Forgotten (7 page)

Portia took another sip, then asked, “Who’d you get the word from, anyway, and what are they saying?”

“I just heard it around the office. Someone overheard you and John the day you came back. Said he chewed you a new one for letting yourself get outed by the tabloids and basically that he laid you out in lavender for your attitude.”

“Well, that’s certainly an accurate recollection. Someone must have been damned close to the door to have heard all that.” Portia frowned. “So everyone thinks I’m…what?”

“Just that you’d rather be back where you were.”

Portia sighed. “Crap. Nothing like making a name for yourself your first day back.”

“It doesn’t matter. Everyone who’s ever worked with you knows how good you are. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Miranda went to the coffeemaker and lifted the pot, waving it at Portia.

“No, thanks, I still have some.”

“Are you upset? Annoyed? Pissed off?”

“No.” Portia shook her head. “I probably deserve whatever dirt is out there. I wasn’t as gracious as I should have been to John. I shouldn’t have been so blunt about not being happy at being reassigned. He could have just left me out there, to be sent to any shit-hole office that needed an experienced agent.”

“You were part of his team before you left for counterterrorism. He wanted to give you the opportunity to come back here.”

“Where the elite meet and greet.”

“More or less, yes.” Miranda drained her cup. “This much I do know: He called the director immediately when he found out, asked for you to be sent here.”

“He told you that?”

“Not exactly. Oh, he did say something to me about you coming back, thinking I already knew. Which I did, but only because I happened to be in Kit’s office when John got the call about you being given the boot,” Miranda admitted.

“Ah, a little eavesdropping of your own, eh?”

“I couldn’t help it. He had a bad connection and he was talking very loud.”

“Oh, swell,” Portia lamented. “So the whole office heard…”

“No, it was close to nine at night. He and I and Kit were the last people there. Kit was in the ladies’ room, so no one else heard that part.” Miranda stood and took her empty mug to the sink and rinsed it. “At least, not then, and not from John. I think bits and pieces were patched together over a few days. Everyone knows why you were sent back but no one’s been talking about that in front of me, because apparently everyone knows how I feel about Jack.”

“How would they know that?” Portia frowned.

“You know how it is in a small office, sis. One person tells one person, that person tells two…”

“And so on and so on. Yeah, I know how it is. I hope it hasn’t made things uncomfortable for you.”

“Nah. It’s chatter, but it’s not mean-spirited chatter.”

Portia stood and stretched. “Thanks for such a great dinner. I didn’t realize you’d become such a terrific cook.”

“I have my moments.” Miranda grinned. “Maybe only once or twice a week, but I do have them.”

“Well, it was delicious and I’m happy that I was here on one of your nights. And thank you again for letting me stay in your spare room. I promise I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can find a place of my own.”

“No hurry. Will and I like the company.”

“I’ll be looking at a few apartments tomorrow, actually.” Portia opened her bag and waved a piece of paper at Miranda. “I went online today and made a list of all the places that looked decent. I have my first appointment at ten in the morning.”

“Please don’t feel that you have to do that. Seriously. We love having you here.”

“Of course you do. Nothing like having a third wheel crash into the love nest.”

Miranda laughed. “It’s all right. We hardly know you’re here.” She thought about that for a moment, then added, “Of course, we haven’t all been here at the same time except to sleep since you got here. And I’ll be away for a few days.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Actually, Will is leaving tomorrow for a few days—he’s going to Texas through at least midweek, maybe longer—so you’ll actually be doing us a favor by staying around for a little while.”

“How so?”

“You could…” Miranda looked around the kitchen. “You could watch the house. Water the plants.”

“I thought you only had fakes because you always forget to take care of them and they die.”

“Will brought a few real ones when he moved in. He tossed out the fakes.”

“Well, isn’t he optimistic?”

“Yes, he is,” Will said from the doorway. “And with good reason.”

He tossed several sheets of paper onto the table and pointed to the clock on the wall. “Let it be noted that it didn’t take me past eight o’clock.”

“You’re finished already?” Portia frowned. “Damn. I heard you were good…”

“It’s all true.” Will pulled out a chair.

“Your modesty is overwhelming.”

“Hey, some got it, some wish they had it.” He grinned and turned the sheets of paper to face Portia. “Actually, you could have done this yourself on your laptop if you had the right codes and passwords. These are the names and all the identifiers of all the boys within the age range who disappeared during the time frame we discussed, from the states we’re interested in. Reporting law enforcement agency is here.” He pointed.

Portia pulled the pages closer to take a better look. “I guess the reporting agencies would know if their missing kid has returned alive or if his remains have been located.”

“In that case, they should have removed them from the list, though I suppose sometimes they forget that detail.”

Portia studied the list. “So many kids, Will…”

“Yeah, I know.” He stood and smacked the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. “No one said it was a pretty job.”

“Thanks, Will. I really appreciate this.”

“Not a problem.” He shrugged. “I hope it helps you to identify your boy.”

Portia headed for her room, eager to start an Internet search for anything she could find on the missing boys. She turned on her computer and shot off an e-mail to John Mancini, asking him to send her his list of suspected victims of Sheldon Woods to match against the list Will had prepared for her. Then she used a search engine to look up the boys whose names had shown up on Will’s search. From there, knowing their hometowns, she went on to read about the cases in the victims’ local newspapers.

So many of their stories were the same. Young boy, snatched from the street, on his way home from an innocent childhood activity—soccer, baseball, Peewee football. The library. A friend’s house. All missing from their own neighborhoods—mostly from within a few blocks of their own homes, where they should have been safest. Gone without a trace. Almost every one of them, in broad daylight.

No one saw…no one heard.

It was after three when she turned off the light and stumbled off to bed, the names of the missing and their sad stories echoing in her head. Tomorrow, she would start the search for the name of the boy in the grave. It might take a while, but sooner or later, she would discover who he was, and why Sheldon Woods wanted to keep his identity a secret.

Then she’d hand over her file to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. She would be there, right in the front row of the courtroom, when Sheldon Woods went on trial for his life.

EIGHT

P
ortia turned over lazily, awakened by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. She opened her eyes and looked at the clock, then sat straight up. It was after nine
A.M.
She couldn’t re call the last time she’d slept that late—even on a Saturday. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and listened. All she heard was the clock ticking away on the bedside table and a passing car or two outside the window. She grabbed her robe and went to the top of the stairs.

“Miranda?” she called over the banister. “Will?”

When no one answered, she realized she was alone. Miranda had told her she’d be leaving this morning for her trip to Maine, but Portia hadn’t realized she’d be leaving so early.
Will must have driven her to the airport,
she thought as she went down the steps to the kitchen. A note was pinned to the coffeemaker.

Hey, P.—Help yourself to some morning caffeine and breakfast—you know where to find everything. See you on Tuesday or Wednesday, depending. Love, M.

Portia poured a cup and grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator, a spoon from the drawer, and ate standing up. She watched a hummingbird at the feeder near the small deck at the back of the townhouse before heading back upstairs. She’d almost forgotten she had appointments to look at apartments this morning.

While she showered, she questioned why she was bothering to look at places to live when she wasn’t even sure she wanted to stay with the Bureau. It had occurred to her that perhaps a private security firm might be a better fit. They were always looking for people with her experience, especially in the Middle East.
That’s where I really want to be,
she thought,
isn’t it? Isn’t that where I belong? The work I was born to do?

She had to admit that there were some aspects of being back in the States that were highly appealing, things she’d missed while camping in the mountains. Like hot showers. Electricity. Indoor plumbing. Things that were taken for granted here were luxuries where she’d been in Afghanistan. As much as she enjoyed the work, she had to admit that this stateside gig had a lot going for it.

The list of apartments was at the bottom of her purse. She looked it over, debating whether or not to cancel her appointment. She hated to waste anyone’s time showing her places she wasn’t likely to rent. On the other hand, it could take some time to find another job, and in the interim, she’d be imposing on her sister and Will. Not that either of them seemed to mind, but how would they feel after six weeks? Six months?

She was almost dressed when her phone began to ring.

“Portia, it’s John. I got your e-mail. The information you asked for should be in your in-box right about,” he paused, and she could hear the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, “now.”

“That was fast.” She placed her laptop on the bed and sat next to it, booted up, and waited for her mail to appear.

“I’ve had that list for years,” he said. “It was just waiting for someone to find a reason to look into it.”

“Well, now we have two reasons.”

“If we could positively identify the remains that were found yesterday—both sets of bones—that would take two names off the list. That means two more families will have peace of mind, two more families will be able to bury their dead. No small thing, Portia, when you think about it.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s no small thing.”

“What are you planning on doing with the list, now that you have it?”

“First I want to compare it to the NCIC list Will pulled off the computer for me last night, info on boys who’d gone missing during the period we knew Woods was active. Some of them may have been located, some could have been runaways who have since returned.” She opened the e-mail from John and scanned it. There were twenty-three names on it. “Jesus. You think Woods was responsible for twenty-three more kills than he’d admitted to?”

“At the least, yes.”

“Good God.”

“Yeah.” John sighed heavily. “So go on. Your plan…”

“Right. I’m going to start calling the reporting police departments and try to find out the status of each one of those kids, see what’s new. Since Woods didn’t seem to travel too far with his victims, chances are the other boy we found yesterday was from the Pennsylvania/Maryland area, as the Williams boy was. I think his family home was within twenty miles of where we found him.”

“Sounds like you have a handle on things.” He paused again. “It would feel really good to cross two more names off.”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

“Let me know what the ME comes back with. Keep in touch.” John hung up, and she turned off her own phone.

Portia forwarded the list to her office computer and grabbed her bag. She was halfway out of the room when she remembered the appointments she’d set up for that morning. She went back into the room, picked up the paper with the addresses and phone numbers and stuffed it into her purse. She’d call and cancel. Apartment hunting could wait.

When Portia arrived at headquarters, the lights in several of the offices were on and the individual office doors were closed. Eager to work, she closed her own door and booted up her computer. While the machine went through its paces, she sipped the container of drive-through coffee she’d picked up on her way in, and dug the apartment listings out of her bag. She made four quick calls canceling her appointments, then set about comparing her notes.

All of John’s twenty-three names were on the list compiled by Will, but Will’s list was much longer. She read them over, one by one, before picking up the phone and beginning her calls. She realized that since it was Saturday morning, she’d most likely be leaving messages. She knew she would have to wait a few days while the message slip went from desk to desk until finally it landed in the hands of someone who’d return her call.
Might as well get the process started,
she thought,
get step one out of the way.

It took her most of the day, but she did manage to call all fifty-seven police departments on the list. She’d left both her cell and her office numbers, and hoped that by Tuesday she’d be getting some returns. She sorted through her notes, looking for James Cannon’s phone number. While he probably wouldn’t get her message until Monday morning, it would be one more step finished. She dialed the number and listened to it ring.

“Cannon.”

“Uh…,” she stammered, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected a real person to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Cannon, it’s Agent Cahill. I’m sorry, I was caught off guard. I didn’t expect you to answer the phone.”

“Who did you expect to answer?”

“An answering service. Maybe a recording.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, of course not. I just didn’t expect to find you in on a Saturday afternoon.”

“So why did you call if you didn’t think I’d answer?”

“So that I could leave a message.” She realized she was speaking through clenched teeth.

“Ah, we’re back to that again.” He sounded mildly amused.

“Mr. Cannon, I’d like to talk to you about Sheldon Woods.”

“I assumed that was why you were calling. How’d you make out looking for the remains?”

“We found what we were looking for.”

“That’s terrific. Congratulations. I’m sure Mrs. Williams will be very happy.”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “But there was something else…someone else. Buried there.”

“What do you mean, someone else?” He paused. “Wait a minute, you mean there was more than one body?”

“Yes, but I’m hoping that doesn’t leak to the press. Actually, I don’t want any of this to get out. Everyone who has a missing son will be calling, wondering if it’s their boy. We don’t need for people to be getting their hopes up.” She shuffled through her lists. “Some of these people have been waiting so long…” She sighed. “Actually, that’s what I’d like to speak with you about, if you have some time.”

“I have time right now. Shoot.”

“I’d rather do it in person, if that’s all right with you.” She wanted to read his face when she asked about Woods’s victims. Would he tell her the truth? Would he cover for his former client? Would she know the difference?

“You can stop over if you’re in the area. Otherwise, I could meet you someplace.”

“I’m about ninety minutes from your office.”

“So we’ll meet halfway. How about Dalesberg? There’s a nice little Italian restaurant on Clark Road. Giorgio’s. They have the best chicken piccata you’ll ever taste. I can meet you there at six.”

“That’s not necessary, we can wait until Monday.”

“Actually, I’m pretty hungry right now.”

“I meant, I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday night.”

“Trust me, I don’t.” He hesitated. “Unless you’ve got other plans…”

“No, actually, I don’t. Fine. I’ll meet you at Giorgio’s in Dalesberg at six.” She hung up the phone, then frowned.

Had she just agreed to a date with Sheldon Woods’s lawyer?

No big deal, it’s a fact-finding mission,
she told herself.
Exchange of information. Nothing more. So unimportant that I’m not even going to stop in the ladies’ room to put on some makeup or fuss with my hair. It’s just meeting at a convenient time.

Yeah,
she reminded herself, grimacing at the implications.
The dinner hour on a Saturday night. Way to advertise that you have no social life, Cahill.

“Well, then, apparently, neither does he,” she said aloud. “Besides, it’s fact finding,” she repeated. “Just…fact finding.”

J
ames Cannon was already seated at a window table overlooking a fast-moving stream when she arrived. He stood when she approached and held her chair.
Not necessary,
she’d wanted to say, but thought it would sound peevish, so she bit back the remark and merely said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He sat opposite her. “Did you hit a lot of traffic on your way?”

“No, it was fine.”

The waiter appeared at the table and she looked up. “I’ll have a Yuengling.”

“What? A woman who doesn’t drink light beer?” Cannon feigned shock.

“I make it a point to avoid anything with light on the label.” She opened the menu and scanned the offerings, then closed it again.

“Know what you want?” he asked.

“I’m here for the chicken piccata,” she said as she unfolded the list of names she’d typed up before she left the office. “But mostly, I’m here for this.”

“What is that?”

“A list of lost boys.” She passed it to him. “Boys who were reported missing during the time Sheldon Woods was out there doing his thing.”

She watched his eyes as he read down the list. When he got to the bottom, he said, “None of these boys ever came home?”

“I’m not sure. I have calls into each one of the law enforcement agencies that reported into the system. They’re supposed to remove the names if the boy is located, but you can’t always count on that. Frankly, I don’t expect to hear from anyone until midweek. But I had to start somewhere.”

“It’s a lot of names.” He shook his head. “Do this many kids disappear every year?”

“Way more than that. These are just the boys from Woods’s self-professed killing grounds. When you start adding up all the minors who are reported missing every year, the number is staggering.”

“How many of them are found alive?”

“Way too few.”

The waiter came back with Portia’s beer and took their orders.

She sipped from the glass and smiled. “One thing I missed while I was away. Good old Pennsylvania beer.”

“Where were you?”

“I’ve been working with the counterterrorism unit of the Bureau for the past several years.”

“Must have been exciting.”

“It had its moments.”

“Where were you?” he repeated, but this time, she knew he wanted specifics.

“Here and there.” She smiled. “Anyway, back to the case at hand. I’m assuming you didn’t recognize any of the names on that list.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“I thought maybe Woods might have mentioned the names of some of his victims whose whereabouts he hadn’t given up.”

“Are you kidding?” He lifted his beer and took a drink. “I had to fight tooth and nail to get him to give up the thirteen. Until it became obvious to him that it was in his best interest to start naming names and drawing maps, he wasn’t going to admit to a thing. But even if he had, I wouldn’t be able to give you the information. Anything he told me back then, when I was representing him, would be privileged.”

“I figured as much, but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Agent Cahill, I know you don’t think much of me and what I do—it’s okay, I get that from law enforcement types all the time—but I do try to stay true to the oath I took.” His eyes darkened and his mouth tightened. “Sometimes it’s easier than others, but I do try to conduct my business ethically.”

“Well, forgive me, Mr. Cannon,” she couldn’t help but ask, “but how does an ethical man justify having defended someone like Sheldon Woods?”

“I was appointed by the court,” he said simply.

“You could only have been in your midtwenties back then. How does a reasonably fresh-out-of-law-school attorney get appointed to a major capital case? And a notorious one at that?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” he replied wryly.

“Seriously.”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he explained. “None of the established lawyers in the county wanted the case. For one thing, no one wanted their name associated with Woods. Then there was the matter of the assumption that the case was going to be open and shut—meaning fewer billable hours—and the fact that the evidence was overwhelming. Woods was going to be tried and convicted in short order—the idea was to try him for the one victim he’d had with him when he was arrested—and given the death penalty. Not worth anyone’s time, plus there was no question he’d be convicted.”

“So how did you get from being the new kid on the block to making a deal where he gave up thirteen victims in exchange for life?”

Cannon sat back while the waiter served their salads.

“Can I bring you another beer?” The waiter asked. “Perhaps a bottle of wine?”