The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Oh, Krissy, we have the whole lot of them so confused. They don’t know where to look first. And they’ll never look here. You’re safe.

I love watching you play with Oreo and Ruby. Your little face lights up, and you’re in a world of your own imagination. Imagination is a wonderful thing. It opens doors and dreams that no one can take away from you. It makes things right when everything is wrong. How well I know that. I’ll help keep you in that beautiful, magical world. I’ll keep you safe, make that imaginary world a reality.

It’s so precious the way you change your voice when Ruby is speaking, and then when Oreo answers. A high tweet with words intermingled, and a low but friendly growl mixed with more words.

Until today, I watched your playtime from outside the room, through the glass pane in the door. Those were my instructions. This time, everything changed. I was allowed inside. I couldn’t share your game, not yet. But I could see it up close, feel as if I were a part of it.

I came in and sat down quietly. You stiffened when I walked in, and you got that flicker of uncertain fear in your eyes. But that dissipated. And you didn’t cringe or wriggle away. You took the milk and cookies I brought, and you drank and ate them without hesitation. After you got that adorable milk mustache, you went into your favorite corner and started playing with your pretend friends.

You act as if I’m not here, but I know you know that I am.

Sweet Krissy. This is just the beginning. Soon you’ll let me into your pretend world. Soon you’ll include me. Then I’ll give you the surprise pretend world I developed for you. You’re smart. You’re creative. You’ll love it.

You need me. You don’t know it yet, but you do. No one understands that better than I do. I need what you need. But my needs were, and will be, met. And so will yours.

We just need a little more time.

Business at the rustic Armonk pub was starting to pick up as Marc and Hutch relaxed in one of the booths, drinking their pints of Sam Adams.

“I could ask to what do I owe this honor. But we both know the answer.” A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “Casey sent her Navy SEAL out to do reconnaissance.”

Marc took a deep swallow of beer, then lowered his glass to the table. “Actually, she wanted to give you and me some catch-up time and for me to do reconnaissance. So it wasn’t entirely divisive. Besides, she knows damn well we wouldn’t be putting anything over on you by playing games. Nope. In your case, I wear my motives on my sleeve.”

“Fair enough.” Hutch was totally comfortable with Marc. They’d known each other for years, ever since Marc’s days at the BAU, where they’d become not only colleagues but friends. Marc had worked BAU-2, which covered crimes involving adults. Hutch was thinking of putting in for a transfer to that unit. Investigating the sexual violations, kidnapping and murder of children was beginning to get to him. He’d been a cop, he was a pro, but that didn’t mean he regarded life as any less precious. And kids-well, that was watching the utter decimation of innocence right before his eyes.

“Whatever you can tell me about the Sidney Akerman investigation would be appreciated.” Marc didn’t waste time mincing words.

“Technically, that’s nothing. It’s an ongoing investigation. And you’re not Bureau anymore.” Hutch shot Marc a wry grin. “Which is why I got my marching orders from Peg about precisely what I could and couldn’t say. She’s more interested in finding Krissy Willis than playing cat and mouse with Forensic Instincts. So tell me what you know, what you want to know, and I’ll fill in whatever blanks I can.”

“Okay,” Marc agreed. “Let’s start out with the biggest question. Do you know what crime family Tony Bennato works for?”

“Between what we found out from the soldier who flipped and what we got from our own informants, the Vizzini family.”

“So you’ve got the Vizzini squad at the New York Field Office working on it.”

“Yup. They’re pounding the pavement right along with us. They’ve got their long-term goals, which will include interviewing members of the family still serving time, those on the street, even those in the witness protection program, which they’ll work through the U.S. Marshals. But for now, they know what we need. We’re all about finding Krissy Willis. They’ll use their informants, and whatever Carl George-the seniormost member of the Vizzini case squad-can come up with. He was around in the late seventies. He may know one or more of the guys Sidney Akerman comes up with.”

“In other words, who might or might not be with the Bennato Construction Company.”

“Right.”

“I spoke to Joe Deale’s foreman earlier. Frankly, I think that he and Deale are both dead ends-unless they know something they don’t realize. What they do for Bennato is small potatoes. They’re sure as hell not privy to the big-league stuff.”

“You’re right,” Hutch replied. “We’ve got Deale on dealing and working as an enforcer, squeezing some dirtbags who are behind on their weekly installments. But he never heard of Sidney Akerman, and he’s too dumb to handle the job of kidnapping Krissy Willis in some far-fetched attempt to satisfy a thirty-two-year-old vendetta. He’s clueless. Ditto for that obnoxious foreman of his. We questioned him, too. He has no idea what we’re talking about. So, if Bennato is behind the kidnapping, he didn’t use those two. But, like you said, there’s always the chance they overheard or saw something. So we’re keeping them on our radar and we’re keeping Deale in custody.”

“Still, this leaves the whole Bennato angle as a big question mark.”

“Afraid so.”

“Then what do you have?”

“According to Akerman, there were four guys from what he now knows was the Vizzini family who ran the original kick-back scheme. Since Henry Kenyon had most of the one-on-one contacts, Akerman’s names and descriptions are limited. One of the offenders was a quick match for us, because the New York squad knew him. Unfortunately, he fell off the map eleven years ago, and his body was never recovered. We might have another match, and, if that pans out, we’ll have Akerman take a look at him in a lineup. We can’t afford to take our time on this, not with the clock ticking on that poor little kid.”

“Yeah, but thirty-two years is a long time,” Marc conceded with a frown. “There are deaths. Gaps. Changes in gang structure.”

“Yeah, it’s a long shot, but some loyalties run deep. Sons. Nephews. We’re digging as hard and as fast as we can.” Hutch polished off his beer and set down his glass with a thud. “Tell Casey that’s all I have for her now.”

“All you have or all you can say?”

“Both.”

“You’ll keep us posted?”

“As best I can, sure.” Hutch gave another wry grin. “And whatever I don’t tell you, I’m sure Casey will worm out of Lynch. He’s a free agent, and she’s very good at drawing information out of people.”

Marc tossed a few bills on the table. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“Sure you do. But I don’t plan on telling you.”

Casey spent the evening once again poring over the old case file Patrick had provided. She sat at the sweeping table in the Forensic Instincts’ conference room and scrutinized every detail-from names to dates and times, to investigative leads. Patrick had gone well above and beyond the line of duty, delving into every aspect of the Akermans’ lives. But, as Casey had explained to Vera, the technological resources of the FBI in the late seventies had been far more limited than they were now. Which meant that Ryan had his work cut out for him.

She’d already fed him the names Vera had mentioned tonight, and he was running them through various databases. Again, another long shot. A support group for a grieving mother didn’t scream child abduction. Casey was half hoping one of them would be married to or involved with a member of the mob. But she knew it was rarely as easy and straightforward as that.

Patrick had promised to drive down here tonight, after the meetings with Sidney Akerman broke up. Casey wanted him to fill her in-just in case Hutch had left out any details when he talked to Marc-and to flesh out any theories Patrick had entertained from the case information she was reading.

Marc showed up at the brownstone before Patrick. He climbed the stairs to the conference room, where he was greeted by an enthusiastic Hero. One leap, two slobbery licks, and Hero was sniffing at Marc’s pocket.

“Not to worry,” Marc assured him, unzipping the bag he carried with dog treats in it. “I know better than to challenge your olfactory skills. Here you go.” He gave Hero two healthy-sized biscuits.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, watching the bloodhound chomp on the biscuits. “Hero did a great job sniffing out the neighborhood. Why don’t we continue to use him? Let’s go to the Willises’ house tomorrow and collect some more scent articles from Krissy’s room. Bring Hero. You never know where that supersniffer of his might lead.”

“You’re right. In the meantime, fill me in on what Hutch told you.”

A half hour later and, true to his word, the doorbell rang. Casey went downstairs to open the door, and Patrick strode inside.

“This is frustrating as hell,” he announced, tossing his jacket on a chair. “The sketches we were able to come up with from Akerman’s descriptions were vague at best.”

“I heard there was one strong lead,” Casey replied.

“Yeah. Lou DeMassi. He’s one of the Vizzini guys who’s still alive and serving time. He was in his late twenties when Felicity Akerman was kidnapped, which means he’s sixtyish now. The sketch artist aged the image Akerman came up with by three decades, and the resemblance is strong enough for us to pursue. Peg Harrington and two other members of the task force took Akerman and are on their way to the prison. He’ll look at DeMassi in a lineup, and they’ll interrogate the hell out of him. Whatever they can get is more than we have now. Oh, and DeMassi has a son who’s tied to the Vizzini family, too. Ken Barkley and two other agents are on their way to his place.”

“You think it’s possible he’s avenging his father in some way? Maybe because Sidney talked to the Feds? You think that’s the basis for Krissy’s kidnapping?”

A shrug. “Anything’s possible. Frankly, Casey, I don’t know what I think. Other than the fact that I could kick myself for missing the mob connection in the first place. We’re now investigating a complex web with no time to do it in.”

“That’s not your fault. But I won’t be able to convince you of that. So I won’t even try. I’ll just suggest we take what we’ve got and go from here. Ryan’s in his lair downstairs. I gave him all the names from the Akermans’ past that I could come up with, including a list of most of Felicity’s classmates. Hope and her mother put their heads together to supply those.”

Patrick started. “You think someone connected with a kid from Felicity’s past played a part in Krissy’s kidnapping?”

“I think we can’t overlook anything. And Ryan has the software and expertise to age-enhance those kids into adulthood-not only visually, but as whatever real, living, breathing human beings they’ve become. Their careers, marriages, children, financial circumstances-you name it. Trust Ryan to produce it all.”

At the moment, producing it all was precisely what Ryan was focused on doing. Except that the avenue he was pursuing was one of his own-one he was determined to see through before turning his attention to the project Casey had given him.

Ryan’s space was an interesting combination of the many facets of his personality. Most important was the “business section”: his server farm, where he was customarily stationed, staring at the two-by-two grid of screens. Located downstairs, the company’s secure data center took up a third of the entire floor. It was the technological heart of Forensic Instincts, housing Ryan’s custom-built servers: Lumen, Equitas and Intueri.

Then came the other sides of Ryan McKay.

In the middle of the basement was his personal gym-a self-contained masterpiece of pulleys, cables and weights, for those times he needed to release energy by working out but didn’t have time to escape from his lair.

And, last, came his “stuff,” which helped him focus his intricate mind on assembling complicated machinery when the answers wouldn’t come. That “stuff” occupied a good chunk of the basement. In one corner was his electronics bench-a laminated rock maple tabletop with floor-to-ceiling shelves and racks, filled with electronic equipment: a dual-trace oscilloscope, computer workstation, Weller soldering station and numerous drawers of electronic parts. A high-definition monitor sat directly above the center of the workbench, able to display-with a word to Yoda-a live feed from the surveillance cameras positioned inside and outside the building, or any sporting event in the world.

In the opposite corner sat a small machine shop: compact lathe and mini vertical milling machine and welding equipment, along with a wall filled with hand tools, measuring devices and attachments for the machining equipment.

Between these two shops, he could design and build anything smaller than a go-cart. His “robots,” as the team liked to call them. For larger projects, he would draw on his network of fabricators who on short notice would construct anything he requested.

And, in the center of it all-where he was now crouched-was his “arena,” as he liked to call it: the place where he would test his latest robotic incarnation against a variety of challenges-obstacles, flames, circular saws. The swept-up pieces of those experimental designs that had failed in combat were in a neat pile in the farthest corner of the room.

The team could be as amused as they wanted. They’d be surprised as hell to learn how much playing in the arena supported his efforts at Forensic Instincts.

And, yeah, okay, it was also damned fun.

A crash caused Ryan to swivel around from what he was working on. On the floor lay a peculiar robot with suction-cup-like attachments on its feet. Ryan had been testing his latest toy-a small robot, not quite the size of a paperback book, capable of walking up walls and inside ductwork. Affectionately dubbed “Gecko” by the team, and the “little critter,” by Ryan-it sported miniature video cameras and microphones.

Ryan walked over and switched off the battery pack. The little critter needed more work. But that would have to wait.

He returned to his electronics bench, soldered the last connection and inspected his work. Pleased with the result, he walked over and reinstalled the modified hard drive assembly into the floor-standing copying machine, set the countdown timer for ten seconds, then walked back to the bench. A message flashed on the monitor: “E.T. phone home.” A mosaic of images began to appear. Each image was a thumbnail of the pages copied by the photocopier and temporarily stored on the hard drive-all transmitted via the cell phone that Ryan had just hard-wired to the copier hard drive.

“Test successful,” Yoda announced.

“Yeah, thanks, Yoda.” Still, Ryan had to iron out a few bugs. Once the copying machine was in place, it would have to be one hundred percent reliable.

So right now, fun was the last thing on Ryan’s mind. He had a job to do, a job that-between his own project and the one Casey had given him-was going to take all night.

So an all-nighter meant canceling his evening plans. There was no choice to be made. A five-year-old child’s life depended on him.

And the sands of the hourglass continued to trickle down to empty.