by Andrea Kane
“While you’re waiting for my ‘all clear’ signal, yes. But, once you’re inside the office, we can talk to each other through Gecko’s mike. The earbuds alone wouldn’t give me a visual. Besides, like I said, mostly I’m dying to try the little guy out. This is a cool way to do a trial run.”
“Ready.” Marc finished donning his uniform, adjusted his earbud and peered out the window. “You first, or me?”
“You. I can position Gecko in ten minutes.”
“Then I’m gone.”
Marc sauntered down to the maintenance closet and found a cart, which he promptly filled with mops, brooms, rags and various chemical cleaners. Then he made his way up the stairwell, avoiding the elevators so he wouldn’t run into anyone who asked questions. He carried the cart ahead of him, until he’d reached the second floor. He passed a couple of women walking down to the main corridor, laughing and heading out for a coffee break. He kept his head low and his attention on his cart, although he couldn’t help but chuckle silently at the man-bashing conversation. His presence didn’t slow them down a bit. To them he was invisible, so they continued their chatter. Charlie—the clueless boyfriend whose head was on the chopping block—was about to be dumped. Evidently, he was an inconsiderate bastard, and lousy in bed to boot.
It was this kind of crap that made Marc glad he wasn’t the heavy-relationship type.
The second-floor staircase was deserted, and Marc emerged without a hitch. The hall was a different story. There were three lawyers standing outside their offices, discussing a litigation case. Marc moved slowly past them, noting the numbers on the doors. Good. Sherman’s office was around the bend. As long as the attorneys stayed where they were and Marc didn’t run into anyone else, he’d be able to do his job without a problem.
Almost home free.
“He just left for lunch.”
Marc heard Ryan’s voice in his ear as he rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Dr. Sherman.
“No shit,” Marc muttered under his breath. Aloud, he murmured a heavily accented, “Excuse me,” keeping his head low. Ryan almost lost it and cracked up laughing, as he heard Sherman call Marc a clumsy idiot, before tromping off.
Marc spied Sherman’s office, his name on the door in big letters. Reflexively, he gave a quick scan of the hall. Empty.
Satisfied, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then, he extracted his flathead screwdriver and file, carefully inserting them in the lock and feeling his way, listening until he heard the telltale click. He pushed open the door and tucked away his tools. Dragging the maintenance cart in behind him, he yanked the door shut, walking through the reception area and into the main office behind it.
“What took you so long?” Ryan inquired through the air duct.
Marc arched a brow. “Nice warning. Timely, too. I almost flattened the shrink. What happened to not drawing attention to myself?”
“Sorry. Let’s get to it. Sherman takes short lunch breaks. That gives us maybe thirty minutes tops.” Ryan fell silent for a moment. “I think I see a file room in the back.”
“Yup, you do. And fortunately there’s no lock on the door.” Marc picked up the pace, striding across the floor and shoving open the door. “Are you in here?” he asked Ryan.
“Sure am. There’s an air-conditioning vent to your left. Gecko followed you in.” A low whistle. “I knew Sherman was a pack rat, but this lends new meaning to the phrase. There are file cabinets everywhere.”
“Lucky me.” One by one, Marc scanned the labels on the cabinets, which listed the files inside by date. “These only go back twenty-five years. Shit. Where are the rest?” He scrutinized the room.
There were loose stacks of files in the far corner.
“Let me try those,” he said to Ryan, pointing.
“Good idea.” Ryan waited while Marc squatted down and began rummaging through the files. He was careful to keep them in the same order he’d found them.
“These are the oldies but goodies,” Marc muttered, going back thirty, then thirty-plus years. “Bingo.” He stopped when he saw the name: Turner, Linda. “I got it,” he told Ryan.
“Great. The copying machine’s in the reception area. I’m moving Gecko to the main corridor outside the office. He’ll watch the door and the hallway.”
Marc headed right for the reception room and the copying machine, which was in plain view. He turned it on, and it whirred to life. Opening Linda’s file, he took out the stack of handwritten pages, and fed them into the machine.
It took about fifteen minutes to complete the job, and three minutes to return the reassembled file to its pile in the back room.
Leaving the office, Marc shut and locked the door behind him. He looked up at the vent and snapped off a salute. “See you back at the van, little guy.”
I’m scared, Mommy. Please come and find me.
It’s been a bunch of days. My cartoons have been reruns five times. I counted. She puts them on for me every day. And then she sits and watches me watch them.
It’s creepy, Mommy. She’s creepy.
I keep crying and crying—not when she’s here, because it makes her act weird and mushy. And that’s scarier than when she watches me play or tries to play with me. I only cry when I’m alone with Oreo and Ruby.
I don’t want to play the stupid computer game she gave me. She said she made it. I don’t care. I want my games back. I want to play them in my room, on my computer. But every time I ask if I can go home, she says I am home. I don’t know what she means. I’m in a pink room. She says it’s my princess room. I’m afraid to tell her that it’s not mine.
She’s wearing your necklace. And she smells like you. I don’t know why. But it makes me want to hide.
Oreo’s fur is all wet. Ruby’s feathers are, too. My crying did that. But they understand because they’re crying, too.
Why does she keep telling me that she’s my mommy? She’s not my mommy. You are. But when I tell her that, she gets mad at me. She says weird stuff. I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid she’ll do something bad. So I don’t say it anymore.
She keeps coming down here. I can count the stairs by the sound of her shoes. There are fourteen.
I hate that number. I hate hearing her come. I’m so happy when she goes away.
I don’t know who’s upstairs. But when she’s up there, I can hear her talking to someone. Only they never come down. Only her.
Maybe they’re scarier than she is.
I wish she’d go away forever. I don’t care about the ice cream and the toys and the bubble baths. I just want to go home.
Please, Mommy. I’m scared.
Please come and take me home.
Casey met Marc and Ryan in the parking lot of an Armonk pub. She left her car and climbed into Ryan’s van. There, she studied the psychiatrist’s official report for the hospital’s medical review board, declaring Linda fit to return to work. She also read through Linda Turner’s file, line by line, even though Marc and Ryan had summed it up perfectly on the phone.
There was no doubt that the poor woman had come apart at the seams right after her daughter drowned. She was inconsolable and despondent when she’d first starting seeing Dr. Sherman. Anna had clearly been her entire world. And that world had died with Anna.
Linda had made very little progress in the first months. But after intensive therapy, and a chunk of time, she’d begun to come back. Dr. Sherman was very pleased with her progress. And, by the time he’d given her the green light to return to work, he’d been more than confident that she was ready to start rebuilding her life, one baby step at a time. Starting with work, which he believed would give her a sense of purpose and something to focus on besides her grief.
He had, however, recommended that Linda continue with her counseling sessions, at least on a weekly basis. And she had…for a while. Then, without warning, she’d stopped going. From the doctor’s notes, it looked as if her insurance was no longer willing to cover the visits. Dr. Sherman had offered to work
out some arrangement, perhaps a reduced rate, so that Linda could continue with her sessions. But she had respectfully turned him down, assuring him that her monetary situation was fine, as was her mental health. Things in her life were looking up.
In what way? With what money?
There were no answers to Casey’s questions. Because, abruptly, the file came to an end. The progress reports stopped. So, apparently, did Linda’s association with Dr. Sherman.
That in itself was a red flag.
But the chilling part was that Linda’s psychiatric sessions ended two weeks before Felicity Akerman was kidnapped.
Casey tossed down the file. “This is it. The timeline and coincidences can’t be ignored. And it changes everything, maybe even the focus of the investigation. We’ve got to act now.”
“We can’t take this one on alone, Casey,” Marc stated flatly. “We’ve got to involve the FBI task force.”
Ryan turned to Marc. “Since when do you worry about playing by the rules?”
“He’s right, Ryan,” Casey said. “This isn’t about rules. It’s about telling law enforcement what they need to know, and increasing our manpower. Linda Turner has to be found.”
“We can’t just turn over her psychiatric file,” Ryan responded. He went back to punching in information on his laptop, searching at top speed for any trail of their suspect. “We got it illegally. That means we could go to jail. Plus, the Feds can’t use it in court, anyway.”
“We won’t turn over the file,” Marc said. Being former BAU, he had the greatest knowledge and the most experience with the FBI. “We’ll just act as confidential informants. Based on what we know, we’ll give them verbal specifics, which will convince them to act without compromising their case.”
“I agree.” Casey was already up and climbing out of the van, her car keys in her hand. “Let’s go.”
Peg, Don and Hutch—along with two other CARD team members, three agents, Sergeant Bennett of the North Castle P.D. and Patrick Lynch—gathered in the command center in the Willises’ media suite, listening while Casey and her Forensic Instincts team presented the facts they’d uncovered.
The reaction was much as Ryan had suggested.
Hutch jumped in first. “Where did you get your information?”
Casey met his gaze directly, unblinking, as she replied. “From the most reliable of sources. That’s all you need to know.”
“You mean, that’s all we’ll want to know,” Peg clarified. She rolled her eyes, torn between irritation, worry over making a potential conviction stick and the sense of urgency based on getting to a woman who might very well have Krissy. “Dammit, Casey, why do you insist on putting us in this position?”
“It’s not intentional. You know that. But it’s almost a week, Peg. Krissy’s life is in our hands.”
“Casey’s right.” It was Don who spoke up. CARD team or not, he wanted to find that child. “We can argue over protocol later. Casey’s team hasn’t compromised us by sharing physical evidence that might or might not have been illegally obtained. It’s all word of mouth. We’ll find a way to write this up and present it in court—later. Now we’ve got to pool our resources and find Linda Turner.”
Peg nodded, pursing her lips. “Agreed.”
“I understand the motivation for her to kidnap Felicity Akerman,” Sergeant Bennett interceded. “But where does Krissy Willis come in? It’s over thirty years later. Where’s the connection—besides the obvious blood ties between Felicity and Krissy?”
“It could still be someone’s vendetta,” Lynch answered. “If DeMassi and his son, or another mob soldier is pulling the strings, the choice of victims could be theirs.”
“On the other hand,” Hutch interceded, “if the psychological implications Casey is suggesting are true, then Linda Turner would have filled Anna’s void with Felicity. And when Felicity grew up, the void would reappear. So she wouldn’t need much convincing to do a repeat performance, this time with Krissy.”
“Krissy would take Felicity’s place,” Casey agreed aloud. “That makes sense. And Patrick, I know Sidney was our ace in the hole. But I’m no longer convinced there’s a mob tie-in here. I think we might be barking up the wrong tree. Linda’s motivation is emotional and psychological. She wants—needs—to replace her dead daughter. She could be acting on her own.”
“Meaning Sidney was just a wrong-place, wrong-time scenario.”
“Exactly.” A hard swallow as Casey turned to Hutch and steeled herself for the inevitable answer to what she was about to ask. “At what age would a child like Felicity become dispensable?”
“Based on your theory—which I think holds water—when Felicity reached an age where she no longer needed a ‘mommy’ and/or no longer reminded Linda of Anna. Before puberty, would be my guess.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Casey persisted. “Vera Akerman has been in touch with Linda over the years. And, at no point, did she go to pieces. How do you explain that?”
Hutch’s jaw tightened. “There could be several reasons. Either the void in her life was filled by someone else, like a man.”
“Or?”
“Or there could have been other children in between Felicity and Krissy. Children that Linda abducted on her own.”
“Oh, God.” Casey felt ill.
“What about the quarter of a million dollars that Hope Willis paid?” Bennett asked. “Where does the ransom money come in?”
“It was either a hoax generated by some arbitrary bastard cashing in on the Willises’ panic, or a way to throw us off track,” Hutch deduced. “I doubt that Linda required a payoff. Not with motives that, as Casey said, are clearly emotional and psychological.” A pause. “There is one other possibility. Linda could need money to raise her ‘child.’ Ransom would be a way of getting it.”
“Yes, it would,” Casey murmured. “Especially if Linda plans on keeping Krissy for years.”
A heavy silence hung in the room.
“So we’re all in agreement,” Peg concluded at last. “We’ve got to find Linda Turner.” She glanced over at Ryan. “Since you’ve already jumped the gun, do you have anything for us on her whereabouts?”
Ryan frowned. “She’s fallen off the map. When the local cops checked out her house, they found it deserted, the phone line disconnected. But there’s no indication that she moved—no forwarding address, nothing on the internet, zilch. I’m not giving up. I’m going back to the office to start digging again. I’ll find her.” He looked at Casey. “Does Vera Akerman have a picture of Linda Turner?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I have to talk to her, Hope and Edward anyway, and fill them in on where things stand.”
“Tell them only what you have to,” Peg cautioned.
“I will.”
“If you can get me a photo, I’ll use my age-enhancing software to create an image of Linda as she would look today,” Ryan said. “I’ll email what I come up with to your BlackBerry so Hope’s mother can see it and suggest whatever modifications are necessary. Once that’s done, we’ll have something to distribute.”
“Good. Because Marc and I are heading up to Linda’s house right after this meeting.” Casey was frank. Even if Peg gave her a hard time, she wasn’t going to lie.
“A handful of us will be up there, too,” Peg replied. “We need to determine how long Linda’s been gone. Logically, she’s with Krissy.” Peg shot Casey a warning look. “Don’t impede our investigation, Casey. You’ve already stepped way over the line.”
“We won’t. When it comes to this, we know you’re the experts.” Casey glanced respectfully at Sergeant Bennett. “With your permission, I’d like to bring Claire with us. She might pick up on some energy that will help us. And we’re bringing Hero, too. He’s out in Marc’s car. I want him there when ERT is collecting Linda Turner’s scent—to sniff after they’ve completed their official search,” she hastily added, referring to the FBI’s Evidence Response Team.
“I have no
problem with that,” Bennett replied.
“Nor do I.” Peg turned to Hutch. “You and Grace work up a new profile. Highlight the following. Female in her mid-sixties. A loner. Photo to follow. Seen with the five-year-old kidnapping victim whose picture we distributed. I want you to call a meeting of the remaining members of the task force. I want every pair of eyes on the lookout for Linda Turner, or someone or something that can lead us to her. Don, pick a few of your people. Same with the North Castle P.D. Patrick, you’re welcome to join us. We’re taking off now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The wooden house looked like all the others in the area.
It was modest, with pale blue shutters and white clapboard walls. Set back from the road, the house was surrounded by several acres of woods. The grounds and gardens hadn’t been tended to, and there were weeds growing all around the lake out back.
Clearly, Linda had wanted to block out the memory of what had happened there.
The task force, along with the Evidence Response Team that Peg had summoned, went inside first, checking the place for clues as to Linda’s whereabouts. Casey and her team stayed outside, waiting to be allowed in. Ditto for Patrick, who stood as still as a statue, his gaze fixed on the house, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Claire was with them, walking the grounds, stopping occasionally to lean over and touch the dead flowers in the garden, and concentrating intently. Hero zigzagged across the lawn, sniffing, his leash clutched in Marc’s hand.
Casey paced around impatiently, frustrated at being kept out. But there was nothing else she could do until ERT had finished checking for physical evidence.
Nothing but think.
She’d told Hope and Vera the basics before taking off. Edward had been at the office. Hope had come alive at the prospect of a real lead. Vera, on the other hand, had refused to believe that Linda was involved. She was stunned to learn about Anna, since she hadn’t even known of her existence. But she insisted that Linda’s daughter’s death must have made her all the more compassionate about Felicity’s abduction. Nobody should have to bear the loss of a child, she’d told Vera repeatedly. And she’d attended every one of the prayer vigils after Felicity’s disappearance. How could she have faked that level of concern?
