are happy. Deliriously happy.”

“How do you know? Maybe it’s all a show.”

“I know because I know John. I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s happy and when he’s miserable and when he’s faking it. Trust me, they’re happy.” She paused. “Actually, I know a lot of people who are happy together.”