The Girl Who Disappeared Twice (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It didn’t take long for the FBI lab to analyze the pill.

Casey, Marc, Claire, Patrick and the entourage of law enforcement had just returned to the Willises’—leaving behind a massive manhunt that spread over two counties—when Peg got the call.

The confiscated pill was a ten-milligram tablet of Memantine—a drug used to treat moderate to severe Alzheimer’s disease.

“Alzheimer’s?” Casey blinked. That one had come out of left field. “I don’t understand. How could Linda have orchestrated all this if she were suffering from such a debilitating disease?”

“Maybe it was moderate. The beginnings of dementia,” Patrick suggested.

“Nope.” Peg shook her head. “According to my medical experts, ten milligrams is not an initial dosage. On the other hand, every patient is different. Linda could be lucid most of the time. She also could have a visiting nurse who stops by, drops off prescriptions and stays for brief enough periods of time that she has no clue there’s a child being held captive in the basement. We won’t know any of these answers until we find Linda.”

“That explains the red string we found,” Casey mused aloud. “Linda probably ties it around her finger to remember things. It’s a pretty common thing to do. And a necessary one, in her case.”

“So we know what we’re looking for,” Bennett said. “We’ve already got law enforcement pounding the pavement, flashing pictures of Linda Turner at every pharmacy within a twenty-mile radius. Now we’ve got more than her face to go on. It’s time to get the necessary warrants to match the drug with the patient.”

Marc pulled Casey aside the minute he could speak to her in private.

“Can’t Ryan hack into some drug company database or something—bypass all that crap? Especially with the new HIPAA laws. We’ve got to speed things up.”

“Ryan can hack into anything,” Casey replied, visibly distracted as she spoke. “The problem is, he’d still have a gazillion pharmacies to check out. And even then, we’d have to hope Linda Turner used her real name. It’s very possible she didn’t, since she doesn’t want to be found. Which means we’d be right back where Sergeant Bennett just described—taking our list of pharmacies and flashing photos of Linda to every one of them that filled a Memantine prescription, hoping that a pharmacist or employee recognizes her. That would take almost as long as circumnavigating HIPAA.”

“You have another idea?” Marc recognized the look on Casey’s face.

“Actually, yes. I have a possible theory. And if it’s got merit, we can skip a whole bunch of steps and go to the head of the class.” She glanced around the room, eyeing the large number of law enforcement agents. “I can’t get out of here without the entourage noticing. And Peg will have my hide if she thinks I’m up to something. Can you slip away and text Ryan? Tell him to drive up here and bring his laptop—we’ll meet in his van.”

“Just give me three minutes. I’ll be gone and back.”

Ryan made it to Armonk in record time.

But it was long enough for Casey to separate herself from the pack, many of whom had disbanded to join the manhunt.

She, Marc and Ryan clustered together in the van, Hero stretched out beside them.

“Marc filled me in on where things stand,” Ryan began. “So tell us what you’re thinking.”

Casey blew out her breath. “My grandfather had Alzheimer’s. It’s a horrible, debilitating disease. If Linda Turner is taking ten milligrams of Memantine at a time, it’s very likely she’s taking twenty milligrams a day. And that means she’s not in a good place. Also, these drugs only go so far in slowing the progression of the disease. I just can’t imagine her being clearheaded and cunning enough to pull off this whole kidnapping scheme alone.”

“You’re saying you think she had an accomplice,” Ryan said. “Are you reverting to the mob theory?”

“I don’t think so,” Marc interjected. “This is personal. It’s got to be Linda’s idea—she’d just need help with the execution.”

“Agreed.” Casey picked up where she’d left off. “I don’t buy the whole visiting nurse idea. I think that whoever’s getting Linda’s medicine, making her medical arrangements and assisting in her overall health issues, is also assisting in Krissy’s captivity.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that.” Ryan inclined his head, studying Casey intently. She had more on her mind than what she’d already said. “Are you thinking of someone in particular?”

“I have no idea. But I do have an avenue I want to pursue. It could be a far-fetched dead end.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No.” Casey raised her chin, glanced from Ryan to Marc and back. “I think we need to revisit Claudia Mitchell’s murder. We’ve all been operating under the assumption that it was mob related. But if the mob wasn’t involved in Krissy’s kidnapping, then that eliminates any motive they might have had to silence Claudia.”

“Which means someone else wanted or needed Claudia Mitchell dead,” Marc continued for her. “Someone she surprised, rather than the premeditated murder we originally suspected. And the place where she surprised them is at the health care facility where she had her interview. Sunny Gardens. A facility that treats patients with everything from physical illnesses to dementia and Alzheimer’s.”

“You think Linda Turner is a patient there?” Ryan asked.

“More likely, a recent one,” Casey qualified. “Which means she’d need her accomplice to come to her.”

“It also means her accomplice probably did the actual kidnapping. And
that
would mean we’re dealing with a female accomplice.” Marc deduced what Casey already had. “Do you think it’s someone in Hope Willis’s circle? Someone Claudia would have recognized?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Casey’s reply was more a statement than a question.

Ryan let out a low whistle. “It’s quite a theory. But we’d be crazy not to check it out. The question is, how? Sunny Gardens isn’t going to give us squat. Law enforcement would have a hard enough time getting privileged information, and we’re not law enforcement. We have zero leverage.”

“We have Marc.” With absolute confidence, Casey eyed her colleague. “I’d be willing to bet that, on a dime, you can come up with a plan that will get us what we need.”

Marc looked thoughtful. “We need to verify that Linda Turner is actually a patient at Sunny Gardens. I’ll have to scale the gates and bypass the security cameras. Get around without being noticed. Blend in and disappear…not a problem.”

“I could go with you,” Ryan offered. “If I can install Gecko—”

“Let me handle this one alone,” Marc interrupted. “At least for now. Covert Ops is my thing. If Linda Turner’s there, I’ll find her. And I’ll find out what name she’s registered under. We’ll have our answer tonight. And if we’re right,
then
you and the little critter can go on a field trip together.”

“You’re planning something again.”

Patrick came up behind Casey the minute Ryan’s van and Marc’s car disappeared around the bend.

Casey’s head snapped around. “Where did you come from? Are you spying on me?”

“I saw Marc leave.” Patrick stuck his hands in his pockets and stared her down. “Then you slipped away. I used to be a federal agent. I’m pretty good at spotting the obvious.”

“My team was just meeting to discuss our options.”

“And the option you picked is something you don’t plan on sharing with the task force. Which means you’re coloring outside the lines again.”

“Coloring outside the lines?” Casey had to grin at his choice of words. “Does that mean you’re going to tell on me?”

“That depends. What do I have to tell?”

“Nothing.” Casey kept her expression carefully nondescript.

Patrick didn’t avert his gaze. “You’re a hell of a liar. I’d believe you, except that I’ve learned the way Forensic Instincts operates.”

“Then you’ve also learned that it’s best not to ask questions. Just accept our results with grudging admiration.”

Not so much as a blink. “That puts me in an awkward position. Because I have a strong feeling that you were bugged by what we just found out, and that you meandered your way to the same possibility I did. And I have to know whether or not to share that with the task force.”

Casey kept her cool. But she wasn’t happy.

“What possibility are we referring to?” she asked.

Patrick’s lips thinned into a narrow line. “In other words, show my hand first. Okay, fine. Normally, I wouldn’t. But we’re playing with a loaded gun here, and we’re racing time. So I’ll start. But no games, Casey. I want the truth.”

“You’ll get it.”

“Fine. You and I are both thinking that Linda Turner is in no condition to kidnap a kid. That she has a very active accomplice—one who actually did the work for her. Am I on track?”

“Yes.” Casey could read Patrick’s expression as if it were a polygraph. He knew. He wasn’t fishing. This was the real deal.

Time for her to give him something in return.

“I think Linda Turner is ill enough to be confined to a facility.”

“And you think that facility is Sunny Gardens, the place Claudia Mitchell interviewed at. You also think that when she was there, she saw someone she shouldn’t have, and was killed because of it.”

“Right. And, if Claudia recognized someone with a connection to Judge Willis, it probably means that our accomplice is someone Judge Willis knows from her time on the bench.” Casey was past wondering what Patrick knew and into worrying about what he planned to do about it. “I don’t care how this person hooked up with Linda Turner, nor does it matter right now. We just have to find her.”

“It has to be a woman,” Patrick agreed. “Based on every description we got from the crime scene and from the gardener.” He stiffened, and Casey could see the FBI agent surface in him. “If we figured this out, what makes you think the task force won’t?”

“I’m sure they will. But they’ll have hoops to jump through to get what they need. We won’t.” Casey let down her guard, and let her emotion come through. “Please, Patrick, just buy me some time. Let me run with this. Let my team run with this. Don’t tell Peg we’re following this lead. You’re not impeding anything, because you don’t know what we have in mind. But it might save Krissy’s life. Let the task force come up with this, and pursue this, on their own. I’m not asking you to stop them. Just don’t fuel the fire by ratting us out. Please. We just need a little time first, to try it our way.”

Patrick watched her from beneath hooded lids. “I’d never say yes,” he admitted flatly. “But I have a personal interest in this case. And I’ve seen how good you are. So do what you have to. Spare me the details. Just get it done, and get it done fast. As for Peg, I won’t tell her we talked. But I can’t stop her from doing what she has to. I’d do the same, if I were her.”

“Fair enough.” Casey paused. “And I’ll find a way to keep you in the loop,” she added quietly. “In a way you can swallow. I know how much this case means to you.”

“
Both
cases,” he corrected her. “I care what happens to Krissy Willis. And I need to know what happened to Felicity Akerman.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Marc tucked his car discreetly in a clearing surrounded by thick bushes, a good quarter mile from Sunny Gardens. He walked the rest of the way, positioning himself across from an entrance concealed behind a row of trees. He wanted at least two good hours of daylight surveillance before he planned to scale the fence and traverse the grounds. He needed to see when the various staff members came and went. And he wanted to see the staff’s routine of moving the patients from indoors to outdoors and back.

Using his military-issue binoculars, he monitored the scene and took mental notes.

First note. The security cameras. They were positioned at the main gate, and probably at the rear ones, as well. That left long lengths of iron fence that were out of viewing range. Getting in would be no problem.

Second. Bennato Construction’s crew was starting to wind down for the day. The wing they were building was already framed, and the Sheetrock was well under way. Between the slew of men working overtime, and the piles of construction materials in the area, Marc would have an easy place to blend in and hide, should it become necessary.

Marc turned his attention to the section of grounds where patients were situated. A small number of them were interacting with other patients. Most of them were sitting alone, either under the patio canopy or in the neatly manicured gardens. Some were mobile. Most were sedentary. Even the more mobile patients were being supervised by nurses or nurse’s aides. And those who were unable to get around on their own were attended to more closely, many of them being wheeled back to their rooms.

For all Marc knew, Linda Turner could be sitting right across the street from him.

Ryan had done his homework. Marc was up to speed on the number of patients living there, the ratio of staff to patients, and the physical size and layout of the main building itself. Ryan had emailed him both interior and exterior photos of the place. He would have gotten Marc a complete schematic, had there been time.

Despite the urgency of their situation, Marc waited. He’d learned the importance of patience. Just as he instinctively knew the right moment to strike.

The dinner hour came and went. The night shift arrived. The day shift went home. It didn’t surprise Marc that the number of those driving in was leaner than those driving out. Nighttime would be quieter. The patients would be confined to their rooms. The number of staff members would be reduced.

Making Marc’s job a hell of a lot easier—and harder. He’d have less square footage to cover, and more risk of being caught in empty corridors. So he’d made provisions for both his break-in and his presence. He was dressed in black—long-sleeved shirt and jeans, as well as the backpack slung over his shoulders. But in that backpack was an authentic white orderly’s coat—straight from the Forensic Instincts arsenal.

The sun had set, and the stars were coming out, when Marc stowed his night-vision goggles and shoved the case into his backpack. It was time.

Silently, he crossed over to the section of fence he’d chosen, far away from the scope of the security cameras. He was up and over the fence in a few deft motions, landing lightly on his feet. He waited a full minute to make sure he was alone.

The only sound was the crickets.

Avoiding the outside lights, Marc moved quickly until he reached the main building. Then he slipped around to the back. Sure enough, the delivery door had a lock on it that a ten-year-old could pick.

He got the door open, then jammed his foot in to keep it ajar. He pulled out his orderly uniform and a clipboard, which had printed pages of blank but authentic medical forms on it—again, thanks to Ryan. He tossed his backpack behind the bushes.

A minute later, he was inside.

It was eight o’clock—too late for dinner, too early for sleep. The patients were either in the dayroom, watching TV, or in their bedrooms, preparing for bed.

The very areas Marc planned on exploring.

He saved the dayroom for last, since that would be the most difficult place to maneuver. There was bound to be staff inside, which meant he’d have to be seen and hope that the entire staff wasn’t familiar with one another and, as a result, recognize him as a stranger.

He went up a flight of stairs and down Hall B—the section Ryan had reported housed the patients with specialized medical needs—needs that an Alzheimer’s victim would have. It was a crapshoot. Then again, this entire venture was a crapshoot.

He walked purposefully, clipboard in hand, as if he had someplace to be. A few staff members passed him in the hall, but no one did anything more than smile and nod. He returned the gesture. Every room he passed, he glanced quickly inside, taking an instant mental picture of the occupant. No luck. He continued around the bend and finished his search. Still nothing. He even doubled back to see if he had missed something. There wasn’t a single patient who even resembled Linda Turner.

He had two choices: try another wing or risk the dayroom in that section of the facility.

Trusting Ryan’s assessment, he went for the dayroom. It was situated in such a way that told him it was only for those patients who occupied Hall B.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.

There were half-a-dozen patients gathered around the TV, which was anchored halfway up the wall so everyone could see it. There were another half dozen sitting at the panorama of windows, staring vacantly across the dark lawn. And there were two nurses in the back, keeping a close eye on everyone.

Seeing Marc, one of the nurses spoke up immediately. “Yes?”

“Hi.” Marc shot them an easy smile, his gaze sweeping the room in one comprehensive motion. “I was told to check and see if there were any new dietary restrictions I should report to the kitchen staff before breakfast.”

The nurse turned to her companion, eyebrows raised quizzically. “Anything I’m not aware of?”

The other nurse shook her head. “Everything is status quo.”

“Great,” Marc replied. “I appreciate it.” A rueful look, and another sweep of the room, this time concentrating on the patients at the window. “After a bunch of last-minute changes, it’s a pleasure to find at least one status quo.”

He’d found a lot more than that.

Sitting at the window, her face angled toward Marc, was Linda Turner. He recognized her instantly from Ryan’s enhanced photo. The bone structure. The sharp features. The facial expression. The salt-and-pepper hair. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. They’d found the one they were looking for.

Their long shot had paid off.

“I’ll be heading off for my next meal check,” Marc told the nurses, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Night shifts suck.”

“Tell us about it,” the first nurse said drily.

With a grimace of camaraderie, Marc and his clipboard left the room.

In theory, his job here was done. Still, the more information he could give Ryan, the better.

There was a supply room across the hall. Marc slipped inside, shut the door all but an inch, and waited.

His efforts were rewarded about a half hour later, when the nurses began to escort the patients to their rooms for the night. They worked in shifts, walking some of the patients back two at a time, some of the more mobile patients in groups of three.

Linda Turner was among the second duo to be guided to her room. Marc waited until the nurses were halfway down the hall before he eased the closet door open wider. He watched carefully, counting the number of doorways the nurses passed before leading Linda into her quarters.

Sixth room on the right.

He went back into hiding, waiting until he heard the nurses’ voices, chatting with each other about the great new restaurant that had opened in town, their voices growing more and more distant as they left the area and went back to the nurses’ station.

When there was nothing but silence, Marc emerged.

He inched his way down the hall to Linda Turner’s room and looked at the slot beside the door. Fitted in the slot was a cardboard tab with the patient’s name on it. Lorna Werner.

Lorna Werner. Linda Turner. Close enough for a woman with a fading memory to respond to. But not so close as to be recognizable. Smart choice.

Marc peeked through the glass pane on the closed door. Linda Turner was moving around, talking to herself as she sniffed some bright yellow mums that were arranged in a vase on her windowsill. He wished he could make out her words. But he couldn’t take any more risks than he already had.

A quick glance around the room’s interior.

Mostly institutional. The only personal touches were the numerous vases of flowers and a young girl’s soccer jersey hanging on the wall.

If Marc harbored even a shadow of a doubt before, he didn’t now.

Five minutes later, he was in his car, on his cell phone and on his way back to the brownstone.

By the time Marc walked into the office, Ryan was already in high gear, and pages were being spit out on the laser printer. Hero was sitting beside the printer, barking to let Ryan know that his results were coming through.

“It’s amazing what can be done with the right information,” Ryan informed Marc. “A simple name. Lorna Werner. And suddenly I have the medical data the FBI is trying to track down from before Linda’s move to Sunny Gardens. Her combination of medications. The dosages. Her doctor. Her pharmacy. I hacked into the Sunny Gardens system, no problem. I’ve got a record of when Lorna Werner was admitted. Just one short month ago. Until then, she was being treated independently.”

“Does it say who admitted her?” Marc asked.

“Nope. The system has just basic specs logged in. No details.”

“Well, I gave you all the details I could possibly dig up. The ball’s in your court now.”

“You mentioned vases of flowers in her room.” Casey was perched at the edge of Ryan’s desk, having mulled over Marc’s covert excursion and picked out what she recognized as the highlights. “The grounds of Linda’s house were neglected, but it was obvious that there was once an extensive garden there. And the lake behind the house was covered with weeds. I’d be willing to bet that, before Anna died, it was surrounded by flowers.”

“Your point?” Marc asked.

“You said that some of the patients spent the afternoon sitting in the gardens. I’d be willing to bet that’s where we’d find Linda…Lorna.”

“Makes sense.” Marc nodded.

“And that’s where Gecko and I come in.” Ryan leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “It’s time for me to become CATV guy. When I’m done with my little black box, we’ll have a live feed from Sunny Gardens’ video cameras streaming straight to our office. And if Linda Turner spends her time in the garden, we’ll be watching.”

“I only half got that,” Marc said. “Then again, that’s usually the case when you talk geek-speak. I’ll be here for whatever. Let’s just hope our accomplice shows up for the closed-circuit video show.”

“She will,” Casey said. “She’ll have to touch base with Linda. Because no matter who did the actual kidnapping, Linda is emotionally attached to Krissy, even if she’s not physically with her. She’ll need to feel connected. And the only person who can offer her that is her accomplice. She’s Linda’s stand-in. She’s probably paying herself a healthy chunk—say, two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars—to oversee Krissy. The one thing we don’t know is just how ill Linda is, and how far gone her mind and memories are. It could be that her accomplice is manipulating her. For all we know, Linda thinks Krissy is somewhere at Sunny Gardens, right nearby. This is all conjecture. We’ve got to get at the truth.”

“Next question,” Marc inserted, addressing the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. “When do we call Peg and the FBI task force?”

“Not now, we don’t,” Ryan responded quickly. “I need time to get some answers. Once we have those, you can tell the task force whatever you want.”

“This is going to be tricky—and tight,” Casey murmured. “I’m sure the task force is only a few steps behind us, and that’s only because of the red tape of having to get warrants. Once they get them, they’re going to storm Sunny Gardens like gang-busters, looking for Linda Turner. And, if she’s not clearheaded enough, that could ruin any chance of finding out about her accomplice.”

“Yeah, and if that accomplice knows that Linda’s been made, we can kiss finding her goodbye.”

“She’s our only link to Krissy,” Casey said fervently. “I won’t let her get away. Ryan, plan on leaving for Sunny Gardens at the crack of dawn.”