His daughter was his only concern now. He’d gone through a rough time when she’d decided to live in the dorms. She could easily have made the commute from her mother’s home in the suburbs, but she’d wanted to be on her own and that worried Cahill. She still seemed so young, barely eighteen while a lot of the other freshmen were already turning nineteen.
But it had been her decision and as much as he’d been dying inside, Cahill had known better than to try and hold her back.
Still, there were times when it was all he could do not to drive to the university, grab her in his arms and hold her so tightly that no one would ever be able to hurt her again. It didn’t matter how old she was or how far away she went, she would always be his little girl and he would always feel that overwhelming need to protect her. He couldn’t help it.
He eyed the phone now, thinking that if he could just hear her voice, make sure she was okay, he might be able to turn in and get some sleep. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that, though. He’d let her call him when she needed to. If she needed to.
But they hadn’t talked in days….
He found himself calling her cell phone in spite of his resolve. When he got her voice mail, he left a brief message, then called the phone in her dorm room. A young woman picked up.
“This is John Cahill. Jessie’s father. Is she there?”
“Oh, hey, Mr. Cahill. This is Sarah, her roommate. We met on move-in day, remember?”
An image of a freckle-faced redhead popped into his head. “Yes, of course, I remember. How are you, Sarah?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Is Jessie around?”
“No, I’m sorry, she’s not here.”
“Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”
“I just got in myself. She usually leaves a note, but I guess she forgot this time. She has a chemistry test tomorrow, so she’s probably studying at the library. Do you want me to have her call you when she comes in?”
“No, that’s okay. It’s not an emergency. I just wanted to say hi.”
“I’ll tell her you called then.”
“Thanks.”
“Good night, Mr. Cahill.”
“Good night.”
Cahill hung up and polished off the remainder of his drink. If Jessie was studying at the library, then that would explain why she’d turned off her cell phone. There was no need to worry about her. Everything was fine.
So why did he suddenly feel so uneasy? Why did he have an almost uncontrollable urge to drive down to the campus and look for her himself?
Because you’re an overbearing jerk, that’s why.
Fixing himself another drink, he dropped his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.
Chapter Eight
Naomi Willis lived just off Washington and I-10 in one of the new town house complexes that had sprouted like mushrooms in the area. Whatever trees had been in the neighborhood had all been bulldozed to facilitate construction, and now the view from most of the units was of another building or a concrete parking lot.
As Cahill parked the car in front of Naomi’s building, Pru glanced at his profile. He looked like hell this morning. The creases around his mouth seemed to have deepened since yesterday, and the dark circles under his eyes were a graphic manifestation of what must have been a sleepless night.
Pru wondered what had kept him up. The case or something personal?
She couldn’t stop thinking about what her father had told her at dinner last night. Cahill’s daughter had been raped, and he blamed himself for not being able to save her. Pru could understand that. Like her father, his protective instincts would run deep, but the ex-wife’s attitude was a little harder to fathom. Her own guilt must have been overwhelming. Her daughter attacked while she slept…no wonder she’d lashed out at someone else. It had probably been her way of coping, but in reality neither she nor Cahill was at fault. No one was to blame except the monster that had come in through their daughter’s bedroom window.
Cahill turned and caught her staring. Instead of glancing away, Pru said, “Are you okay?”
He scowled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You seem a little distracted this morning.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I kind of figured,” Pru said.
His expression sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, this case is keeping me awake, too. I couldn’t stop thinking about it last night.”
He gave her a halfhearted smile, as if reading her mind. “Should I say I told you so?”
“You can if you want to.” She lifted one shoulder. “But lucky for me, I don’t need much sleep.”
“Another point in your favor,” he murmured as he opened his car door.
Another point in her favor? What did that mean? Pru wondered.
They headed up the walkway to Naomi’s door, and Cahill rang the bell. Pru could hear music coming from inside. The techno beat was so loud she wasn’t sure anyone would be able to hear the bell, let alone a knock, but after a few moments, a woman drew back the door and peered out.
Naomi Willis was a pretty brunette who appeared to be several years younger than her brother—early twenties to his early thirties. She was around Pru’s height, five-six or so, with a trim, toned body that complemented the pink velour tracksuit she wore.
“Yes?”
Cahill held out his identification. “We’re with the FBI,” he said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” she asked warily.
“Your brother. May we come in?”
Alarm flickered in her eyes. “Johnny? What about him? Is he okay?”
“So far as we know, he’s fine. We just need to ask you a few questions.” Cahill placed his hand on the door. “May we come in?”
Reluctantly, she stepped back, and as they entered, Pru automatically surveyed her surroundings. The living area was to the right of a long, narrow foyer, and the stairway was to the left. Sunlight streamed in through long windows that faced the street, and as the rays bounced off a crystal wind chime, tiny rainbows danced in the air.
The floors were laid with a cool gray slate, but the furnishings were in warmer tones, the fabrics soft and luxurious. The arched doorways and stucco walls gave the town house a Mediterranean feel. It was the kind of place Pru would like to have someday, but would probably never be able to afford.
Naomi hurried across the room and turned off the music. Her sound system looked state-of-the-art, as did the large plasma-screen TV that dominated one wall.
She turned back to face them. “Sorry. I was just going over a new routine,” she murmured, running her hands down the sides of her tracksuit.
“You’re a dancer?” Pru couldn’t help but notice the woman’s body. The velour pants rode low on her hips, while the top hit her just above her pierced belly button.
“Fitness instructor,” she said.
That would explain the washboard abs, Pru thought a bit enviously. It didn’t, however, account for the luxurious surroundings. Since when could fitness instructors afford a place like this?
“You said you had questions about my brother,” she said nervously. She motioned to the plush sofa behind them. “Have a seat.”
The moment Pru sat on the couch, a huge, white Persian leaped from nowhere onto her lap. It was so unexpected that Pru jumped noticeably, but the supersize feline merely yawned and settled in.
“That’s Chester,” Naomi said, laughing. “Just shove his big butt off if you don’t like cats.”
“No, it’s okay. I like cats,” Pru murmured. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cahill grin. She decided any momentary discomfort on her part was worth it to get a reaction like that from him.
Oddly enough, Chester seemed to break the tension in the room. Naomi sat down and slid her hands between her knees. “Actually, Johnny is my step-brother. But then, being the F
BI, you probably already knew that, right?”
Amazing how many people thought the FBI was all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful. If only, Pru thought as she ran a tentative hand along Chester’s back. He started to purr.
Taking their silence as assent, Naomi nodded. “Yeah, my mother married his father when I was fifteen. It didn’t last long. A year, I think, before my old lady got pissed about something and we moved out. But Johnny used to come around sometimes, and even though he was older, we hit it off.” Her eyes glowed as she talked about Stiles. She’d been reluctant to let them in, but now she seemed to relish the opportunity to gush over him.
“He wasn’t like anyone I ever knew. For sure not like the boys I dated in school. He was smart and funny and sophisticated…” She trailed off. The glow in her eyes turned feverish as she said fiercely, “He didn’t do it, you know. He didn’t kill those women. He’s innocent, and we’re going to prove it.”
“How?” Cahill asked.
She lifted her chin. “We have a new attorney, and he’s not like that idiot we had before. I could have put on a better defense. The whole trial was nothing but a joke. The prosecution didn’t even have a case, and yet Johnny’s attorney just sat there like some moron and refused to object while they paraded one lame witness after another to the stand. It never should have gotten that far. Anyone with half a brain could see that the charges were trumped up because the cops were under a lot of pressure to make an arrest. So they pinned those murders on Johnny.”
Well, well, Pru thought. That was some performance. Naomi Willis had been well coached. Or brainwashed.
“Is that what Stiles told you?” Cahill asked.
Naomi’s eyes flashed with anger. “He didn’t have to tell me. I was there. I sat through the whole trial, and then I watched them lead Johnny away in handcuffs. The way they treated him was horrible. He was mortified.” She drew a long breath. “But it won’t be for much longer. He’ll be out soon, and then we’ll show them. We’ll show them all.”
“Show who?” Cahill pressed.
The woman shrugged. “The jury. His attorney. Everyone. Like I said, he’s innocent and we’re going to prove it.”
“You seem pretty sure of that.”
Her smile was cagey. “Oh, I am. You wait and see.”
She seemed to catch herself then, and she looked almost contrite. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? You said you had questions?”
Cahill reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the pictures of the victims they’d tried to show Stiles the day before. He handed them to Naomi. “I’d like you to take a look at these photographs and tell me if you recognize any of these women.”
Reluctantly, she accepted the pictures and studied them one by one, pausing to frown over Clare’s. “I’ve seen her before.”
Pru and Cahill exchanged a glance. “Do you know where?”
She put a finger to her chin as she gazed down at the picture. Then she shrugged. “Maybe at a club, but I’m not sure.”
“A nightclub, you mean?”
She shrugged again.
“Which nightclub? Take your time,” Pru urged. “This is important.”
“I don’t know,” she said stubbornly. “I go to a lot of clubs, and I’m not even sure that’s where I saw her.”
“But you do recognize her?”
“I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure. I’m no good with faces.”
“But you—”
Cahill shot Pru a warning look, and she immediately backed off. His message was loud and clear. She was pressing too hard.
Taking a tissue from her pocket, she dabbed at her eye. “I think I have something in my eye,” she murmured.
“It’s probably a cat hair,” Naomi said. “Happens to me all the time.”
“Do you mind if I use your powder room?” Pru lifted the heavy cat off her lap and put him on the floor. “I need a mirror.”
“I guess that’d be okay. It’s just off the foyer by the stairs,” Naomi said, although she didn’t seem too keen on the idea. She turned to watch as Pru left the room.
Pru could hear the rumble of Cahill’s voice as he drew the young woman’s attention, but she couldn’t tell what he said.
Scouting out the powder room, Pru turned on the light and closed the door. Then after a few seconds, she peered out. She could still hear their voices, but she couldn’t see them from the foyer, nor they her.
Another room was located at the end of the hallway, just beyond the stairs. The door stood open, and Pru could see that the space was a bedroom. Glancing over her shoulder, she stole down the hallway and peeked inside.
The room was so spacious Pru assumed it was the master suite. A wall of arched windows opened onto a courtyard, and a king-size bed with a leather head-board occupied an adjoining wall. Directly opposite the bed was a fireplace, and on the wall over the mantle hung another plasma-screen TV.
As impressive as the individual accoutrements were, however, none was the focal point. That honor went to the shrine that had been erected in one corner of the room.
It consisted of a low wooden table covered with votive candles, a kneeling pillow and a framed picture that hung on the wall above the table.
Glancing over her shoulder again, Pru slipped inside and tiptoed across the room. Her gaze went immediately to the photograph, and her heart jumped in recognition.
It was a picture of John Allen Stiles.
CAHILL STILL SEEMED preoccupied after they left the town house, and Pru couldn’t help wondering why. Of course, the shrine she’d found in Naomi Willis’s bedroom was enough to worry anyone, but Pru had a feeling that whatever Cahill had on his mind was something of a more personal nature.
Once again, she found herself thinking about everything her father had told her the evening before. Cahill’s daughter had been attacked and he blamed himself. It was a normal reaction for any father but, considering Cahill’s profession, his guilt would cut even more deeply.
An FBI agent who had apprehended some of the most violent criminals in the country couldn’t protect his own daughter…it must have nearly killed him.
Pru’s heart went out to him, but there was nothing she could do. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him, and they didn’t know one another well enough for her to force the issue.
His mood, however, didn’t improve as the day wore on, and when they returned to the office late that afternoon, he asked Pru to set up a short meeting with Tim Sessions. While they waited for Tim to arrive, Cahill stood silently at the window and stared out at the falling twilight. He didn’t turn when Tim entered the office a few minutes later, nor did he acknowledge the younger agent in any way. He appeared so lost in thought that Pru wondered if he was even aware of their presence.
Tim gave her a questioning look, but Pru merely shrugged. She had no idea what was going on inside the man’s head.
“I’ve got the information you requested,” Tim finally said. Taking the chair next to Pru’s, he placed his laptop on Cahill’s desk and opened the lid. “TheForgottenMan.com is run by a Canadian activist group called the Coalition for Fair and Humane Treatment of Prisoners, and it appears to be one of the largest purveyors of Web space to inmates on the Internet. They deal primarily with men on death row, but they also have lifers like Stiles. They offer ads free of charge to prisoners here in the U.S., enabling them to reach millions of potential sympathizers worldwide. The inmates use the ads for everything from soliciting pro bono attorneys to pleading for letters to help fill their lonely hours.”
“Stiles already has a pro bono attorney,” Pru said. “Sid Zellman said that a friend of the court had referred him to their firm.”
Tim grimaced. “Yes, well, judging by Stiles’s ad, I don’t think legal advice is what he’s looking for.”
“Meaning?”
“See for yourself.” Tim loaded the site, then scrolled down an alphabetical directory to click on Stiles’s link. When the pa
ge opened, Pru caught her breath.
The picture of John Allen Stiles was identical to the one she’d seen in Naomi Willis’s bedroom. If the graphic had been displayed on any other Web site, no one would ever have guessed that such a pleasant-looking man was a convicted criminal, much less one who was currently serving consecutive life sentences for the brutal slaying of five young women.
To the naive eye, he would simply appear to be an attractive man in his early thirties with a gentle smile and a relaxed demeanor.
His eyes gave him away, though. They were dark, cold, soulless. And terrifyingly seductive.
He was dressed in street clothes, his hair trimmed and styled, his nails perfectly groomed. He held a large white cat in his arms, and the caption over the photograph read: Animal lover seeks warm and caring heart to bring a ray of sunshine into a cold and lonely existence.
Cahill left the window and walked across the room to study the picture over Pru’s shoulder.
“It’s the same photograph I saw hanging in Naomi Willis’s bedroom,” she told him.
“Looks like the same cat we saw there, too.”
“I thought the kitty was a masterful stroke.” Tim’s tone sounded almost admiring. “You’ve got to hand it to these guys. They really know how to work the system. They put up an innocuous picture like that, and the women who are sucked in don’t have a clue how dangerous they are. I mean, some of these inmates are so vicious they have to be tied facedown to a gurney during visits with their own lawyers.”
Pru suppressed a shudder. “Can you imagine how a victim’s family would feel if they ran across a picture like that?”
“Yes, actually, I can,” Cahill muttered.
Pru bit her lip. “Do you still think Stiles could be using this Web site to solicit photographs of potential victims?”
Cahill shrugged. “It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. The ad probably generates dozens, if not hundreds of letters from women who monitor these kinds of sites. A lot of them undoubtedly send in photographs, and all Stiles has to do is pick the one that matches his criteria…his fantasy, if you will, and then he gives the picture to his surrogate, along with the woman’s address. She probably spills her guts to him in her letters so that the surrogate is armed with enough personal information to make a connection with her.”
Matters of Seduction Page 10