The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

  “True.” Marc rose. “Maybe I could also drop in on Joe Deale’s foreman, and intimidate him a little about those architectural plans. You never know how deep he’s in.”

  “Good point. And good luck.”

  “I’ll check in later.” Marc shot a quick wave at Claire and headed out the door, where Hero was waiting in the car.

  The man-to-man stuff was underway. Time for a little woman-to-woman action.

  Hope and Vera were seated in the Florida room, sipping on cups of chamomile tea, when Casey and Claire found them.

  Hope jumped to her feet in a heartbeat. “Is there news?”

  “Not yet,” Casey replied. “But we’d like to talk. I’ll fill you in on the names we’ve crossed off the list, and then I’d like to ask you both some questions. The questions may seem trite, but I assure you, they’re anything but.”

  “All right.” Hope resettled herself on the couch. “Whose names did you delete from our suspect list? And how?”

  Quickly, Casey ran through their house-buying charade.

  “That’s very creative,” Hope commented when Casey was through. “But the FBI and the police have already interviewed all our neighbors. So that territory has been covered.”

  “Yes and no. The task force did their job—very thoroughly. But police badges and FBI ID tend to intimidate people. So the interviewees automatically supply factual answers, rather than more detailed, personal ones. We took every iota of negative feedback, however small, and turned the information over to Ryan McKay, my techno-genius. He’ll do detailed searches on those people—so detailed that anything even remotely out of whack will pop up. That’ll support the law enforcement investigations, and eliminate a neighborhood of suspects altogether.”

  Hope gave a wan smile. “I appreciate that. But it doesn’t bring me much comfort.”

  “I agree. That’s why we want to talk.” Casey sat down and opened her notepad, gesturing for Claire to take a seat beside her. “I still believe that your sister and your daughter’s kidnappings are related. I think you do, too. The cops are digging into your father’s connection to the mob, however limited. I want to look at the past, too, but through a different route.”

  “Which is?”

  “You. I want you to think back thirty-two years. To rack your brains to remember every single detail, person or conversation associated with the time right before and after Felicity’s kidnapping. You’d be surprised how much each of us stores away in our memory that we don’t even realize is there. Events, snatches of conversation, and flashes of visual images. I’m asking you to trust me, and to try this. Claire can help us. If anything you touch on triggers a feeling or insight, she’ll pick up on it. Together, maybe—just maybe—we can zero in on something that can help find Krissy.”

  “I was six years old,” Hope reminded her.

  “I realize that. Were you in kindergarten? First grade? Focus on that, on the friends you remember coming over to play. That’s a good place to start to initiate memories.” Casey turned to Vera. “And you were Sidney’s wife. You must remember the last months you were together. Things he said. The way he acted. How he reacted to Felicity’s abduction—and not just the drinking. The things he harped on. What set him off. Which parts of the FBI investigation threw him the most. Any people who came by to offer their support that elicited a notable response from him. Things like that.”

  Vera drew a slow, painful breath. “That was a horrible time in our lives and in our marriage. I can’t overlook the drinking—it consumed us. And, yes, Sidney was obsessed with the FBI investigation. Now I realize why. He felt responsible. He was responsible.”

  “Did he have any friends who supported him? Anyone who came by frequently to offer words of encouragement?”

  “I understand where you’re going with this,” Vera replied. “But Sidney wasn’t interested in support. He was a man with a mission. I’m the one who craved the support. I didn’t get it from my husband. I was fortunate that my friends, and the mothers of Hope’s and Felicity’s friends, were there for me. They came by every day, bringing food and words of encouragement.” She swallowed, hard. “We had a prayer vigil each evening, the entire first week that Felicity was gone.”

  “I remember that,” Hope murmured. “Mrs. Matthews, Mrs. Tatem, all our neighbors, and a lot of other mothers I didn’t know. Felicity and I had different friends. I do remember all the mothers from the camp soccer team coming over.”

  “Daily,” Vera confirmed. “They were kind, loving…and scared to death. They were afraid the kidnapper was targeting the girls from the team. I think they felt better being close to the investigation, so they could feel reassured. I don’t blame them.”

  “Was there any justification for their fear?” Casey asked. “Were there any seedy characters hanging around watching the girls?”

  Vera shook her head. “Not that any of us knew. Of course, now that I know the mob was involved, I can’t be sure. They’re good at staying hidden. But even if they were watching, there’d be no reason to scrutinize anyone but Felicity. None of the other fathers was involved with Sidney’s business.”

  “Have you stayed in touch with any of these mothers?”

  “Of course. Some of them still live in New Rochelle. Some moved, but we kept up by phone, and now, by email. Tragedy is a funny thing—it binds people together for life.”

  “I understand.” Casey was jotting down some notes. “Are the names of all those women—from school, camp and the neighborhood—listed in the original file along with your current friends at the time? I haven’t had the chance to sink my teeth into the file yet. Agent Lynch just got it to us.”

  “I believe all the names are in there, yes.” Vera thought about it and nodded. “Special Agent Lynch was very thorough. He collected every detail. The only ones you won’t find in his file are those attached to the mob connection you’ve only now just uncovered. Henry Kenyon’s name will be in there, of course. He was Sidney’s employer and friend. The FBI questioned him—evidently not thoroughly enough.”

  Casey lowered her pad and gazed steadily at Vera. The last thing she wanted was for the older woman to get the wrong idea about the Bureau’s competence. “As you noted, Mrs. Akerman, the mob is adept at hiding. Organized Crime is very good at staying under the radar. They keep operations like the one they were running through Henry Kenyon’s company small and unobtrusive.” As she spoke the truth, she still knew in her gut that Patrick was undoubtedly beating himself up for missing the connection. “The FBI would have no reason to have their antennae raised about any mob involvement. Plus, technology then was a lot more limited than it is now. Computers were a new phenomenon, and certainly not standard Federal issue. So there were no internet searches, or in-depth profiles.”

  “We know that,” Hope assured her. “I remember hearing my parents talking. They said the FBI was all but living at our house. I’m sure Special Agent Lynch did everything he could to find Felicity. He’s obviously still distraught over the case. Pointing fingers would be absurd.”

  “I’d never do that,” Vera clarified hastily. “Hope is right. Special Agent Lynch was a godsend. He led the investigation, and he dealt with Sidney. I don’t know which was more of a challenge. I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory.”

  “You didn’t,” Casey reassured her. “You sounded tormented. Which you were, and now are again.”

  “Do you have a photo of Felicity that you could give me?” Claire inserted herself for the first time, tackling the situation via her area of expertise.

  “Of course.” Vera opened her purse and pulled out a photo album. A few sleeves of pictures were inside. Most of them were dated, but still clear. She handed two photos to Claire. “Both of these are from the summer before…before our world ended. The first one is just Felicity. She’s beaming ear to ear because she’d just won a plaque for scoring the most goals at her camp soccer tournament. The second photo is of Felicity and Hope together.” A wan smile. “Very few people c
ould tell them apart.”

  “I can see why,” Claire murmured, studying the photos. “I’m going to start with the one of just Felicity. I don’t want to get hers and Hope’s energies confused, especially since they’re identical twins. If I sense anything at all from the first photo, I’ll move onto the second.”

  She shut her eyes, touching her fingertips lightly to Felicity’s image.

  A few moments passed.

  “I sense joy. Pride. Maybe a little smugness.” Claire’s lips curved. “She beat out Suzie by only two goals.”

  “That’s right.” Vera leaned forward, her eyes huge as saucers. “What else can you sense?”

  “That was the last game Felicity played. Not because of the abduction. Another reason.” A pensive pause. “I sense impatience, frustration and pain. A lot of it.” Claire’s fingers shifted slightly and came to rest near Felicity’s left elbow. “Her left arm. She can’t bend it. And it hurts terribly. Shooting pain.”

  “She broke it,” Hope supplied, visibly awestruck by Claire’s talent. “It was in a cast most of the next summer. The doctor gave her the green light to play again the day before she was kidnapped. I remember how excited she was.”

  Claire nodded without opening her eyes. “She was. She loved soccer. She loved sports.” A heartbeat of a pause. “She loved sharing them with your father.”

  Not a flicker of envy crossed Hope’s face. “Thank you for your sensitivity. But my father’s enthusiasm over Felicity was common knowledge. It wasn’t that he loved her more than he loved me. They just had more in common. I never felt neglected or uncared for. Besides—” Hope patted her mother’s hand “—I had my mom to share my love of reading and learning with. So it all evened out.”

  As she thought back, tears dampened Hope’s eyes. “We were a happy, well-adjusted family. Felicity and I were different, but we were best friends. Anyone who hurt one of us had to deal with the other. I adored her. She adored me. My childhood, and a chunk of my life, disappeared when she did.”

  On that note, Claire opened her eyes long enough to switch photos, laying the shot of Hope and Felicity in the palm of her hand. She ran her fingers over the twins’ happy images.

  “I can feel the love you’re describing,” she said. “Not just from you. From your sister, as well. The connection between you is strong. I doubt anything could come between you. Sometimes she got scared. She didn’t want anyone to know. You made it better.”

  A nostalgic smile touched Hope’s lips. “Felicity was afraid of going to the doctor. She always associated it with getting a shot—and she was terrified of shots. Tongue depressors, too. There was no way of getting around those visits when it came to our family doctor, although we racked our brains to come up with something. But school was another matter entirely. It was easy to fool the school nurse. Felicity was not only afraid, she didn’t want her friends to make fun of her. So whenever she got sick during the school day and the teacher made her go to the nurse, she went to the bathroom instead. I went to the nurse’s office and pretended I was her. I complained of her symptoms and got the nurse to call our mother. Felicity stuck out the day, and I got to go home to TV and ice cream.”

  Hope gave a small laugh. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go to camp, though, because I couldn’t have pulled it off there. Every time I visited Felicity at camp, or went with my parents to see her in a game, the camp nurse knew who was who. She was sweet. And she claimed that each of us had our own sparkle.”

  “Linda,” Vera said affectionately. “She was so fond of Felicity. She was one of the women I mentioned who came to our evening prayer vigils. Even after those initial weeks, Linda and I stayed in touch. We still do, now and then. But Hope is right. Linda always could tell the girls apart. So could our next-door neighbor, Gladys Evans and Fern Chappel, the school librarian. It seemed to be a gut feeling with some people. Of course, it was never an issue with Sidney and me. To us, each twin was unique and distinctive, physically and characteristically.”

  Turning, Vera arched an eyebrow at Hope. “And, by the way, I caught on to that little game you and your sister played with the school nurse. I passed the details of your trick along to her. When one of you was sick, she knew just who to tell me to pick up. She’d describe what her patient was wearing, and I’d let her know if it really was Felicity or if it was her very loyal and naughty twin.”

  “Oh.” Hope’s smile was sheepish. “We always did wonder why you sometimes got mixed up about who you were picking up and giving a sick day to.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “Felicity wasn’t the only one who was sometimes afraid,” Claire pronounced.

  “No, she wasn’t.” Hope’s smile faded. “I was afraid of sleeping alone when our parents were out. So, on those nights, she made sure we stayed in the same bed. We told our parents that it was because our babysitter’s talking on the phone kept me up. But it wasn’t true. I was scared. That’s why we were together the night of the kidnapping.”

  “Yes,” Claire said softly. “But that night she was also scared for you. She saw the person in black go to you first. You were asleep. She saw your face get covered. She saw you go limp. She didn’t know what happened to you.”

  “You can visualize the night of Felicity’s kidnapping?” Casey asked Claire, stunned by the realization.

  Claire’s eyes opened. “Fragments of it, yes. The kidnapper was dressed in black. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt. And gloves. I can visualize black gloves. The handkerchief was drenched in chloroform. That’s all I see. I can feel fear and confusion. I can sense a commotion. But there’s nothing distinct. It’s all amorphous flashes.” A sigh. “I wish I could tell you more.”

  “It’s a start,” Casey said. “A good one. I think we’ve made some real progress today.” A pause. “On several fronts.”

  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 rec
onnaissance.”

  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.”