The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

  “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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Day Five

  Claudia Mitchell was in panic mode.

  Joe was being held in custody for having connections to the mob. She was pretty sure the FBI suspected him of kidnapping Krissy Willis. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

  She was alone, she was unemployed and she was devastated—again. She’d just gotten Joe back. She didn’t care who he worked for. He wasn’t a bad man—he was Joe. Plus, everything else aside, they were just beginning to put the pieces back together, to make a life together.

  And now this.

  Damn Judge Willis.

  Claudia understood that her anger at Judge Willis was irrational. But that woman had taken everything from her: her career, her income and now her man. She wanted to strike out, to make Judge Willis pay.

  But, in her heart, Claudia knew that the judge was already paying—in the most heinous way possible. Her little girl was gone. She’d been taken from her, maybe forever.

  Given those circumstances, it was cruel to harbor resentment. Still, Claudia couldn’t squelch hers. It continued to boil inside her, like a volcano about to erupt.

  Her life was in shambles.

  The phone call she’d received from the employment agency was the closest thing to good news she’d had since this turmoil began. A nursing home north of Westchester County was looking for a bookkeeper and an office manager. It was a far cry, both in content and in salary, from her position as a court clerk, but it would help pay the bills. And the commute would be long, but it was doable.

  Her interview was today.

  She rose early, dressing in her most serious business suit, and mentally ran through prospective interview questions in her head. It had been a while, and she had to make the transition back to professional woman.

  With a modicum of confidence, Claudia left the house and climbed into her car, beginning the hour-and-a-half drive up to the facility. She left herself plenty of time, since she was unfamiliar with the area and the winding, mountain roads. As it turned out, she made good time, and arrived at Sunny Gardens fifteen minutes early.

  That gave her a short interval to scan the grounds from the vantage point of the administration building. From what she could see, the acreage was lovely—well manicured, serene, just the atmosphere a patient would need to enjoy the final stages of his or her life. The facility was set on rolling hills with expansive gardens. Aside from the main complex and the administration building, there was a modern clubhouse and a sprawling patio with a view of the sunrise. Claudia would have loved to stroll down to the lake, but the distance would make her arrival at the interview tight. Maybe afterward—if she had a shot at the job.

  Which she did. The interview went beautifully. Claudia was direct and honest about her qualifications and experience. And, Ms. Babick, the human resources executive Claudia met with, was clearly aware that Claudia was overqualified. But she was also aware of the high unemployment rate, and the scarcity of good jobs. So, rather than being put off by Claudia’s years clerking for a judge, she was pleased by her organizational skills and her ability to take charge.

  A half hour later they shook hands, and Claudia was on her way, with the guarantee of a prompt phone call to the employment agency.

  Feeling good about herself for the first time in ages, Claudia decided to take that stroll down to the lake.

  The stroll turned out to be a lot more than she bargained for.

  Rounding the corner of the administration building, Claudia got a full panoramic view of the facility. The first thing that stood out was that a new wing was being constructed at the farthest end of the main building. The second thing was the large sign on the fenced-in construction area.

  It read: Bennato Construction Company.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared in confused disbelief. Then, she pulled herself together. She reminded herself that Bennato was involved in construction projects all over New York State. Any connection between Joe and them had nothing to do with her, or today’s job interview.

  She was overreacting. She had to be.

  She turned away. That’s when she was hit with her second surprise of the day.

  This was no coincidence.

  She considered retracing her steps and forgetting she’d ever seen what she did. But she couldn’t. She was too unstrung. So she didn’t think. She just marched straight into the eye of the storm. And she had the confrontation before she could chicken out and walk away.

  She left the nursing
home with a sense of awareness and dread that far eclipsed the positive impact of her upbeat job interview.

  Hurrying to her car, she jumped in and turned over the engine. She couldn’t get home fast enough. What she’d learned in her face-off could change everything.

  So stunned was Claudia with her newfound, overwhelming knowledge, that she failed to spot the dark sedan following a short distance behind her.

  It waited until she was a quarter mile from the sharp hairpin turn atop the mountain to pick up speed. Then, the driver floored the gas. The car flew up to Claudia’s in seconds. Just as quickly, it moved to the left and astride hers. The driver lost no time, slamming the sedan’s passenger side directly into Claudia’s driver’s side.

  She screamed and clutched the wheel, swerving from side to side and trying to get out of the way. But there was nowhere to go—not with the steel divider to her right, separating her from the steep decline that plunged down from the mountaintop.

  The sedan wouldn’t let her go. It struck her car over again and again—hard, purposefully—nudging it closer and closer to the railing. Claudia veered wildly, trying to escape the inevitable.

  She lost the fight.

  With the sickening sound of tearing metal, Claudia’s car tore through the divider and plummeted over the side of the mountain. It flipped over four or five times before crashing into a tree.

  Seconds later, the car burst into flames.

  Ryan was still at his desk when Casey came down late that morning, Hero at her heels. Ryan’s five-o’clock shadow told her he’d been at it all night. The dark circles under Casey’s eyes told him the same.

  “Where do things stand?” she asked.

  Ryan leaned back in his chair. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  “Rough night?”

  Casey shrugged. “I’ve been buried in the Felicity Akerman case file.”

  “Hutch must be pissed.”

  “Nope. He pulled an all-nighter of his own. The BAU is busy modifying their profile in light of the potential Vizzini connection.” Casey put a lid on the chitchat about her private life and changed the subject. “What have you got for me?”