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one of your ‘boys,’ Woods?”
    “You ask as if you expect me to say, ‘yes, Agent Cahill, I did do this boy.’” He shook his head. “So I say yes, and you charge me with his murder, and the government gets to go back to court and get me that death sentence it wanted so badly so many years ago?” He laughed. “Is everyone stupid now except me?”
    “No one wants to charge you with anything. That isn’t what this is about.”
    “Then what is it about?”
    She debated about telling him the truth. “Christopher Williams’s mother has less than a month to live. She wants to recover her son’s remains before she dies so she can have him buried near her.”
    From the look on his face, Woods was taken aback. He studied her for a long moment, then said, “That’s very good, Agent Cahill. Very good indeed.”
    “It’s the truth.”
    “So who’s the good Samaritan at the FBI, hmmmm?” He pretended to ponder. “Wouldn’t be my old friend John, now, would it?”
    “John?” She frowned as if she didn’t know who he meant.
    “Oh, please. You talk about
me
playing games?” He laughed harshly. “This has John Mancini’s fingerprints all over it.”
    “I don’t recognize the name.” Portia shrugged. “He must be in a different office. The assignment was on my desk when I came into work on Monday.”
    “Who is your supervising agent?”
    “Will Fletcher,” she responded without missing a beat, Will’s being the first name that popped into her head. “Your guy either retired or got transferred, but he’s not one of the agents assigned to my unit.” Which technically was true, since John was in
charge
of the unit.
    “So what happened here?” He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Walk me through this.”
    Portia sat back down again and rested her elbows on the table. “I don’t know what instigated it. I just got reassigned to this office myself.”
    “From where?”
    “Philly.” Again, a stretch of the truth. Portia had worked in Philly before she volunteered for counterterrorism duty.
    “Okay, so you get transferred to this new office and the first day you’re there, you’re assigned to…to what?”
    “To do what I’m doing right now. Talk to you, ask you about the Williams boy, try to find out where you left his body. Couldn’t be more simple than that, Woods.”
    “Again, there’s that assumption of guilt.” He smiled and the urge to smack him returned.
    “Are you denying it?”
    “Depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On what I get in return for the information.”
    “You get my word that you won’t be prosecuted for his murder.”
    “I’m not being prosecuted for it now, so you’re offering me nothing I don’t already have. You can do better, Agent Cahill.” He leaned even closer. “Assuming I did the boy, and assuming that I could remember where he is, what are you willing to give me?”
    “My undying gratitude?”
    He laughed out loud. “You’re something, aren’t you? I’d almost be tempted, just because you have such balls. But no,” he shook his head. “You have to do way better than that.”
    “Like what?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair, giving no sign that she recognized him for what he was—a malevolent, soulless aberration. “What would it take, Woods?”
    “I don’t know. I hadn’t expected to have to make a deal today, so I don’t know what it’s worth to me.” He stared at the wall behind her, obviously contemplating the situation. The room was so quiet, Portia could hear her own pulse beat in her temples.
    “I don’t know,” he repeated after several minutes. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll think on this, and get back to you. Come back two weeks from today, prepared to make a deal.”
    “Christopher Williams’s mother doesn’t have two weeks.” She stood and went to the door and called for the guard. “I’ll be back in two days.”
    Portia left the prison and drove directly to Miranda’s townhouse,