The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Marc was perched at the edge of a rickety chair in Ryan’s lair, half-watching his colleague at work while he himself absently scratched Hero’s ears. He was a stickler for details. His training had taught him to retain every one, because any of them could be significant. In this case, the aspect that was niggling at him was the total lack of balance in the investigation.

The Forensic Instincts team, like the FBI, was now fully immersed in Sidney Akerman’s connection to the Vizzini family. They’d bugged Bennato Construction. They’d tracked down each mob soldier that was connected to Henry Kenyon. Now, Ryan was running background checks on every Tom, Dick and Harry who’d known Felicity Akerman while she was in camp.

It was all centered around the mob. But too many pieces were being ignored. Pieces that Marc’s intuition told him mattered.

There were still the unexplained facts that a ransom call had been made. That a drop had been arranged, and successfully executed. That a quarter of a million dollars had changed hands. Maybe that scenario wasn’t a smoke screen. Maybe that was a very real part of Krissy Willis’s kidnapping.

Then there was the note that had been left on Casey’s doorstep. Traces of dirt-a common soil found nearly everywhere-had been detected on it. That could suggest a construction site. But it could also suggest a front lawn.

Marc had never been comfortable dismissing Sal Diaz, the Willises’ gardener, and his wife, Rita, their housekeeper from the suspect list. If Ryan was searching for a couple who were in debt up to their asses, the Diazes would win the prize. Plus, Sal Diaz had a history of domestic violence. He could just as easily be taking mob money as the parent of a day camper.

And he was a gardener. He worked with dirt all day. If he was freaking out about his involvement in a child abduction, he might very well have caved and left Casey that note.

There were too many clues to ignore.

Abruptly, Marc came to his feet.

“Come on, Hero,” he muttered to the bloodhound. “We’re going to pay a surprise visit.”

While Ryan jumped on his background checks, Casey took photos of DeMassi and his son to Claire.

“Hi.” Claire looked surprised to see Casey standing at her apartment door. “Has something happened?”

“I wish.” Casey waved the photos in the air. “I’d like you to take a look at these, tell me if you pick up anything from them.” She purposely refrained from identifying DeMassi, or giving Claire a hint as to what she should feel. This experiment had to be objective.

“Of course. Come in.” Claire stood aside and let Casey in. “I had no idea you knew where I lived.”

A hint of a smile. “I’m like Santa Claus. I know everything.”

“In other words, you had Ryan find me.”

“Exactly.” Casey glanced around her. Claire’s apartment was much like she’d expected it to be. Muted pastels. Wicker furniture-and not a lot of it. And paintings of sweeping landscapes decorating the walls. There was something both lovely and ethereal about the place. Just like Claire herself.

“Have a seat,” Claire invited, gesturing toward the living room. “I just made a pot of green tea, and I was about to review my notes on the Willis case yet again. Care to join me?”

“On both counts, yes, thanks.” Casey went in and sank down on the pale aqua-and-sand-colored cushion of the wicker sofa.

“The North Castle police called. They told me about the note that was left for you, and that Special Agent Hutchinson had sent it down to Quantico for analysis. Did anything come of it?” Claire asked, carrying in a tray of tea and scones.

“Nothing substantial. No discernible fingerprints. Just some traces of dirt on the page.”

“Dirt,” Claire repeated. A brief silence, while a veiled look clouded her eyes. “Whoever left that note on your stoop was frightened. They felt trapped. I…” She rubbed her forehead, trying hard to concentrate. “I’m feeling male energy. I could be wrong, though. I’m not physically at your brownstone. So I’m getting this far from the source.”

“Maybe you should be at my brownstone.” Casey took her cup of tea with a nod of thanks. “Permanently.” She hurried on, shelving that discussion for later. “I know you’re working for the police. But, Claire, I need anything you can give me. My confidence is starting to waver. Krissy’s been gone for too long.”

“Don’t let your faith sway. Krissy is still alive. I know it.”

“I pray you’re right. That feeling of yours is all Hope Willis has been clinging to.”

“But it’s not enough. I understand.” Claire sank down and poured herself some tea. Then she glanced at the photos Casey was holding and extended her hand. “May I see them?”

“Definitely.” Casey passed them over. “Take your time. Tell me anything you pick up.”

Claire looked at the photographs, one at a time. There were several of each man-alone, with their families, even just the two of them.

Five minutes passed. Then, ten.

Finally, Claire raised her head and met Casey’s gaze. “I’m not getting anything. Except an ugly feeling. These aren’t good men. But who they are, what they’ve done, that I can’t tell you. They’re strangers to me.”

Casey blew out a discouraged breath. “Any ties to Krissy? Even the vaguest sense of the younger man being in her presence?”

“Nothing.” Claire’s delicate eyebrows rose. “Why? Are they suspects?”

“They’re members of the Vizzini crime family. Lou DeMassi and his son, Lou Junior. There’s a possibility that they’re connected with both kidnappings-Felicity’s and Krissy’s.”

Claire studied Casey’s face with a perceptive expression. “But you don’t think that’s the case.”

“I don’t know what to think. Sidney’s ties to the mob can’t be ignored. But I feel as if we’re trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. The connection just doesn’t feel right. Although I’m still convinced that the two kidnappings are related. I don’t care if they are separated by thirty-two years. And Patrick agrees with me.”

Claire frowned. “But if it isn’t Sidney Akerman’s threats from the mob, then what’s the link?”

“That’s the problem.” Casey ran frustrated fingers through her hair. “I can’t find one. And I’ve got to.”

Ryan barely heard Marc leave. He was too busy cross-checking lists of prospective subjects and ranking them in order of importance before beginning his in-depth background checks. There was no point in striking out blindly. Some of these people he’d already done topical searches on. And some of them had been back-burnered when Bennato Construction had come into play.

Such as the main players in the Akermans’ personal lives-players whose appearances had escalated closer to the time of Felicity’s kidnapping. And players whose financial woes magically improved after the abduction.

His adrenaline pumping, Ryan’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his sharp eyes and even sharper mind taking in every piece of information that surfaced.

He happened to get lucky. Based on his calculations, one of the first names on his list popped up with something shockingly powerful.

Ryan stared at the screen in surprise. Then, he went into hypermode, digging and digging until he had a good chunk of the story in place. There were still pieces missing, like where the money had come from and how much it had been. Also, what psychiatric prognosis had resulted from the treatment, and exactly what people had been part of the support network. Any one of them could have been the connection to the mob.

There were lots of questions Ryan didn’t have answers to-yet. But he intended to find them.

In the meantime, he was already punching in Casey’s cell phone number.

Sal Diaz was clipping hedges at a home that was down the street from the Willises’ when Marc’s car pulled up. The gardener stopped what he was doing, although he made no move to run away. He simply watched Marc climb out of the car, leash up his dog and head over. If Marc had to guess, based on Diaz’s body language, it was almost as if he’d been expecting law enforcement to come knocking at his door.

“Hello, Mr. Diaz,” he greeted the short, squat man with the nervous dark eyes. “We spoke a few days ago. Do you remember?”

A terse nod. “You’re that guy who’s not the FBI or the police. You asked me a lot of questions. Rita, too. Everyone else believed me. You didn’t. I could tell. Even though my wife and I both have alibis, you still think we did something wrong.” He shifted uneasily. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No you don’t. But you will.” Marc spoke in that tough, no-bullshit tone that made the hair on people’s necks stand up. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to make you very unhappy. And I’ll do it where no one can see us and where there are no witnesses.”

Diaz paled, but he didn’t respond.

Hero had been sniffing the gardener’s work boots. Now, he let out a braying bark.

Marc glanced down at him. “My dog seems to recognize you,” he told Diaz. “That’s interesting. Because he wasn’t with me when I asked you those questions you’re talking about. So how would he know you? Or, more specifically, where would he know you from?”

“I don’t know.” Diaz’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “I never saw him before.”

“Maybe not. And maybe he didn’t see you either. But he sure as hell smelled you.”

No reply.

“You’re the person who left that note on our doorstep, aren’t you?” Marc was blunt. Now wasn’t the time to mince words. “Why?”

“I…I…” Diaz dragged a sleeve across his forehead.

“Look, Diaz, I don’t have time to play games. A little girl is missing. The time to find her is running out. There are holes in your alibi, and your wife’s. Either one of you could have gotten into the Willises’ house, or driven over to their daughter’s school. Jobs or not, you wouldn’t have been missed. You’re well aware of all this, or you wouldn’t have gotten involved and tried to throw suspicion elsewhere. So you can either willingly tell me what I want to know, or I’ll drag it out of you one painful word at a time. Your choice.” Marc took a menacing step in Diaz’s direction. He didn’t need to. The power of his build and the blazing look in his eyes was enough.

Diaz capitulated without an argument.

“Yes, I left that note. My wife and I are innocent. But I knew the cops would think what you did and come after us. I can’t let that happen. So I pushed you in the right direction.”

Marc’s mind was racing. There was no way Diaz knew about the mob. Not unless he was connected to it, which Marc would be willing to bet that he wasn’t. Which meant that the family he was referring to was the Willises.

“What right direction?” he probed. “What don’t we know?”

“On TV, they said that Judge Willis left the house that morning with her daughter, and didn’t come back until after school. That’s not true. I saw her come home around two o’clock. She went inside while her nanny was outside checking the mail. She only stayed a few minutes. Then, she left.”

Marc went very still. “Are you sure it was Judge Willis?”

The gardener nodded. “I see her all the time. So, yeah, I’m sure. Her car was a little bit down the street and she was in a hurry, but the way she acted…” He paused, remembering. “No, she didn’t want her nanny, or anyone else, to spot her.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to anyone?”

“First of all, I didn’t want attention shifting to us. And second, it didn’t occur to me. Not until I saw that press conference on TV, and I heard what they were saying. That’s when I knew they were lying.”

Dammit. This told Marc nothing of substance. As per the BAU’s instructions, the press had provided only the necessary specs to the public. That the kidnapper was a woman. That she was driving a silver Acadia. That she’d coaxed Krissy into the car during school pickup time.

Not a word had been said about the offender posing as Judge Willis. So Sal Diaz had no idea that the woman he’d seen entering the Willis house was, in fact, the kidnapper.

He had provided them with a time frame, however. And a confirmation of how the kidnapper had gotten into the house-by slipping by Ashley Lawrence when she was outside checking the mail.

None of that added up to shit at this point. Knowing that the kidnapper had gotten inside and taken Oreo before abducting Krissy might have meant something three days ago. Now it was moot. Because nothing Diaz had said brought them any closer to Krissy Willis.

“I didn’t do anything.” Diaz had obviously misinterpreted Marc’s silence to mean he believed the gardener was lying. “Neither did Rita. I didn’t even tell her about what I saw. She’s a good woman. And she’s so honest. She would have gone to the police. I was afraid. I’m just a gardener. Rita’s a housekeeper. And the Willises are big, important people.”

Marc nodded. He knew enough about human nature to know that Diaz was telling the truth. There was no point in torturing the man-except where it might do some good.

“I believe you,” he stated flatly. “But the only reason I flagged you as a suspect is because of your history. Get help. Keep your fists off your wife. Pay your bills instead of throwing your money away on booze and cards. Now convince me you plan to do all that. Because it’s the only way I’ll tell the FBI and the cops that I believe your story.”

“Okay.” Diaz was nodding furiously. He looked ready to agree to anything. “I’ll do it. I swear. You can check up on me. You’ll see.”

“I plan to. And I’d better see.”

Casey was sitting in her car, reviewing the notes from the meeting with Sidney Akerman, when her BlackBerry vibrated. She glanced down at the caller ID.

It was Ryan.

She hit the receive button and put the phone to her ear. “Talk to me.”

“I may have hit the mother lode,” he said flatly.

“Go on.” Casey sat up straighter.

“Linda Turner, the camp nurse. She’s got an interesting history. One that, clearly, no one knows about, because it’s not the kind of thing you forget to mention. She had a daughter about Felicity Akerman’s age.”

“Had?”

“Yeah, had. It seems the girl-Anna-drowned in a lake on their property. It happened about six months before Felicity’s soccer accident. According to what I could hack into, Ms. Turner fell apart after Anna died. The hospital sent her for a psych evaluation. After that, she took a leave of absence and went for counseling sessions twice a week for three months. She went back to the E.R. part-time as soon as she was deemed capable. She supplemented her income with the job as camp nurse at Felicity’s day camp. But, according to the accounts I hacked into, she was hurting financially. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Wow.” Casey was processing all this as quickly as she could. “I don’t understand. How could she have had a child, much less lost one, and no one knew about it? Vera sure as hell didn’t. She spoke of Linda as if she were childless. And there were no obituaries? No local articles about a child drowning in her own backyard?”

“Evidently, Linda was the protective type,” Ryan replied. “She managed to keep everything out of the newspapers. All that exists is a police report. Even when Anna was alive, Linda homeschooled her, and kept her pretty isolated from other kids her age.”

A weighty pause that Casey recognized.

Ryan was about to tell her something significant.

“Except for soccer,” he reported. “Anna loved the game. So Linda let her play in a small league two towns over. It was private, exclusive-and damned expensive. But it was noncompetitive and low-key. She also had a private coach instruct her at home once a week-a very expensive private coach. Anna’s only other love was horseback riding. Linda gave in to that. She quarter-leased a horse for her. That costs a ton. Other than that, Anna was at home with her mother. No other siblings. No other family at all.”

“The father?”

“Died when she was a toddler. Linda Turner raised her daughter alone. And on a lean budget. Her husband didn’t leave her much money.”

“So she wasn’t flush after she became a widow. And she was an E.R. nurse-an admirable but not six-figure paying profession. Where did she get the means to give her daughter private soccer lessons, an exclusive team membership and her own horse?”

“You tell me. Also, tell me how far she would go to get her hands on that sum of money? Or what would she owe someone who gave it to her?”

“And isn’t it a coincidence that Anna’s main passion was soccer, of all things? Just like Felicity’s? Not to mention the timing of Anna’s death in relation to Felicity’s kidnapping?” Casey leaned back against her car seat, the phone anchored in the crook of her shoulder, her hands inadvertently gripping the steering wheel. “This is big, Ryan. It’s the biggest break we’ve had. And it feels right. Where is Linda Turner now? I don’t think that Vera’s seen her in a while.”

“And she probably won’t. Linda’s still listed at the same address in a rural area of Wappingers Falls, about an hour north of Westchester County. But her phone is disconnected, and there’s no one living there. I called the local PD right away. They headed over there ASAP. The place is deserted-all her clothing’s gone, there’s no food in the fridge, the whole nine yards.”

“So she cleared out.”

“You got it.”

“Damn.” Casey slammed her palms on the steering wheel in frustration. “No friends. No address. I’ll talk to Vera, but I’m sure she can’t tell us anything we don’t already know. She might have a photo of her in one of the camp pictures. And I’m sure she can give a description to a sketch artist.”

“Plus you have me. Get me that photo and I’ll use my age progression software to create a present-day image of Linda. Vera can proof it. And we can distribute it, along with her sketch, to every law enforcement agency in New York State.”

“Fine, but that takes time. We’ve got to act now. We’ve got to figure out Linda’s mind-set-her real mind-set-at the time Felicity was kidnapped.” An ambivalent pause as Casey wrestled with what she wanted and what she knew was ethical. “You mentioned that Linda had counseling after her daughter died.”

“Yup.”

“You don’t happen to know who her therapist back then was, do you?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Ryan chuckled, ignoring Casey’s customary internal battle. “I’ve got a name and address of his current practice. And, from my cyber stalking, I learned the happy fact that Linda’s shrink is a pack rat who keeps files from the year one. So somewhere in that office is his file on Linda Turner.”

“And you’ve already thought of a way to get your hands on it.”

“I repeat-do you really need to ask?”

This time Casey smiled. “Never. Not when it comes to you.”

“The psychiatrist’s name is Stanley Sherman. His office is in a three-story building in White Plains, not far from the courthouse where Hope presides. As soon as you and I hang up, I’ll be hitting up Marc. He and Hero blew out of here a little while ago. He was a man on a mission.”

“And that mission, I take it, is about to change?”

“Damn straight.” Ryan was already tinkering with something in the background. Casey could hear the sounds of metal being manipulated. That meant one of Ryan’s toys. And she knew exactly which one.

“The little critter?” she asked.

“Yup. Gecko is about to make his debut performance.”