The Girl Who Disappeared Twice (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

This time Claire’s flashes of insight didn’t come in a dream.

They did come while she was in bed, however. When she was lying there, staring off in the darkened room and contemplating the idea of joining Forensic Instincts.

Her mind began to wander, drifting from one team member to the other. She envisioned her role in the company. Her relationships with the people.

Suddenly, those images were gone, replaced with the sights, sounds and smells of tragedy.

A medical facility with negative energy surrounding it.

That image faded. The darkness persisted.

White panic. A car. Veering wildly. The grinding screech of failing brakes. Tearing metal. The car, rolling over and over, spiraling downward. Thudding against the craggy terrain. A violent stop. Flames. The smell of gas. The blast of an explosion.

The icy stillness of death.

Fear. Krissy’s face. Tears coursing down her cheeks. Hope’s face. Pain and frustration carved into her very soul.

Krissy. Hope. Krissy. Hope.

Claire jerked into an erect position, unable to bear the onslaught of images any longer.

For a minute she sat there, pulling up her legs and wrapping her arms around her knees. She tried to make sense of what she’d experienced. Clearly, the first part was Claudia Mitchell’s murder. But the second part, the harsh, alternating flashes between Krissy and Hope—that had to mean something.

Krissy was still alive.

She knew that in a flash. The child was traumatized, withdrawn, afraid.

But still alive.

Instantly, Claire reached over and picked up her phone.

Casey was in the living room of the brownstone, drinking her fifth cup of coffee of the day. She’d hung around the Willises long enough to hear what she already knew from Marc.

Peg and the task force members had returned from Sunny Gardens, where they’d spoken to Ms. Babick in Human Resources and learned about the great interview Claudia Mitchell had had that morning. The poor woman had been shocked to learn about Claudia’s tragic, fatal car crash. The task force further reported that Bennato Construction was on the premises, building a new wing. They’d questioned the construction crew, particularly the foreman, who was an emotional wreck.

Casey had smiled at that part. Bill Parsons had been a wreck, all right. But not because he knew anything. Because Marc had pinned him to the wall, pressed his forearm across the guy’s neck, and threatened to crush his windpipe if he didn’t tell him what he knew.

Parsons had spewed all kinds of information—the names of the construction crew, the length of time they’d been working the project, the corners they’d been told to cut.

None of it gave them a clue about Krissy Willis’s abduction.

But Parsons did know Joe Deale, and he had heard he was locked up. Between that, and his terror over Marc’s death grip, he was more than happy to swear that he’d keep his mouth shut about Marc’s little visit if the Feds came around.

Casey wasn’t surprised to hear that the task force had come away with nothing. But she was interested in their subsequent interrogation of Joe Deale, where they’d squeezed out the fact that Parsons’s brother Ike was one of Tony Bennato’s fair-haired boys—the foreman on some of his most lucrative projects. Interesting. Marc might have another visit to pay.

As for the photos Ryan had created, neither Vera nor Hope had come up with a damned thing. Hope hadn’t laid eyes on any of the grown women who’d once been Felicity’s childhood friends, and Vera didn’t recognize the older renditions of those children’s parents.

Even Patrick was stumped, although he did remember interviewing almost all the parents in the photos. He was frustrated as hell, but not surprised. He might have missed Sidney Akerman’s mob connection, but he
hadn’t
missed the obvious. He’d grilled the neighborhood suspects again and again those thirty-two years ago, until they cringed every time he knocked on their doors.

Casey was still deep in thought, when her phone rang.

“Casey Woods,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“Casey, it’s Claire.” Claire’s voice was shaky but certain. “Krissy Willis is still alive.”

Casey’s head shot up. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be without seeing her in person. I just got a strong sense of her presence, and some vivid flashes of her face. She’s sobbing her heart out. This experience has badly scarred her. But whoever has her didn’t break her. Not yet. And they definitely didn’t kill her.” A stymied sigh. “Every time I get close to sensing who the kidnappers are, or what they plan to do to Krissy, the vision is eclipsed by Hope Willis’s pain. I just can’t get around it. I keep seeing Hope, time and again.”

“That’s not a shock. Hope is coming apart at the seams. And who can blame her? Her daughter’s been missing for more than four days. She knows the statistics. In fact, I’m not sure whether or not I should tell her about your vision. Would it help? Or would it give her false hope?” Casey hastened to qualify her statement. “I’m not questioning your abilities. I’m relieved as hell to hear what you sensed. But to tell a mother…”

“I understand,” Claire said. “And I’m not offended. Casey, no matter how strong your faith in clairvoyance is, you can’t help but doubt what you can’t see. Nonetheless, I’d tell Hope if I were you. She needs something to cling to. And, if by some sick twist of fate I’m wrong, the loss of her daughter won’t be any less unbearable.”

“You’re right.” Casey had to agree that what Claire said made a world of sense. “I’ll call her now. There’s no need to put her through another agonizing night. Not if I can ease the pain a little.”

A half hour later, Casey was still feeling a sense of well-being at Hope’s reaction to her phone call. How grateful she’d sounded. How many indebted tears she’d cried.

Now, Casey could only pray that the hope she’d given the Willises would be realized.

There was a knock on the door, and Hero leaped to life, barking and braying at the sound. He headed for the stairs, making his way down, ears flopping as he descended.

Casey followed behind, glancing at her watch as she did. It was ten o’clock, too late for the team, too early for Hutch.

“Who is it?” she called.

No answer.

“Who’s there?” she asked, this time louder.

Again, there was no response.

Sliding the chain lock into place, Casey opened the door a crack and peered outside. Hero shoved his nose through the small opening and sniffed, growling under his breath.

There was nobody on the doorstep.

Assuming the visitor had realized he or she was at the wrong house, Casey urged Hero inside and started to shut the door. As she did, she noticed an envelope tucked under the doorjamb.

She unchained the door and opened it, reaching down and picking up the envelope. It had her name carefully printed on it in ink.

Swiftly, she glanced up and down the street. Quiet and empty.

Hero was sniffing the doorstep. He looked ready to take off in hot pursuit.

Casey nipped that in the bud. She coaxed Hero back into the house. Then she locked the door and turned, leaning back against the wall and carefully opening the envelope. On second thought, she walked into the storage room and got a pair of latex gloves, which she wriggled her hands into. If this letter had anything to do with the Willis case, she didn’t want to smudge any fingerprints that might be on the page.

That done, she slid the sheet of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.

There was one phrase scrawled there in ink:
Look closer at family.

The note had to refer to her kidnapping investigation. But the wording was curious.

Family. Did the person mean the Vizzini family or the Willis family? And if he or she knew something, why weren’t they coming forward? Were they afraid for their own safety? Were Forensic Instincts and the FBI task force getting close enough to incite more violent acts? Was murdering Claudia Mitchell only the beginning?

And why had this informant come to Casey, rather than to law enforcement? It had to be fear. Or the hope that Forensic Instincts would be willing to take some illegal path to get at the answers. Any way you looked at it, the whole thing was sleazy. And that smacked of the mob.

She was still standing there, contemplating the message, when another knock on the door sounded.

“Who is it?” she demanded.

“Me.” It was Hutch’s voice.

Relieved, Casey opened the door. Hutch was standing there, looking tired and stressed-out, but no less sexy.

“Hi,” Casey greeted him. “I’m glad you’re here. Although I didn’t expect you for hours.”

He stepped inside and squatted down to scratch Hero’s ears. Clearly, the bloodhound was agitated by his arrival. “The team broke up early. Ken got a break on the Sicilian whereabouts of DeMassi’s son. He’s following up on it. Based on our assumption that the two abductions are related, the DeMassis are our strongest lead. Father and son both take orders from the Vizzini family. The time frame works—DeMassi could have kidnapped Felicity, and his son could have kidnapped Krissy. At least it’s a continuum that makes sense.”

“Plus, if Lou DeMassi is serving a lengthy sentence, it’s an added impetus for his son to want to avenge his father’s imprisonment.”

Hutch nodded. “Anyway, if the lead materializes into something concrete, or if anything else surfaces tonight, I’ll get a call from the task force. If not, you and I can have that talk.” He frowned as Hero continued to growl under his breath. It wasn’t characteristic for him to show such hostility toward Hutch.

“It’s okay, fellow,” Hutch soothed. “I’m the one who brought you to your new lady. Remember?”

Hero gazed past Hutch and out into the darkened street.

Raising his head, Hutch gave Casey a quizzical look. “What’s going on?” he asked, picking up on the tension that was rippling through her. Simultaneously, he spotted her latex gloves, and the letter she was holding.

“This is what’s going on.” Casey held out the letter for him to see. “I found it outside my door a little while ago.”

Hutch squinted and scanned the letter without touching it. “Do you have another pair of gloves?”

“Sure.” Casey went and got him a pair.

Once his gloves were on, Hutch took the page and studied it.

“The family,” he muttered. “Does that mean the Willises or the Vizzini crime family?”

“My question exactly.” Casey waved her arm in non-comprehension. “I don’t see how it could be the Willises. Not even slimy Edward. We’ve investigated the hell out of them. Your team and mine. And we’ve found nothing.”

“Unless the writer of this message means Sidney Akerman. He’s the newest piece of the puzzle
and
the one with the mob ties. Maybe those ties run deeper than we’ve uncovered.”

“That’s the only possibility I see, and it’s one we’ll have to address. Next question—who’s giving us this tip?”

Hutch scowled. “The operative word here being
us.
The
us
in question is Forensic Instincts. Which means that whoever left that envelope at your door is someone who chooses
not
to give it to law enforcement. And
that
suggests that he or she prefers non kosher methods be used to get at the truth.”

“Or that his or her own hands aren’t clean,” Casey added. “I thought of both those things.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Look, Hutch. As you can see, I’m not keeping any secrets from you. The FBI lab is far superior to anything we have. So go ahead and take this back to the task force ASAP so it can be analyzed. You and I will talk another time.”

Hutch scrutinized Casey thoroughly, then shook his head. “That would waste precious time. I’ll call Peg. I’m sure she’ll authorize me to messenger this straight down to Quantico. They’ll get us answers in a matter of hours. In the meantime, the task force is already deep into investigating the Bennato Construction Company, and their role in the Vizzini family. There’s nothing in this note that would change that course of action. As for Sidney Akerman…”

“I can call Patrick,” Casey said quickly. “He’ll grill Sidney till the cows come home. No one in this investigation knows Sidney better than he does. And before you protest, Patrick Lynch is as straight as an arrow, former FBI all the way. Whenever my team crosses the line, he refuses to get involved. He’s an ethical, law-abiding man.” A hint of a smile. “As opposed to Forensic Instincts, the big, bad wolves of the private sector.”

“Not big, bad wolves. Maybe well-meaning wolves that roam too far into dangerous territory.”

“But with proven results.”

“I won’t argue that point. I can’t agree with your methods, though.”

“Fair enough.”

“But speaking of big, bad wolves…” A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “This one thinks that, after we take care of this letter, we should set the case aside for a few hours and adjourn to the bedroom.”

“Before we talk?”

“Definitely. After that, the mood might be shattered.”

“True.”

The two of them pulled out their cell phones and made the necessary arrangements. Then, they put the letter and envelope in a Ziploc, and packaged it for transport. That done, they pulled off their gloves and waited for the FBI messenger to arrive.

A half hour later, the evidence was on its way, and Hutch turned and pulled Casey’s sweater over her head. “A couple of hours off,” he murmured. “That’s all I’m suggesting. We’ve got other people working round-the-clock to find Krissy Willis while we recharge our batteries.”

“Recharge our batteries.” Casey’s eyes twinkled as she unbuckled Hutch’s belt. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“With us? We call it sensory overload.”

He swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to her fourth-floor apartment, not letting her feet slide to the floor until they were in the bedroom.

They finished tugging off each other’s clothes and tumbled onto the bed, their breaths coming fast and uneven. There was a sexual pull between them that had sparked to life the instant they met, and only intensified as the months had passed.