Last Call

"Theo, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, trying to breathe in and out, the way Trina had taught him to get himself under control. "There's nothing wrong at all."

"Tell me," said Jack.

Theo walked back to the table, glanced one more time at the screen, and then looked at Jack. "That's her," he said. "That's my mother."

Chapter 37

Theo wasn't handling it well. Uncle Cy wasn't doing much better.

So Jack had to deal with it.

The old photograph of Theo's mother on the website was only the begi

At one o'clock he was in a conference room at the FBI's field office. Andie was seated across from him, and his open notebook computer lay on the table between them. Jack typed in the website address and hit enter.

The LCD screen blinked, the Reality Bitches homepage lit up – and Andie blinked too.

"You okay?" said Jack.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm trying to be professional, but the existential in me can't help but see the absurd side of surfing porn sites with you."

"This isn't pornography," said Jack. "It's obscenity."

"Oh, well, that makes me feel better already."

There was humor in what she was saying, but Jack knew she wasn't making light of the situation. Few law enforcement officers had witnessed the depravity Andie had as a criminal profiler and hostage negotiator, and everyone had his or her own way of staying sane.

She said, "Does Theo have any idea where this came from?"

"None"

"How about Uncle Cy?"

"He didn't want to see it any more than Theo did. I asked him if he knew of any hard-core porn films she might have made. He didn't. But he said it wouldn't come as a surprise to him."

"Can Theo put an approximate date on the photo?"

"It's hard to get him to take a really good look at it. But I can tell you that she was thirty-one years old when she died."

Andie studied the photograph on the screen. "She looks like a teenager here. Pretty girl."

"The image is pretty low resolution, so I'm sure that doesn't help."

"Our tech guys can improve that."

"Do the computer enhancements later," said Jack. "Right now, I just want you to watch this. Tell me if you have the same reaction I did."

"What was your take on it?"

"Watch first. I don't want to sway you."

"All right," she said, drawing a breath. "Let's see – no, wait. Tell me her name."

She had reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. Jack didn't pretend to know her every touch – they'd never more than kissed – but he knew instantly that this moment had nothing to do with him. It was between Andie and the woman on the screen – a real person, a human being, not just some pervert's five-minute fantasy in cyberspace.

"Portia," said Jack. "Her name was Portia Knight."

Andie let go of his wrist. "Okay. Let's see what we've got."

"It might be easier to see if we switched off the light."

Andie considered it, then leaned back and flipped the wall switch. The room went dark, and the glow of the screen that bathed them in strangely colored light only added to the eerie feeling of anticipation.

Jack clicked on the photograph with his mouse. The frozen image jerked into motion, and Portia came to life.

Theo's mother was in a dark room, her body illuminated only by the camera's harsh spotlight. The expression on her face could only be described as wary the nervous smile of a young woman who was begi

"Theo got her eyes/' said Andie.

She was moving, and as the camera angle widened, it was clear that she was dancing. Her breasts were fully exposed, and she wore only a red thong, gold hoop earrings, and gold stiletto heels.

Andie said, "Can you turn up the volume?" There's no sound.

Even with no music, Portia's movement on-screen seemed smooth and rhythmic, as if Theo's appreciation for all things musical hadn't come entirely from his uncle. Behind her, in a ragged semicircle, a crowd of men stood and watched her dance, all of them smiling, most of them holding large plastic cups in one hand and a smoldering cigar in the other. With such bad lighting, and with the camera's focus entirely on the dancer, the spectators and background images were distorted and obscured.

Andie said, "Looks like this even predates VHS recorders. Probably a handheld sixteen-millimeter."

"I guess that would have been state of the art when Portia was a teenager."

"Yeah, early seventies."

Jack said, "And from the amount of jerky footage, I'd say the cameraman was one of the drunkest guys in the room."

On-screen, Portia showed her back to the camera, and the cameraman zoomed in on her ass. She bent over and grabbed her ankles, knees straight, and slid the thong down her legs, kicking it across the room with a flick of her foot. The cameraman tried to follow the thong as it sailed into the crowd, but it was just a blur.

She continued to dance nude, wearing only her spiked heels. One of the men came forward and started dancing with her. Staggering would have been a better word for it. Portia didn't pay much attention to him, but that only made him bolder. It was a silent video, but the other men appeared to be shouting and egging him on. The closer he came to her, the more she pulled away. He stumbled after her, apparently trying to kiss or lick her breasts, but he managed only to spill his cup all over her.

Portia stopped dancing. From her reaction, the contents of the cup must have been ice-cold. She said something to him. He spoke back to her, clearly angry. Another man tried to pull him back into the crowd. He made some kind of remark to Portia as well. She responded in kind – the same nasty body language – and he threw his drink on her. Another man did the same. Soon, plastic cups filled with beer were flying through the air. Portia was being pelted. She gathered up her white tube top and orange hot pants from the floor, but another man snatched them right back. Suddenly surrounded, she started looking for an escape route. Cups were still flying, and even with no sound it was clear that people were shouting and that things were getting out of hand.

Portia ran.

The cameraman followed.

So did the mob.

The screen was one bouncy frame after another as the cameraman and his drunken friends chased Portia out of the room and down the long hallway. The heels snapped off her shoes, and she gathered speed. She glanced back over her shoulder, tripped on a step, and hit the floor hard. She lay there, naked, sprawling.

Two men grabbed her, their images a blur in the confusion. Portia kicked and punched, but other men grabbed her arms to restrain her. Someone else took her legs. The cameraman zoomed in on her face. Portia was screaming.

Jack looked away from the screen. He'd watched it twice already and didn't need to see it again. He glanced at Andie, her face aglow with the on-screen events. Even with no audio, it seemed as though Andie could hear Portia's screams. The notepad in front of her had not a single notation on it. Andie simply watched the filmed frenzy unfold on the computer.

It went on for several minutes. Close-ups of the penetration, close-ups of the terror in Portia's eyes. The men's faces, of course, had been carefully edited out. When it was over, the red letters tumbled back onto the screen to spell out a final message in lieu of credits. It read: "Reality Bitches get what they deserve."