TWENTY-TWO

Portia welcomed the dry heat of the Nevada desert after the high humidity of the Maryland summer. She took a cab from the airport to the condo where Rhona Naylor lived. The street was lined with identical two-story stucco buildings. Portia walked to the first-floor unit and rang the bell. On the step were several chipped clay pots, each holding a thriving cactus, and copper wind chimes hung from the wall. The door was answered by a tall woman wearing white cutoff shorts and a T-shirt that was the same shade of red as her hair. On her feet were sandals adorned with fake jewels. Three fingers on each hand were encrusted with rings with various colored center stones.

“Mrs. Naylor?” Portia asked in the politest possible voice.

“Yes?” the woman replied through her bright-red lips.

Portia held up her identification. “Special Agent Portia Cahill, FBI. I’d like to talk to you about your son Sheldon Woods.”

Rhona Naylor slowly blinked her mascara-coated eyes. “What the hell’s that boy done now?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing new, anyway. May I come in?”

The woman hesitated for a moment, then ushered Portia in. “You’ll have to forgive the way the place looks,” Rhona told Portia. “I’ve been having migraines and haven’t been able to keep up with the housework.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Portia said with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Migraines are the worst, aren’t they?”

“You have them, too?”

“Since I was in my teens,” Portia lied through her teeth and poured on the sympathy. “I know how you must be suffering. If you’d rather I came back—”

“No, no, hon. It’s all right.” Rhona plunked herself down on a chair and pointed out a place on the sofa for Portia. She fished a pack of unfiltered cigarettes from her pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” She lit up before Portia could reply.

“Of course not.” Portia wondered if it would make any difference if she’d said yes, she did in fact mind.

“So what’s that boy up to these days?” Rhona searched the cluttered coffee table for an ashtray.

“He’s still in Arrowhead Prison, as I’m sure you know.”

“We’ve been out of touch, Shelly and me. After what he did…” She shrugged. “Well, some things are hard to forgive.”

“True enough, but he’s still your son,” Portia reminded her.

“My little man.” Rhona nodded.

“What was he like as a child, Mrs. Naylor?”

“Oh, please, call me Rhona. I’m a divorced lady, you know.”

“I didn’t know.” Portia tried to keep a straight face as she tried to count the number of divorces Rhona had gone through. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Rhona made a face. “Good riddance to bad garbage. He wasn’t the man I thought he was. I’m just such an easy mark, you know? I never seem to see the worst in anyone until it’s too late. I just get taken advantage of, left and right.”

And did pretty damned well by it, too, Portia thought, her eyes scanning the well-decorated room.

Rhona appeared to have taken her exes for all they were worth.

“That’s what happens when you’re too tenderhearted.” Portia smiled gently and tried to think of how she was going to get the conversation back on track.

“Oh, isn’t that the truth?” Rhona nodded vigorously and blew out a long blue curl of smoke. “You know, my mother always told me that I needed to be tougher when it came to dealing with men. But no. Why, I—”

“Oh, is that a picture of Sheldon as a little boy?” Portia interrupted her and rose to walk to a marble-topped table on which a number of photos were displayed. She picked up the first one she came to and held it up. “What a cute little boy he was.”

“Oh, he was such a sweet thing,” Rhona said sadly.

“And this would be…let’s see, I’m guessing this is Douglas?” Portia held up a photo of a boy who was obviously not Sheldon.

“Yes. A sweeter boy you never met.”

“And this is…” Portia frowned. The boy did not look like either Sheldon or Douglas.

“That’s Teddy. He was my youngest.”

Teddy? Portia didn’t remember having heard about a third brother.

“How old is Teddy?” Portia asked.

“He would have been seven on his next birth day.” She pulled a wadded-up tissue from a pocket in her shorts and dabbed at her eyes. “We lost Teddy when he was just a little guy.”

“I’m so sorry,” Portia patted Rhona on the hand and dodged the lit end of the cigarette. “What happened to—”

“Oh, all my little men.” Rhona sighed dramatically. “All of them lost to me, one way or another. Sheldon…well, we know about Sheldon, don’t we? And Dougie, my first baby boy. Do you have children, Portia?”

“No, I…”

“There’s nothing like the love between a mother and her sons.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “Nothing like it. It’s truly sacred.”

“I’m sure. Now, Rhona—”

“You asked what Shelly was like as a child. He was an angel. A more beautiful child you’d never hope to see. And he was a good boy, Portia. He was a very good boy. He always did what he was told, he never talked back. He provided such solace to me when his daddy left us.” She sighed deeply. “He was the best of all my boys. He was special.”

“Rhona, the psychologists who examined Sheldon say that he told them he’d been assaulted as a young boy.”

“Assaulted?” Rhona frowned as if she’d never heard the word before.

“Sexually abused.”

“That’s nonsense.” Rhona flipped her hand dismissively.

“Well, he’d made the statement, and since so many men who…” Portia chose her words carefully. “…men who do the sort of things that Sheldon did, many of them had been abused as children. It’s actually very common—”

“Who did he say abused him?” she asked abruptly.

“That’s one of the reasons why I came to speak with you. We thought perhaps one of your ex-husbands might have been the abuser.” Portia watched as Rhona Naylor’s entire demeanor changed. “I’m sure you would have been unaware of it at the time, it isn’t something you would have necessarily known about, so we’re not saying that you—”

“You’re implying that one of my husbands did something unnatural with my son?” She stood and rose to her full height. “What kind of a mother do you think I am, that I would let any man touch my children in such a way?”

“Rhona, the allegation has been made, and we need to—”

“You need to get out of my sight.” She stubbed out the cigarette violently and stormed to the door and opened it. “Now. How dare you come into my house and say such a terrible thing to me? Don’t you think I would have known if something like that had been going on? Don’t you think a mother would know if someone was touching her boy?”

Portia walked to the door because she had no choice. “Rhona, your son has said this happened. You’re telling me you didn’t know. I believe you. I’m not accusing you of anything, I swear I’m not. No one is. But at some point in Sheldon’s life, when he was a child, something inappropriate happened to him, and that, whatever it was, contributed to—”

“Out. Of. My. House.”

Defeated, Portia walked through the front door, flinching as it slammed behind her with vehemence.

“You have a nice day, too, Rhona,” she muttered as she looked in her bag for her cell, and called for a cab.

         

“He never mentioned having another brother, or half brother,” Jim told her when she called him from the airport, where she awaited a flight home. “Are you sure she said this kid was her son?”

“Positive. Yet neither of the older boys ever mentioned this younger brother. And she referred to Douglas, Sheldon, and Teddy as her ‘little men.’ Kinda creepy, by the way.”

“She was always a little strange in the courtroom, I think I might have mentioned that. Never spoke to her son the entire time.”

“Which is odd, since, to hear her tell it, she and her Shelly were like this.” She crossed her fingers.

“You think she knew that something was going on with him?”

“I don’t know. There’s something there…I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was Woods’s father.”

“Nicholson said that he left when Sheldon was about four, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I think, to be honest. On the one hand, she comes across as a fierce lioness of a mother. On the other hand…”

“On the other hand, she comes across as strange.”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s your next move?”

“I’m going to have dinner with Annie McCall, our profiler, when I get back tonight, then I’m going out to the prison first thing in the morning. I want to see what Sheldon has to say about his younger brother who died.”

“She say what happened to him?”

“No, I tried to ask but she sort of talked over me. Past me. I thought I’d have time to work back to that, but I pissed her off and she kicked me out of the house.”

“Bodily?”

“Damn close. Anyway, I’m curious to see what Sheldon has to say about it all.”

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall.”

“You could be.”

“I’m in court all day tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I’m going to spend some time thinking up the perfect opening argument as soon as we’re done here. I took Finn and three of his buddies for pizza so that Dani could go out with a couple of her old friends tonight.”

“That was nice of you.”

“She really doesn’t go out often enough, doesn’t see her friends often enough. Besides, I’ve had fun.”

In the background, Portia could hear the voices of small boys all talking at once.

“I need to hang up,” Jim told her. “One of the boys just spilled his drink in his lap.”

“Better take care of that. I’ll talk to you later.”

The first call for her flight was announced, so she took the notebook she’d bought in the news store and tucked it under her arm. She’d been making notes on the case and all the things she still needed to do, from following up with Larisse on the DNA results to the things she wanted to discuss with Annie.

By the time the plane landed, her list of things to do had expanded to include things she wanted to ask Sheldon. At the top of the list she’d printed one word: Teddy.

         

It was almost nine P.M. when Annie McCall rang the doorbell at Miranda’s townhouse. She carried a briefcase in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“I don’t know about you,” she said after Portia welcomed her into the house, “but after the week I’ve had, I could use a nice glass of Pinot and some good conversation with an old friend.”

She kissed Portia on the cheek as she passed her on her way into the kitchen. “So good to have you back, Portia. How’s it going?”

“It’s going okay.” Portia followed her and opened several cabinets until she remembered where she’d seen the wineglasses. She took down two, set them on the table, and proceeded to search for a corkscrew.

“Brought my own,” Annie told her as she popped the cork out of the bottle.

“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

Portia laughed.

“I have to be. My life is spent in the midst of chaos. I can’t be stopping every five seconds to look for something.”

“You are surrounded by the most shit, I’ll give you that.” Portia took the glass Annie held out to her.

“Well, then, here’s to us.” Annie raised her glass.

“To those of us who chase the shit down, and those of us who have to figure out how it became shit in the first place.”

“That would be you.”

“True enough, child.” Annie sat on one of the kitchen chairs and kicked off her shoes. “What nibbles did Miranda leave for you?”

“Some salsa, some hummus that Will made but it’s about a week old so it’s questionable.”

“All the garlic he puts in, it’ll never go bad.”

Portia got the hummus from the refrigerator and a new jar of salsa and an unopened bag of pita chips from the pantry.

“Looks like dinner to me,” Annie told her.

“We could call for a pizza and have a real dinner,” Portia said.

“Do you realize how pathetic your life is when your idea of a real dinner is pizza?”

“If you have spinach on it, it has all the food groups, right?”

“Good point.” Annie opened the pita chips and dug into the hummus.

“How’s Evan?” Portia asked.

“Evan is wonderful. Tough being married to a cop, though.”

“I guess he thinks it’s tough being married to an FBI profiler.”

“No doubt. He keeps it to himself, though.”

Annie grinned. “He’s pretty much the perfect husband.”

“Nice.” Portia got out two plates and handed one to Annie. She poured a hill of salsa onto hers, grabbed a few chips and dug in.

“It is nice,” Annie agreed. “What about you? Did you leave behind a string of broken hearts over there—wherever there was?”

Portia made a face. “Not much time for romance. Though you’d think with those odds—the odds having been eleven men to two women—someone would have at least asked for my phone number.”

“Pity.” Annie nodded. “What is it with men these days?”

“Might have had something to do with the fact that we were all dirty and smelly from sleeping out in the open most nights.”

“That will put a damper on romance, so I hear.” Annie put her feet up on the chair next to hers. “So you’re not seeing anyone at all?”

“I didn’t say that.” Portia frowned. “I…actually, I don’t know what I’m doing. There is some one, but I don’t know what we are doing. Dating, I guess.” She nodded. “I think we’re dating.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Jim Cannon.”

“Why is that name familiar to me?”

“He was Sheldon Woods’s defense attorney.”

“Oh, yeah.” Annie nodded. “Very good-looking, right? Tall, nice build?”

“That would be him.”

“I’ve seen his picture in the papers a couple of times. They always refer to him as one of the ‘big guns.’”

They munched chips and drank wine for a few minutes, then finally Annie said, “So are you going to elaborate? Give me details?”

“Probably not.” Portia shook her head. “Not yet, anyway. Not until I figure things out a bit.”

“Okay, then. Fair enough,” Annie said. “Let’s talk about your case.”

“The case is a mess,” Portia told her. “On the one hand, we have Sheldon Woods. No introduction needed. On the other hand, we have someone who seems to have mimicked Woods, except in one vital area.”

“Which is?”

“As you know, Woods raped his victims, then when he’d finished with them, he killed them.”

“Right. We’ve talked about that before. He’s a classic pedophile.”

“The victim of the second killer was not sexually assaulted. There was no rape.”

Annie frowned. “And this was the victim that was found in the grave that Sheldon Woods gave you directions to?”

Portia nodded.

“You’d think if he was mimicking Woods, he’d have played out the entire script.” Annie was still frowning. “So why didn’t he?”

“I was hoping you’d have some insight into that.”

“He strangled his victim? Like Woods did? That much was the same?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t sexually abuse him.”

Portia crunched a chip, which seemed to echo, the house was suddenly so quiet.

“One kill doesn’t tell us much. But the fact that he left his victim in a grave Woods dug for one of his tells me he’s sending Woods a message.”

“We thought so, too, but we didn’t know what it was.”

“Maybe he’s saying ‘I can do what you did—abduct and kill—but I’m not like you. I don’t rape little boys, and that makes me better than you.’” She helped herself to another mound of hummus and a few more chips. “It’s a way of putting Woods down, maybe. And it’s probably a bid for attention.”

“From…?”

“Woods. The press, the media. Maybe even you.” Annie topped off their wineglasses. “He’s someone who’s had access to Woods, obviously.”

“The other day I went to see a guy named Neal Harper. He’s visited Woods more than anyone else has over the past few years. He says he’s writing a book about Woods, that he wants an answer to the question of why Woods did it.”

“And Woods is telling him?”

Portia nodded. “Harper says he did.”

“So there’s one strong possibility. What was your impression of him?”

“That he’s one creepy guy. But a killer?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. He’s shorter than me and soft, no discernible muscle tone. He didn’t strike me as very strong physically.”

“How strong do you have to be to overpower and kill a small child?”

“Strangulation actually takes some effort, and you have to figure that the kid is struggling. Then again, he really seems to be fascinated by Woods.”

“If Woods has told all to him, he’d know where the bodies were hidden,” Annie reminded her.

“Tomorrow I’m going to ask John to see if we can get a warrant for his notes. Anything that pertains to his dealings with Woods. Then we’ll have an idea of what Woods told him or if he’s just blowing smoke. He could just be bragging.”

“Also a possibility. Anyone else with an abnormal interest in him?”

“A guy named Keith Patterson—we don’t really know anything about this guy except that he’s shown up at the prison to see Woods on several occasions. And a woman who apparently has a thing for Woods.”

“Oh, spare me,” Annie grumbled. “These women who get into these jailhouse romances make me crazy. I’m assuming you’re going to talk to these people?”

“They’re on the list. The killer is fascinated by Woods, and both of them seem to be fascinated, too. I’m also trying to track down the other visitors that Woods has had over the past year, particularly those who saw him around the time I was going to see him. Woods had to have told someone that he was giving up some of his victims in exchange for favors. He had to have told someone the exact location of the grave in Lancaster in order for the killer to have gotten there just hours before I did.”

“He wanted to show you what he could do. Maybe it is your attention he’s after.”

“I don’t even want to consider that.” Portia shivered.

“I don’t think he’s doing it solely for you, but I think it’s playing into his motive somehow.”

“Ugh. The very idea makes me sick.”

“Then find him. Stop him.” She put down her glass. “What have you learned so far?”

“Sheldon Woods has some really screwed-up relatives.” Portia told Annie about meeting with Douglas Nicholson and Rhona Naylor.

“Now this is interesting stuff.” Annie’s eyes lit up. “Mama’s got issues, doesn’t she? Multiple husbands, never without a man in her life.”

“She refers to her sons as her ‘little men.’ Icky.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“What?” Portia said.

“She denied that Sheldon was abused?”

“Totally. Tossed my ass right on out. Second time in a week that someone did that to me.”

“Who was the first?”

“Neal Harper.”

“What did you do to piss him off?”

“I’m not sure. I think maybe he thought I was trying to trick him into admitting something. He actually lawyered up.”

“So back to the mother. In denial. Maybe because she knew it was happening and she didn’t make any effort to bring it to an end because she didn’t want the man to leave?”

“They all left her anyway. Or maybe it was she who left them.”

“Track down the ex-husbands. One of them could be the abuser, or could know who was. Could be someone might be able to shed some light on what went on in that house. I’m betting any one of them would have a whole lot to say.”

“And then there’s the issue of this third son.

Teddy. Funny thing. Neither Sheldon nor Douglas mentioned another brother.”

“Odd. How does he fit into all this?”

“I don’t know. Rhona said they’d lost him when he was a child but she didn’t say what happened. I’m assuming he’s dead, but maybe she meant literally lost. I asked but she changed the subject to what an angel Sheldon was as a small boy, and then I asked about the abuse, and she showed me the door.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Annie murmured. “When are you going to ask John to give you some help? The stage is starting to get pretty damned crowded. No way you’re going to be able to track down and interview everyone—the ones who’ve been hanging on Woods, all the ex-stepfathers—before this guy strikes again.”

“I hate to ask for help. I haven’t been back for very long. He’ll think I can’t handle anything on my own.”

“He’ll think you’re smart enough to know when you’re outnumbered. Right now, you are.”

It was quiet in the kitchen, so when Portia’s cell rang, they both flinched.

“Speak of the devil,” she said when she answered.

“Portia,” John’s voice was both weary and tense, “there’s been another one.”

“Where?”

“Outside of Frederick, Maryland. Another small body found partially sticking out of the ground in a picnic area.”

He read off the directions he’d been given by the police department reporting the find.

“I’m on my way.” Portia looked under the table for the shoes she’d kicked off earlier.

Annie already had her car keys in her hand when Portia got off the phone.

“How far from the last one?” she asked. “That was Lancaster, right?”

“About thirty miles,” Portia replied.

“And the one before that?” Annie gathered her things and stood and stretched.

“Maybe forty or so in the opposite direction.”

“You might want to map it,” Annie suggested. “Killers often like to stay in their comfort zone. You might be able to narrow down the field a little.”

Portia rinsed the wineglasses and left them in the sink.

“True enough. We’ll see if we can find his…” She reached for her bag, then stopped. She’d mentally drawn a map and recognized the territory. “It’s the prison. All three sites—the one in Lancaster, this one near Frederick, and the one where we found Christopher Williams—they’re all within about fifty miles of the prison.”

“Which doesn’t really help at all. You already know that several of your suspects have made repeated visits to the prison.” Annie shook her head. “If the killer is trying to get Woods’s attention, what better way than to leave the victims right under Sheldon’s nose?”