The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

CHAPTER EIGHT

The car used to kidnap Krissy had been dumped in a South Bronx lot, and stripped clean during its hours sitting on garbage-strewn asphalt. The task force had traced the vehicle to a car rental company at Kennedy airport. The GMC Acadia had been rented using a fake ID and credit card. The signature on the rental agreement was no more than chicken scratch. And, given the high level of activity at the company’s location, most of the employees had no memory of the customer who’d rented that specific car a full day ago. One employee vaguely remembered a woman wearing a hat and sunglasses who might be the person the cops were looking for. Overall, the only thing the employees knew was that the Acadia had yet to be returned and was overdue.

At this point, it was never going back. It was disemboweled-and evidence in a crime.

An immediate evidentiary sweep by ERT showed nothing. Other than some smudges, there were no discernible fingerprints on the vehicle. The offender had obviously wiped them clean before abandoning it. And the car had been ransacked by so many people that there was no way a bloodhound could differentiate the specific scent of the kidnapper. Not to mention there was very little left to smell. The Acadia was as picked clean as a Thanksgiving turkey.

So it was back to square one. Sort of.

“The kidnapper had to leave Krissy somewhere before dumping the car. She wouldn’t risk taking her along,” Casey said to Peg.

“Nope.” Peg shook her head. “The odometer indicates she went straight to the dumping site from Krissy’s school. My guess? She met the main offender there, got rid of the car and took off with him-and Krissy.”

“These kidnappers aren’t stupid,” Casey replied, blowing out a breath. “They knew how to plan. And they know how to elude us.”

“The BAU is fine-tuning their profile, and filling in the task force now. I just came from there. Feel free to go to the command center and listen, since the Willises are going to fill you in anyway. You might as well have your facts straight when you narrow down your list of suspects.” Peg glanced over at Claire. “The North Castle police have invited you to attend, as well.”

“Thank you.”

Grace and Hutch were explaining the profile, as well as the inconsistencies of the offender or offenders who’d taken Krissy, when Casey and Claire walked in.

“Unless this is the first in an upcoming pattern of incidents, there’s no evidence that we’re dealing with a serial offender,” Grace was saying. “As a result we have to treat this as an isolated event. It still could be a kidnapping for ransom, although that’s looking less likely with no contact from the kidnapper. But that motive can’t be ruled out, especially when the parents are notably affluent.”

“Are we dealing with one offender or two?” asked one of the North Castle police detectives.

“Our guess is two, simply because of the complex way the crime was carried out and the stats. If our unsub is a child predator, he’s most likely a white male in his thirties, who works with or hangs around children, maybe through coaching or volunteer work. He’d be either unattached or in a nonsexual relationship, and he’d enjoy childlike activities like building model airplanes or playing computer games. He’d probably have endured childhood abuse, and be harboring latent anger, which would flare up if anyone threatened to stand between himself and his victim. The person who kidnapped Krissy Willis was female. Could she be acting alone? Possibly. There are a small percentage of child predators who are female.”

“So you’re definitely thinking this is a sexual offense.”

“That’s certainly right up there on the list,” Hutch replied. “But there are variables that just don’t fit-not the offender or the victim. Normally, a child predator has a much less complicated M.O. This one went to a hell of a lot of trouble to snatch one specific child. The typical child predator operates in a simpler and more invisible way. He seeks out a withdrawn, vulnerable child. Krissy is neither of those, nor is she an easy target. Her parents are both very high-profile people, and they’re both very present in their daughter’s life.”

“Which might give a certain type of offender a sense of power,” Casey commented from the rear of the room.

Hutch angled his head in her direction and nodded. “It might. That’s another gray area, both in terms of profile and motive. Whoever’s running the show here is either unbothered by, or turned on by formulating a plan that’s intricate and in our faces. He or she is smart. This crime was well planned and well researched. There wasn’t an iota of impulsiveness about it. And it’s personal. Krissy Willis is personal. Whoever took her wanted her, and her specifically. Which smacks of either a need for power or revenge.”

“If that’s true, this won’t end as a quiet closed case,” Casey responded. “The offender will want notoriety, or recognition. Krissy will turn up.”

“In one form or another, yes.” Hutch’s tone was grim. “Our job is to find her before she ‘turns up,’ and to find her alive.”

Marc sat calmly in the waiting room of Dr. Brian A. Pierson, flipping through the pages of a medical magazine. The renowned neurologist’s office, which until several months ago had been crammed with patients, was relatively quiet. And getting a new patient appointment, which would normally mean a lengthy waiting period, had been a snap. Not a surprise, given that the doctor’s name and photo had been splashed all over newspapers since he’d been charged with murdering his wife in cold blood. The evidence against him was staggering. There wasn’t a doubt in Marc’s mind that the SOB was guilty. And not just of murder. Through his discreet but well-informed contacts, Marc had uncovered all kinds of ugly little secrets about the renowned neurologist. Pierson should be rotting in prison, not making hundreds of dollars an hour practicing medicine.

But Edward Willis had defended him. And that was his ticket to freedom.

“Mr. Deveraux? Dr. Pierson will see you now,” the receptionist informed him.

“Thank you.” Marc followed her down the hall, where she motioned him into an inner sanctum the size of two adjoining lecture halls at the FBI Academy in Quantico. She left him there, shutting the door behind her.

The very recognizable Dr. Pierson rose from behind his heavy mahogany desk. “Mr. Deveraux,” he said, greeting Marc with a handshake. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured at a leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, simultaneously glancing down at the new patient forms Marc had filled out.

“So you’re suffering from severe headaches, and your primary care physician suggested they could be migraines.” Pierson’s eyebrows drew together. “You didn’t list the referring doctor.”

“Nope. That’s because there is none. And my headaches are usually from lack of food or sleep.”

Every muscle in Pierson’s body went rigid. “Are you a reporter? Because I’ll have you arrested on charges of-”

“I’m not a reporter,” Marc interrupted. “I’m a member of Forensic Instincts, a private investigative company.”

“I was acquitted.” Pierson rose. “Please leave.”

Marc made no move to stand. “I’m not here to discuss your murder case. I’m here to discuss the kidnapping of Edward Willis’s five-year-old daughter.”

The neurologist started. “His daughter? When did this happen?”

“Evidently, you don’t watch the news. Yesterday. After school. The Willises have hired us to find her.”

“And you think I had something to do with it?” A pulse was working at Pierson’s temple. “What motive would I have? Edward saved me from a life sentence in a maximum security prison.”

“And destroyed your reputation in the process. He’s a splashy guy, made sure your story was a household word. From what I gather, you and Willis had several heated arguments about his sensationalistic strategy, especially as you watched your patient list dwindle. Not to mention that his legal fees-which he refused to reduce-pretty well wiped you out. And I didn’t notice a waiting room full of patients here to tip the coffers in your favor. A hefty ransom would do wonders toward getting you back on your feet.”

“I feel nothing but respect and gratitude for Edward. He did what he had to do. And I don’t abduct children. Not for money. Not for anything.”

“But you certainly like them.”

Pierson’s pupils widened. “What does that mean?”

“It means that your ten-year-old daughter, Melanie, went off to boarding school soon after her mother died. Or, more specifically, right before your trial.”

“I didn’t want her subjected to-”

“Yes, that’s what Willis told the jury. But the truth is, Melanie had complained to your wife about the amount of time you were spending with her friends. Sleepover dates you encouraged, pool parties you threw on warm summer evenings-during which you spent inordinate amounts of time with the girls. Making physical contact with them when you taught them how to swim. Stopping upstairs in Melanie’s bedroom when they were getting ready for bed.”

“That’s enough.” Pierson’s fist struck his desk. “I don’t know where you got your information, but I could sue you for slander.”

“You could. But you won’t.” Marc bent one leg and propped it over the other knee. “Because everything I just said is true and is documented. Sealed, but documented. So tell me, Dr. Pierson, just how fond are you of five-year-old girls?”

Pierson’s breath was coming fast. “My daughter has an active imagination. I don’t covet young girls, and I certainly don’t lust after babies. A five-year-old? That’s sick. If you plan to spread rumors that I’m a sexual predator…”

“I don’t. So let’s stop talking in generalizations. Let’s get back to Krissy Willis.”

A frosty glare. “I’m neither a kidnapper nor an extortionist, Mr. Deveraux.”

No, Marc thought with revulsion. Just a pervert and a murderer. “Where were you yesterday from three o’clock on?” he asked.

“Right here in my office. My nurse, my receptionist and two colleagues can testify to that. I came in at ten and didn’t leave until six.”

“And then?”

“Then I drove straight home. Speak to my housekeeper. She cooked me dinner and cleaned up afterwards. She didn’t leave until after eight.”

“What about lunchtime? Did you go out?”

“I had Chinese food delivered. Do you want to see the receipt?”

“Nope. That won’t be necessary.” Mentally, Marc crossed Pierson off his list of suspects. He’d known it was a long shot. But every lead had to be pursued. Plus, if nothing else, Marc’s visit would keep Pierson on his toes, force him to control his unnatural propensity for young girls. The last thing the neurologist needed right now was more scrutiny and scandal.

Marc would have loved to break the guy’s jaw. But that wasn’t in the cards-not this time.

“What about any of your wife’s relatives?” he asked instead. “Or her friends? Anyone close to her who disagreed with the not-guilty verdict and who’s got the temperament to act on it?”

“Fran had no living relatives,” Pierson replied in a clipped tone. “And I’m not well acquainted enough with her friends to know if any of them is deranged. Talk to the prosecutor. The people you’re asking about were his witnesses.”

“I already have,” Marc reassured him. “But I wanted to follow up with you. First, because I didn’t think you’d want the prosecutor to hear my theories about your daughter’s friends. And second, because he’s a lawyer-you were a husband. Generally, they’re privy to more intricate details of their spouses’ lives than a stranger is.”

“Fran’s friends were all mothers. I can’t imagine…”

“Nor can I. But it happens.” Marc skimmed his notes. “I got a list of those friends. Would you object if I were to interview them?”

“No. Not that it would matter. You’d interview them with or without my permission.”

“Actually, I already have.” He smiled what he knew was his most irritating smile. “I just wanted to see your reaction. Clearly, none of them has a clue about your affinity for preteen girls. Which is all that matters to me. Their opinions on the murder are moot. You were acquitted. Double jeopardy applies. Plus, my job is to find Krissy Willis, not your wife’s killer.”

“Then talk to whomever you like. I have nothing to hide.”

“Right.” Marc came to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Pierson. Glad to hear that you’re innocent of murder and of sexual deviance. There’s nothing like a clear conscience.”

Casey had a bad feeling.

Her interview with Claudia Mitchell had never happened. She’d rung the bell a half-dozen times. No one had answered. But she knew someone was home. She’d heard the flurry of muffled footsteps, spotted the outline of a woman through the window. The woman had retreated to the kitchen and hidden behind the counter. Judging from her height and build, it was Claudia Mitchell.

So why wasn’t she opening the door?

The deception raised a host of red flags. Especially since Casey had preceded her trip to Claudia’s house with a visit to the White Plains courthouse where Judge Willis presided. The couple of employees Casey had tracked down who were familiar with Claudia had confirmed Hope’s description of the clerk’s state of mind at the time of her dismissal. Two of them, along with one of Claudia’s neighbors, knew her fiancé. And, judging from their description, the couple was a classic fit for the kidnappers’ profiles. Dominant man-at least with Claudia. Passive woman, with a build not dissimilar from Hope’s.

Then came what Casey already knew. There was motive on both their parts. Revenge for Claudia, who was clearly bitter about Hope firing her during her hour of need. And a windfall and who knew what else for Joe, who the neighbor described as odd and more than a little antisocial. Also, when Casey peeked in the window to see if she could spot Claudia, she noted that the living room was filled with plenty of boy toys. Not the electronic gizmos that fascinated most men, but younger, more juvenile computer games.

The whole scenario screamed for further investigation. Casey would pass the info along to Peg. But she had no intention of waiting for Peg to take the necessary steps for probable cause and a search warrant. Casey was determined to get into that basement now. She’d come back in the evening, when Joe was at his second job and Claudia was at county college taking a class. She’d bring Marc. After hearing “suspicious sounds” from inside, Marc would pick the lock and get them in. If Krissy was there, they’d find her.

After a quick phone call to Marc setting up their evening plans, Casey headed back to see Hope and to meet Hope’s mother.

Other than her gray hair, Vera Akerman resembled a small, frail sparrow. She also looked far older than her sixty-four years. It was obvious that the blow life had dealt her thirty-two years ago had taken its toll-a toll from which she’d never recovered.

After Hope had made the necessary introductions, Casey sat down across from Vera. She opened the conversation by expressing her heartfelt regrets over Krissy’s kidnapping. She also explained to Vera a little bit about Forensic Instincts and how they could take a more creative and less regulated approach to solving cases than law enforcement could. She concluded by assuring Hope’s mother that the entire team was working round the clock to find her granddaughter.

Vera thanked her in a tear-filled voice.

Casey was just about to tactfully broach a few questions, when the front doorbell rang. A minute later, a square-jawed man in his early sixties with a solid build and salt-and-pepper hair entered the room.

Hope rose. “Are you with the police or the FBI?”

“I’m former FBI,” was the terse reply.

“Former?” Hope pressed, brow drawn. “I don’t understand.” Before she could continue, she heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. She turned. “Mother?”

Vera was staring at the man. Her eyes had widened, recognition erupting across her face.

“Special Agent Lynch,” she managed.