Forgotten (4 page)

“Wait a second.” She held up a hand to hold off the corrections officer as he opened the door. “I don’t remember hearing about the part where you tell us what we want to know.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m sitting high in the saddle, Agent Cahill. Not a second sooner.”

“I don’t know that that will be acceptable to…”

“To…?” He raised his eyebrows.

“To the SAC. Fletcher. He’s the one I’ll have to go to with your request.”

“Oh, right,” he said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Special Agent in Charge ‘Fletcher.’ Well, you just do your best to convince him that he needs to make this happen. I’m sure Mrs. Williams’s peace of mind is every bit as important to him as it is to you.”

“I’ll have to get back to you.” She waved the guard in.

“Now it’s my turn to remind
you
that time is running out.” He stood and began his shuffle to the door. “And don’t forget about Cannon. If he’s not here to go with me, the deal is off.”

FIVE

“D
o you believe the nerve of this guy?” Portia had called John the minute she got into her car.

“Yeah, I do. No one’s ever said Woods didn’t have balls, Cahill. He’s pretty damned smart.”

“Smart enough to figure out that you’re behind this. I told him Fletcher was the SAC, but when Woods mentioned him, there were definite quotation marks around Will’s name, if you know what I mean.”

“Let him suspect all he wants, as long as he cooperates and gives up the burial site.” John paused.

“Do you think he’s serious about that?”

Portia drove to the gate and rolled down her window. “You tell me; you know him better than I do.

Is he likely to go back on the deal once he gets what he wants?”

She handed the visitors badge to the guard through the open car window, and nodded in acknowledgment of his “Thank you.”

“Would he renege if he could get away with it? Sure. We just can’t give him an opportunity to do that.”

“Is what he’s asking even possible? I mean, can you arrange for this to happen?”

“Arrange to get him out of prison and to a secure indoor riding facility where he can be brought in and taken out without anyone knowing he was there?” John fell silent for a moment. “Yeah, I think I can, as long as I have the assurance of everyone involved that no one leaks this to anyone. No press. No rumors. Obviously, the fewer who know about it, the better. All we need is to have it get out that we’re making deals with the likes of Sheldon Woods, or that he’s getting some kind of special treatment.”

He blew out a long breath. “At least he didn’t insist on you taking him to the burial site, the way he did back then. No way I could arrange that again. It would call too much attention to the situation, and attention is the one thing I don’t want.”

“But there will have to be clearance on several levels through the prison system, right?” she asked. “And there will have to be guards, and transport…”

“I can pull the right strings and get the clearance, and we can probably keep the prison personnel to a minimum. The warden, of course, will have to be involved, and maybe one guard, maybe two at the most. We’ll provide the rest of the security. As for the immunity, well, hell, he already got life for killing thirteen kids. After all this time, what the hell difference does it make if he isn’t prosecuted for this one?” After another silent moment, John said, “Yeah, I can make this happen. I just have to talk to a few people.”

“Speaking of talking to people, Woods had one other condition: He wants his attorney—his former attorney, the one who handled his defense back then—in the transport vehicle with him as a sort of security. He’s afraid someone will try to take him out, but thinks he’ll be safe if this lawyer is present.”

“He wants Cannon there? Strange…Well, then, give the guy a call, go see him, whatever. We can’t have this thing go south because the lawyer didn’t show up. Take care of it, Cahill. I’ll get back to you when I have the details wrapped up, then you can tell Woods everyone’s on board.”

A phone began to ring in the background.

“That’s my private line,” John said. “I’m going to have to take it. Meanwhile, you get in touch with Cannon and get him on board.”

He paused before adding, “But God help the little bastard if the Williams boy isn’t where he says he is.”

I
t took Portia less than five minutes on her computer to learn that James Cannon was thirty-six years old and had the reputation for being one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the region.

Well, duh. Get a serial killer life in prison instead of the death penalty, and you’re bound to have a path beaten to your door.

Back in 1999, when he defended Woods, Cannon would have been just a few years out of law school. How, she wondered, did someone that young end up representing the defendant in a case that big? Did he take on the case figuring to make a name for himself? It would have been a gamble though, wouldn’t it? Defending a serial killer who’d murdered, at the very least, thirteen young boys?

Well, the gamble apparently paid off for him,
she thought as she looked for and found his website, which showed a picture of his well-decorated office in a tony suburb of Baltimore.

“Apparently, crime does pay sometimes,” she muttered as she dialed the number. “And it looks as if it’s paid very well for Mr. Cannon.”

The call was answered on the second ring by a most efficient-sounding voice. “J.P. Cannon and Associates.”

“I’m calling for James Cannon. May I speak with him, please?”

“I can put you through to his assistant. Your name, please?”

“This is FBI Special Agent Portia Cahill.”

“One moment, please.”

Almost a full minute later, another equally efficient voice came on the line.

“This is Ms. Bennett. How may I help you, Agent Cahill?”

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Cannon.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Cannon is out of the office at the moment, but I’d be happy to take a message.”

“What time will he be back?”

“I don’t expect him back till after five, but I’d be happy to—”

Portia glanced at her watch. She’d already figured out it would take at least ninety minutes to get to Cannon’s office from hers.

“Will he be in by six?”

“Yes, he is expected, but—”

“Please tell Mr. Cannon that he can expect me at six and I’d appreciate a few minutes of his time.”

“I can’t guarantee that he’ll be here precisely at six—this is Friday, you realize, and we normally do not make appointments for Friday evenings. But if you’d like to make an appointment for another time—”

“I would not. Please let him know that I’ll be there at six.”

The efficient voice was becoming increasingly terse.

“May I tell him what this is in reference to, Agent Cahill?”

“Tell him it’s about Sheldon Woods.”

“Mr. Cannon no longer represents Mr. Woods.”

“I’m aware. Six
P.M.
today. Thanks so much.”

T
he law offices of James P. Cannon and Associates were located in a handsome redbrick building in an area just outside the northern city limits. By getting off the interstate before rush-hour traffic clogged the arteries leading into Baltimore, Portia was able to pull into the small parking lot at exactly five fifty-three. Not bad, she thought as she scanned the names on the reserved parking places. A dark blue Jaguar sat in the space bearing the name J.P. Cannon. She parked her rental car in the visitors’ space next to it.

“Right up there by the front door,” she mused as she turned off the engine. “Must have paid a little extra for that little perk.”

Nice
. She nodded to herself as she walked around the back of the Jag. Very nice. It was a similar model to one Jack owned, one he’d let her drive occasionally when she visited. Portia loved that car. Even now, walking around this one, her fingers itched for the keys, her hand for the gear shift. She did appreciate a little speed, a little luxury.

Then she remembered what James Cannon did that permitted him such luxuries.

Right. Criminal defense. We bring ’em in, he gets ’em out.

She stepped away from the car and walked through the front door.

Portia stopped at the security desk in the center of the lobby and showed her credentials.

“I’ll call up to let them know you’re here, Agent Cahill,” the uniformed woman told her. “Mr. Cannon’s office is right there where you get off the elevator on the seventh floor.”

“Thank you.” Portia kept her ID in her hand as she headed into the elevator. She’d probably need it again very shortly.

As Portia suspected might be the case, Cannon’s highly efficient assistant was waiting for her. The shapely young blonde in the blue silk suit appeared to be assessing Portia even as she stepped off the elevator.

“Agent Cahill?” she asked crisply.

“Yes. Ms. Bennett?”

“Yes. May I see some identification?” She held out a hand attached to an arm that sported a row of gold bracelets.

How, Portia wondered, did one type with all that hardware hanging off one’s arm?

Portia handed the woman her ID, which she seemed to take a long time studying. While she did so, Portia scanned the firm’s list of attorneys on the plaque on the wall facing the elevator. It appeared Mr. Cannon had amassed quite a staff since his Sheldon Woods days.

“This way,” the woman said, Portia’s credentials still clutched in her hand.

Portia followed her through a central reception area where several spacious glass-walled offices lined the outer wall of the building. The door of the back corner office was open, and it was through this door that Portia was directed.

“Agent Cahill is here to see you,” the woman announced as she entered the spacious office.

Portia wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t James Cannon. He was leaning against the front of his desk, his arms folded across his chest, as if he’d been waiting for her. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had the look of a former athlete, one who refused to let himself get out of shape. His eyes were dark blue and his sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in the front, and in the back, just brushed the top of his collar. He held out one hand, and his assistant passed him the small folder holding Portia’s ID. He looked it over, then handed it directly to Portia.

“What can I do for you, Agent Cahill?” he asked.

“I understand you represented Sheldon Woods.” She had crossed the room to take back her ID, and remained standing several feet from Cannon.

“Represented—past tense—being the important word there,” he said.

“Excuse me, is there anything else you need from me?” the assistant asked from the doorway.

“I don’t think so, Danielle.” He smiled at his assistant. “I know you like to leave on time on Fridays, so go ahead and wrap it up for today.”

She cast an uncertain glance at Portia.

“I think I can take it from here,” he told her.

“Okay. I’ll see you later.” Danielle started out of the room, then turned to Portia. “Agent Cahill.”

Portia nodded as the woman left.

“Have a seat.” Cannon gestured to one of the wing chairs near his desk.

“Thank you.” Portia sat on it and crossed her legs.

“Now, what’s brought Sheldon Woods back onto the FBI’s radar?” Cannon asked.

“Long version or short?”

“Short. It’s been a very long day.”

“The mother of one of Woods’s suspected victims is terminally ill. She’d like to bury her son before she dies. We’d like to help her do just that.”

“Since when has the FBI cared so much for the little guy?”

“Since the man who runs the unit I work for was the agent who brought Woods in twelve years ago.”

“John Mancini?” Cannon raised an eyebrow. “He’s still around?”

Portia nodded. “You sound surprised.”

“I’d heard he’d…” Cannon hesitated. “…had a hard time after the thing with Woods. Took a leave for a while, or something.”

“He took some time off, yes.” Portia wasn’t willing to concede more than that. Few people knew just how bad things had gotten for John after Woods’s trial. “But he never left the Bureau.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So—we have a woman dying who wants to bury her son.” Cannon turned one of the other wing chairs to face Portia, and sat. “Since all of the ‘Baker’s Dozen’ victims were recovered, we’re talking about someone Woods hasn’t previously given up?”

Portia nodded. “Yes.”

“Is there any proof that Woods was the killer?”

“The boy—Christopher Williams was his name—was eight years old, disappeared on his way home from soccer practice, no ransom note. This was in nineteen ninety-seven, northern Maryland…”

“In short, he fit Woods’s MO and victim profile.”

“To a tee.”

Cannon’s forehead creased as he seemed to think back.

“There was a woman who came to court every day…I think her name was Williams. She spoke with Woods on the last day, at sentencing. She had a picture of a boy…”

“That was Madeline Williams.” Portia nodded. “I wasn’t there, of course, but John told me how she’d approached Woods, begged him to tell her where her son was buried. She was convinced that Woods had killed him. As was the FBI, by the way. They just couldn’t prove it at the time.”

“So how do you propose to go about proving it now? And what does it have to do with me?”

“I’ve been to see Woods….”

He arched an eyebrow but did not interrupt her.

“And he’s pretty much agreed to tell us where the boy is, but he did have several conditions.”

“Of course he did,” Cannon muttered. “What does the bastard want this time? Oh, let me take a wild guess—immunity for the boy’s murder.”

“Naturally, he doesn’t want to be punished for the crime. That was a given going into this. What he wants is an hour of horseback riding.”

“He wants…
what
?”

“That was my reaction too, but that’s it. He wants to ride a horse for an hour.”

“Of course, you’re not going along with this.”

“Of course we are. It’s being arranged in an indoor riding facility as we speak.”

“That’s total bullshit.”

“Tell that to Madeline Williams.”

“Why would Mancini agree to this?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he wishes he’d been able to hold out for the names of a few more victims before you made that deal locking them into thirteen.”

Cannon stared at her, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable.

“And I fit into this how?”

“Oh, that’s the third condition,” Portia told him. “He wants you there. He wants you to ride with him to and from the prison.”

“I’m no longer his attorney.” Cannon shook his head. “I don’t want anything to do with him. You can count me out.”

“Then there’s no deal, and Madeline Williams goes to her grave never having found her son.” Portia looked directly into Cannon’s eyes, anger rising within her. “But I suppose any man who’d craft a deal to get a child molester and murderer life in prison rather than the death penalty—a penalty he so richly deserved—shouldn’t be expected to give a damn about the families of his client’s victims.”