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The Girl Who Disappeared Twice
Andrea Kane


YOUR LITTLE GIRL HAS BEEN STOLEN. HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO TO GET HER BACK? One hour ago Hope Willis’s daughter got into a car identical to her mother’s. A stranger’s car. It took less than 10 seconds for the locks to close. A team on the outside of the law is the only hope. But they demand absolute truth and dark secrets are lurking.A twin sister snatched 32 years ago, a safe packed full of dirty money, a sordid affair one parent will do anything to keep secret.I'm scared. I don't know where I am. I keep calling your name, but you don't come. Where are you Mummy? Please come. ‘Andrea Kane sets new standards for suspense.’ – Lisa Gardner














Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author

andrea Kane

“Andrea Kane expertly juggles suspense and romance.”

—Iris Johansen

“Kane is a skilled writer, so the romantic complications … between her intelligent and driven main characters never get in the way of the suspense.”

—Milwaukee Wisconsin Journal Sentinel

“Andrea Kane delivers the kind of edgy suspense and romantic tension that will rev up your pulse and keep you turning the pages.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz

“Tautly written, high-octane thrillers! Andrea Kane sets new standards for suspense.”

—Lisa Gardner

“Andrea Kane delivers a spine-tingling tale.”

—Strand magazine

“A real page-turner! A keep-you-up-all-night romantic suspense.”

—Karen Robards on Run for Your Life

“This chilling page-turner is a winner, with an atmosphere of terror that escalates to a stunning conclusion.”

—RT Book Reviews on I’ll Be Watching You

“Part brilliant character study, part icy thriller, here is a novel laced with romance and suspense.”

—James Rollins on Dark Room

“Kane is an adroit master at romantic suspense, and she keeps the reader guessing to the very end.”

—Booklist




About the Author


ANDREA KANE’s groundbreaking romantic thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller, paving the way for a series of smash hits focusing on the various cases investigated by NYPD detectives and FBI special agents. With a worldwide following and novels published in nineteen countries, Kane is also the bestselling author of fourteen historical romance novels. She lives in New Jersey with her family, where she is learning new ways to sharpen her firearms and investigative skills like a true FBI agent. Between target practices, she is researching and writing her next supercharged romantic thriller.

www.AndreaKane.com


The Girl Who Disappeared Twice





Andrea Kane






















www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)








To Freddy,

the heroic FBI Tactical Canine Dog

who was killed in the line of duty.

Thank you for protecting our country.

I hope my bloodhound, Hero, is a fitting tribute to you

and all the other brave service dogs like you.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


With deepest gratitude to all those amazing professionals who so graciously gave of their time and helped provide me with the authenticity I needed to write The Girl Who Disappeared Twice. The list is long, and in no specific order. I thank each and every one of you.

Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairs (Angela, you’re the exception to my rule—you’re always first, because you’re the most extraordinary central contact I could ever hope for!)

Arthur Cummings II, Former Executive Assistant Director, FBI National Security Branch

SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 2

SA Konrad Motyka, FBI New York

SA James Margolin, FBI Office of Public Affairs, New York Field Office

SSA Michael Harkins, Coordinating Supervisor, Violent Crime/Gangs Branch, FBI New York Field Office

SSRA Michael Ferrandino, FBI Long Island Resident Agency

SSA Leonard Johns, Formerly of the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 3

SSA Thomas Lintner, Chief FBI Laboratory’s Evidence Response Team Unit

SSA Rex Stockham, Program Manager for FBI Laboratory’s Forensic Canine Program

SSRA Edward McCabe, FBI White Plains Resident Agency

SA Tonya DeSa, FBI Newark Division National Academy Coordinator, NCAVC Coordinator, Assistant Training Coordinator

SA Laura Robinson, Senior Team Leader, Evidence Response Team, FBI Newark Field Office

SA Maria Johnson, NCAVC Coordinator, FBI New York Field Office

Retired SA Richard DeFilippo, Violent Crimes Task Force, FBI New York Field Office

Robert D’Angelo, Chief of Police, North Castle, New York

Retired FBI SA Richard Mika

SA Ann Todd, FBI Office of Public Affairs

Retired Detective Mike Oliver, NYPD

Jennifer Michelson, New Jersey Search and Rescue Dog Task Force

Hillel Ben-Asher, M.D.

In addition, I want to thank Adam Wilson, for being a true editorial partner, and Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, for being agents and advocates extraordinaire.

And last, but always first, I want to thank my family, who’s there from start to finish … and then some. I love and appreciate you more than you’ll ever know.




PROLOGUE


Westchester County, New York

Summer, thirty-two years ago

When six-year-old Felicity Akerman went to bed that night, she had no idea that life as she knew it was about to change forever.

She settled under the light cotton blanket and put her head on the pillow, her long blond hair tied back in a ponytail because of the heat. She was wearing her favorite short-sleeve nightshirt with the bright orange soccer balls on it. She had to wear it tonight. It was like a gold star on a perfect spelling test. A prize. A big win.

That’s what today’s game had been. The doctor hadn’t been too sure about letting her play. Neither had her mom and dad. But she’d talked them into it, and gotten the okay she was holding her breath for. No one understood how miserable she’d been, sitting on the sidelines all summer long since she broke her arm. But it was better now. No more cast. No more pain. No reason to wait.

She’d proved that today on the playing field at Pine Lake Soccer Camp. She’d scored three out of her team’s four goals.

With a happy smile, she rolled onto her right side, reflexively protecting the left arm that had been in a cast for seven long, hateful weeks. Her smile widened as she remembered she didn’t have to do that anymore. She wriggled her fingers and bent her elbow. Free. She was finally free. And finally her team leader again.

The bedroom curtains rustled as a warm summer breeze blew in through the window. Her mom had left it halfway open before she went out. The summer air felt good. It swirled around the room. It smelled like flowers. It acted like a lullaby.

Felicity shut her eyes, her fingers still wrapped around a fold in her nightshirt. Next to her, her sister said something in her sleep and flopped onto her back. She hated sleeping alone when their parents were out. Normally Felicity liked her room to herself—sharing the same face, same hair, and same birthday with her sister was enough. But tonight she was so happy that she didn’t mind. Besides, they weren’t alone. Deidre was right down the hall, listening to her cassette player and singing along. Her voice was really awful. The two girls giggled about that all the time. But they never said anything to Deidre. She was their babysitter, and she was very bossy. She was also eighteen and starting college. That made her practically a grown-up. And their mom and dad always told them they had to be respectful of grown-ups.

Even Deidre’s bad singing wasn’t enough to keep Felicity awake. Lots of physical activity after lots of sitting around had really worn her out. She drifted off to sleep.

She didn’t see the window slide open the rest of the way. She didn’t see the silhouette of a figure climb inside and cross silently over to the bed, going straight to her sister. Nor did Felicity see the intruder force a damp handkerchief over her face. But she did hear a whimper.

Groggily, Felicity rubbed her eyes and turned over. Still half asleep, she could vaguely make out a human form dressed in a long, loose black hooded sweatshirt. The person was leaning over the other side of the bed. As Felicity watched, her sister’s whimpering stopped, and she went very still.

Felicity’s small body went rigid, and her eyes snapped open. She was suddenly and fully awake. Who was in their house?

But there was no time to find out. The intruder straightened, and a gloved hand was clamped down over Felicity’s mouth. She started to squirm, fighting with all she had. The sleeve of the sweatshirt brushed her forehead. Damp, with a funny smell. Like orange medicine.

The gloved hand lifted, and a wet handkerchief with that same orange medicine smell was pressed down on Felicity’s nose and mouth. The smell was awful. Felicity wanted to scream. She couldn’t. And she couldn’t break free.

The room started spinning. Felicity caught a glimpse of her sister. It looked like there were two of her. And Deidre’s singing sounded far away.

The stinky smelling handkerchief won.

Everything went black.




CHAPTER ONE


Manhattan, New York Present day

The bar smelled like stale beer and sweat.

Casey Woods shifted in her seat, which was situated far away from the social hub of the place. She rolled her glass between her palms. It was filled with whatever was on tap that the waiter had brought her. Taking a sip, she looked nervous but wistful among the slew of college kids milling around the East Village hangout.

She was one of those kids. Or trying to be. She was a wannabe—a shy and naive misfit, on the outside, looking in. Hungry to be welcomed into the inner circle.

She reached around and fiddled with a strand of her long red hair, which was tied back, giving her a more youthful appearance. Her gaze darted around, flickering, every so often, over her target. He was in his early thirties, perched on the first bar stool. Whenever she glanced his way, he was usually staring at her.

The time ticked by slowly. Casey made sure to openly, if shyly, eye the hunkiest-looking guys, changing her demeanor from hopeful to unsure or dejected. Every guy she focused on eventually left, either with a group of friends, or with a girl he’d hooked up with.

At just past three-thirty in the morning, the bartender started closing up, and the bar emptied out. With just a few stragglers left, Casey’s hopes for the night were ostensibly dashed. Her lashes lowered in an expression of utter defeat.

Slowly, she rose, reaching into her messenger bag for some cash. As she’d planned, the bag slid off her shoulder and plopped on the floor, contents spilling everywhere. Flushed with embarrassment, she squatted down and began stuffing things back into her bag—her wallet, makeup, and fake student ID.

From her peripheral vision, she saw the man at the end of the bar rise, toss some bills on the counter and walk out with the last few stragglers.

It was 4:00 a.m. Closing time.

Despite the pointed glare of the bartender, Casey took her time replacing the contents of her bag, rearranging them as she did. She kept her wallet out long enough to slap some bills on the table. Then she made her way to the door.

The bartender locked it behind her.

Casey sucked in her breath and turned, making sure to follow the same route she’d been taking all week. She’d set the pattern. But tonight she’d stayed at the bar later. The streets were emptier. The timing was right.

She steeled herself as she walked past the alley near Tompkins Square Park. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead.

She heard Fisher’s footsteps an instant before he grabbed her. His arm clamped around her waist, his free hand pressing a knife to her throat. Too hard. Too fast. No taunting. This was not how she’d planned it. And now he had her.

“Don’t fight. Don’t scream. Don’t even breathe. Or I’ll slit your throat.”

Casey complied. She didn’t have to fake her trembling, or the fear that stiffened her body. Silently, she talked herself down, reminding herself why she was doing this. She offered no resistance as Fisher dragged her into the alley. The psychopathic SOB shoved her down on the filthy concrete ground, kneeling over her, a glittering look of triumph in his eyes. He kept the knife at her throat, using his other hand to tear at her jeans.

The button popped. But the zipper never gave.

Marc Deveraux made sure of that.

Emerging from the shadows like a predator in the wild, he lunged at the would-be rapist with all the strength of his powerful build. He yanked Fisher’s knife-wielding arm up and away from Casey, then slammed down on his forearm until Fisher’s bones made a cracking sound and the knife clattered to the ground.

Fisher howled with pain.

“I’m just getting started,” Marc promised menacingly. He dragged Fisher up and slammed his back against the wall. “You okay?” he called out to Casey, who was scrambling to her feet.

“A hell of a lot better than I was thirty seconds ago,” she managed.

“Good.” He turned his attention back to Fisher. “Talk,” he ordered, one knee pushed into Fisher’s groin and one elbow digging into his windpipe.

“The girl came on to me,” Fisher said, then yelped, sweat beading on his forehead. “She—” His breath caught as Marc increased the pressure of his knee.

“Wrong answer. Tell me about your plans for this girl—and what you did with all the others.” He leaned closer, until his face nearly touched the other man’s. “You don’t want to know what I am or what I’m capable of. Compared to me, you’re a Girl Scout.” His elbow shoved deeper, cutting off most of Fisher’s oxygen. “Now tell me about the girls—all of them. And don’t spare any details. I’m a captive audience.”

It took longer than expected to get Fisher’s confession. It took a Navy SEAL’s thumb dug deeply into his collarbone, causing blinding pain that persisted long after the pressure was removed, and the threat that a repeat performance would increase the pain tenfold if that’s what it took to make the perp talk—assuming his neck didn’t snap first. The bastard’s cold-blooded confession had made bile rise in Casey’s throat. He might be going to jail for a long, long time, but Casey wished they were throwing away the key for good.

“I’m done here, Marc,” she told her rescuer. “Otherwise I’m going to be sick.”

“Go,” he urged quietly. “I’ll wrap things up here and head over to the precinct. The bodies will be found. Any claim of coercion will be tossed. It’s a murderer’s word against ours. The confession will stick. Go home.”

Home was a four-story Tribeca brownstone that was residence and office combined. There was no beating that. One mortgage. One place that held all her worldly possessions. And no commute. It was ideal.

Of course, she rarely made it up to the fourth floor, which was supposedly where she slept. Her bed was a casual acquaintance, if not a stranger. She virtually lived in her office. That was her choice. One she made every day. And she wasn’t sorry.

With a quick glance around the reception level, she turned left and climbed the L-shaped staircase to the second floor. Directly ahead, she’d had French doors installed—doors that led out to a balcony overlooking the manicured garden in a gated backyard. Colorful flower beds. A maze of closely trimmed shrubs. And a pair of graceful willow trees on either side, rippling in the breeze. The entire effect was both serene and eye-catching.

Pushing open the doors, Casey stepped outside for a moment, quickly shutting them behind her. She hoped the cool air would revive her. Sighing, she noted that the sun was now well above the horizon, and climbing rapidly into the sky. Her watch told her it was nine-thirty. The unofficial coercion Marc had inflicted had taken a lot longer than expected to work. To Casey, it had seemed like an eternity before they’d pulled it off and extracted a full confession from Fisher.

She could still feel the perv’s slimy hands on her. He’d really freaked her out.

With a shudder, Casey reminded herself that they had pulled it off, and gotten both—Fisher and his confession regarding the other victims. Not a pretty business. Still, the haunting, disturbing feelings inflicted by such men were the very reason she’d formed Forensic Instincts, LLC to begin with.

She walked across the balcony and reached the second set of French doors that led back into the brownstone. She held her access card up to the card reader and punched her security code into the Hirsch keypad. Pushing the doors open, she stepped inside and shut the doors behind her. No time for rest—not yet. It was time for her team’s post-op meeting.

Forensic Instincts had been just a dream at first. Now it was very much a reality.

It all started four years ago, and was still in its fledgling state. Casey had begun her quest to assemble an awesome team, with herself at the helm. Thanks to her extensive credentials working with both behavioral and psychological profilers, her innate talent at reading people, and her years of working in both law enforcement and the private sector, Casey had easily transitioned into an independent profiler. She held a master’s in Forensic Psychology from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and a bachelor’s in Psychology from Columbia. Most importantly, she was a natural at figuring out what made people tick.

Her two other team members were impressive as hell. She should know. She’d meticulously selected them. Assessed them. Recruited them. They were very different from each other. Both brought specialized capabilities to the Forensic Instincts team. The result was a growing track record of successfully solved complex criminal cases.

Their trio was unique, but still formative. Which meant they were sometimes welcomed, and other times regarded as a huge pain in the ass.

But, overall, they were earning a growing respect among law enforcement agencies and, more important, among their expanding client list. To those who hired them, they were the ultimate beacon of hope.

Her rules were few, but absolute. Unwavering loyalty, both to the company and to one another. One hundred and ten percent of themselves when they were on the job. Total candor, regardless of the cost—but only when they were behind closed doors. A low profile—which meant staunchly avoiding the limelight. As mavericks who pushed the boundaries more than conventional bureaucracy would allow, it was best to be unrecognizable. They were an eclectic trio, each of whom believed absolutely in his or her specific methods.

Three egos were involved. And none of them shy. That meant frequent debates, tons of constructive argument and—sometimes—stubborn unwillingness to budge. With the Fisher case, Casey had wanted to nail their perp by studying his interactions with college-aged women, then combining behavioral observations with her experience and sheer instinct. Marc had argued in favor of using statistics and past research to form a solid scientific base from which he’d work up a profile before going in for the kill. And Ryan was adamant about implementing game theory—getting inside Fisher’s head, figuring out his sick reasoning—where he chose to hunt, and the strategies he used to go after his prey. The twenty-eight-year-old guy was an awesome combination of technology genius and strategic thinker. He studied behavioral patterns through complex computer programming and crunching enormous amounts of raw data, and then applied it to his analysis of human dynamics.

Each team member believed fervently in his or her methods. Fortunately, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

Yes, they made quite a team—strong willed, but the best. Casey expected nothing less as she expanded the operations, and Forensic Instincts grew. Her grandfather would have been proud. She’d used her trust fund wisely and well.

Smiling faintly, she looked around. The second set of French doors had granted her entry to the second-floor conference room. It was the largest and most elaborate space in the brownstone.

As she walked in, an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long, green line formed across each panel, pulsating from left to right. Then, a soothing voice, that seemed to emanate from every cubic inch of the room, said, “Welcome back, Casey,” bending each line into the contour of the voice pattern. It continued, “Warning. Heart rate elevated.”

Casey started. She just couldn’t get used to being greeted by Yoda, the latest incarnation of Ryan McKay—Forensic Instincts’ brilliant techno-wizard—and his artificial intelligence system. Somehow the damned thing knew who was in the room. It even knew when something was out of the ordinary. Like now. No matter how many times Ryan tried to explain to her how Yoda worked, to Casey it still sounded like magic.

The conference room was pure class. Polished hardwood floors. A plush Oriental rug. An expansive mahogany conference table and matching credenza. And, most crucial of all, a technology infrastructure that was light-years ahead of its time in both design and operation, all hidden from view. Only the gigantic video wall was visible, covering the longest side of the room and allowing Ryan to assemble a dizzying array of information into a large single image or several smaller, simultaneous data feeds. Videoconferencing equipment, an elaborate phone system, and a personalized virtual workstation available to each member of the group completed the elaborate system.

And it was all controlled by Yoda, who unwaveringly responded to requests made by team members. Behind the “shock and awe” of Yoda was a server farm located in the office’s secure data center downstairs. Like a proud papa, Ryan had named their custom-built servers: Lumen, Equitas and Intueri, from the Latin words for light, justice and intuition. The names had become so much a part of Forensic Instincts that they’d incorporated them into the company logo.

Casey still found herself awed by the sophistication, power and pervasiveness of the technology. Truthfully, she didn’t understand the half of how it worked. But Ryan did. And that was all that mattered.

Heading across the hardwood floor, Casey paused at the edge of the rug, then pulled back a chair and sat down at the long, oval conference table.

Leaning back, she called out, “Yoda, please show me TV news.”

“Would you like world news, national news or local news?” Yoda inquired pleasantly.

“Local.”

“CBS, NBC, Fox, ABC or all?” Yoda asked.

“All.”

Yoda carried out her command by simultaneously showing all four channels, each occupying one-fourth of the wall.

Casey pivoted her chair around so she had a direct view. Staring intently, she tugged off the hair band she’d worn tonight, shook out her long red mane and combed her fingers through the tangled strands. When Glen Fisher appeared on the Fox News screen, she instructed, “Yoda, Fox News full screen.”

Instantly, Glen Fisher filled the entire wall. He was sweating and agitated, and quickly bent forward to hide his face as the cameras zoomed in on him being hauled out of the alley and into the squad car.

It was a media feeding frenzy. The female newscaster on the scene was superanimated, as excited about delivering the story as she was upset by its occurrence. Casey read the signs on her face, heard them in her voice, saw them in her body language. Acute energy—but mixed reasons for it. Chin held high, back ramrod straight, eyes bright with pride, but flickering away every now and then—she was already executing the steps necessary for her next promotion. But she felt guilty with her methods. She was a woman. Capitalizing on the violations and murders of other women wasn’t sitting well with her.

She was talking way too quickly, rambling on about Fisher’s shocking crimes, being sure to exaggerate all the colorful details—like the fact that he had a twisted, obsessive mind despite having had a stable childhood and an equally stable adult life. A decent job in a difficult economy. A wife who was devoted to him, though oblivious to the monster she was married to. And a lovely apartment in Manhattan, with neighbors who had no idea of the danger and depravity living among them. Even worse, he’d somehow found a way to elude the NYPD for months, staying so invisible that he wasn’t even a blip on their radar, much less a suspect. Astonishing that it had taken the uncanny initiative of a young private organization like Forensic Instincts to zero in on Glen Fisher, and to set things in motion so this day of reckoning could come.

Irked by the melodramatic presentation and the digs at the NYPD, Casey cursed out loud and curled her hands into fists, making her nails bite into her palms. She was taking this whole case way too personally, which was unusual for her. But there were reasons for her lack of objectivity—what Fisher had done brought back memories that made her sick.

“Like the proverbial fly in the spider’s web,” said a masculine voice, interrupting her thoughts. “Clearly, you made the ideal bait.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Casey watched as her trusty backup and fellow team member Marc Deveraux strolled into the room, eyeing the newscast and making a quick mental assessment. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face, just an icy satisfaction in his eyes. Marc was Special Ops to the core.

He was also Casey’s most heavily credentialed recruit—former FBI, former Behavioral Analysis Unit, former Navy SEAL. His heritage was diverse: Asian grandparents on his mother’s side, and an extensive French lineage on his father’s. As a result, he spoke three additional languages fluently: Mandarin, French and Spanish. With such a desirable, multifaceted background, Marc had been snatched up by the Bureau. At thirty-nine, he’d done it all and he’d done it fast. He was the sexy, brooding type—single and happy to stay that way. Most of all, when it came to the job, he was the real deal.

“I had an endless cosmetic makeover to become that ideal bait,” Casey informed him. “You have no idea.”

“A makeover?” Marc repeated with dry humor. “I’d sooner guess an acting coach. The thought of you as a socially inept wallflower … that’s a reach.”

“Very funny, smart-ass. But I haven’t been eighteen in a long time. I needed a professional makeup artist to wind back the clock.”

“Nope.” Marc was never one to mince words. “For authenticity, all you needed to do was put on some teenage face gunk, and pull your hair back with a rubber band. Trust me, the rest of you worked. Just ask the horny frat boys ogling you. I saw them. I know the drill. If you hadn’t been playing the scared virgin, they would have been on line to score.”

“Sounds like you had a front-row seat.”

“I did.”

Casey shook her head in amazement. “I never even saw you.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m good at making myself invisible. And at making sure no one’s invisible to me. Including horny frat boys who—”

“Okay, enough on that subject,” Case interrupted, bringing the topic to a quick close. She was in no mood to be razzed. Actually, she was more interested in giving Marc the praise he deserved. “Let’s get to you. However you pulled it off, your timing was perfect. The delivery was terrifying. Even I almost lost it when you charged into that alley with murder in your eyes. And I have to admit I enjoyed watching Fisher freak out and humiliate himself—wetting his pants while he spilled his guts. It doesn’t get any better than that, catching the psycho and extracting a full confession. Kudos.”

Marc pulled back the chair beside Casey and dropped into it, folding his hands behind his head. “Sorry things got so ugly before I got everything I needed.”

“No apology necessary. It’s what the cops ‘unofficially’ asked us to do.”

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones who had Fisher’s knife at their throats and his hands ripping off their jeans.”

“Let’s drop it, okay?”

Marc shot her a quick sideways look. Then he pivoted toward the TV, watching and listening to the details he already knew firsthand. Three redheaded college girls, all reported missing, now found raped and murdered. Three seedy pickup bars with alleys half a block away. Girls who hung out at bars hoping for normal college experiences, but who always left solo.

Through Fisher’s confession, additional unknown victims had been identified and their bodies recovered. They were all kids new to Manhattan, either visitors or transfer students. Girls Fisher had done just enough research on to know that they had no friends or families to report them missing, but all of whom matched the descriptions of the known victims.

Marc blew out his breath. He was glad this case was solved. He hoped Fisher rotted in his cell. Now it was time to move on.

To Marc, moving on meant getting a few hours’ sleep, and then—before the next case descended on the team—enjoying some recreation time. And that meant recapturing the adrenaline rush of his days as a SEAL by taking on extreme sports that other people would consider insane. His current favorite was BASE jumping—the acronym of which said it all. Buildings, antennae, spans and earth—all the wildly dangerous fixed objects that Marc would plummet from, not just for the thrills, but for the knowledge that he could master the precarious free fall before opening his parachute and floating to the ground.

Eager to get going, Marc shifted restlessly in his chair. “Where’s Ryan?” he asked. “Down in his lair?”

“Nope. Upstairs. Right behind you. Ready to wrap things up so we can call it a day.” With that announcement, Ryan McKay strode into the room. The complete antithesis of every computer geek stereotype, he was not only a technical genius, he was also a gym rat, who worked out two hours each morning and whose athletic prowess included being a mountain biking pro and running ultramarathons—his preferred ones being in Death Valley and the Moroccan desert. Thanks to Marc, he’d recently earned his skydiving certification and was enthusiastically starting to join him for several of his sports.

Besides his six-pack abs, Ryan was tall and broad shouldered and boasted those smoldering Black Irish looks that made women drool. The ironic part was that the gushing types and the lavish attention-givers irked the crap out of him. In fact, the very few women Ryan found the time for, and cared to pursue, were strong, independent and unimpressed with his physical attributes and accomplishments.

“Good,” Casey greeted him. “Does that mean you’ve left your precious robots long enough to deliver our visual wrap-up?”

“No robots. Not this time. I was testing our new digitally encrypted wireless communication system. So far, so good.” Ryan was already setting himself up at the touch-screen. His presentation would highlight the case details and emphasize areas that could impact future investigations, something he did at the conclusion of every case.

He lowered himself into a chair, shooting Casey a quick glance.

Like Marc, Ryan knew about their boss’s past. And, like Marc, Ryan knew that, whether or not she admitted it, this was exactly the kind of case that would bother her.

The room had grown deathly silent. There was nothing to say, and Ryan wouldn’t insult Casey by trying.

Casey jerked awake from a fitful sleep filled with violence and nightmares, startled by the ring tone of her cell phone. Her gaze fell on the clock. Four-thirty in the afternoon. A perfectly normal time to call someone—assuming that someone hadn’t been awake for over fifty hours. She wished she’d turned off the damned phone before going to bed.

Well, she hadn’t. And now she was awake so she might as well answer.

She leaned over and picked up the phone.

The last thing Casey Woods wanted right then was another gut-wrenching case.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what she got.




CHAPTER TWO


White Plains, New York Day One

Family Court Judge Hope Willis had finished up the last case on her docket, made her ruling and dismissed the court. She was in and out of her chambers in minutes, pausing only long enough to shrug out of her judicial robe, gather some files and say a few words to her court clerk. Then, having made the transition from judge to mom, she blew out of the office and exited the building in record time.

She hurried through the parking garage, delighted to be on her way home earlier than usual. She’d actually get to spend some time with Krissy—hearing about her day at kindergarten, helping her with her homework and just seizing the opportunity to be silly together.

That was a rarity these days. Since Sophia Wolfe, the other family court judge in White Plains, had transferred, Hope’s caseload had increased. So had her hours, thanks to the fact that Claudia, her former court clerk, had broken up with her fiancé. She’d then weirded out on Hope, becoming difficult and snappish, and so out of it that she kept screwing up the docket. Because of their long history together, Hope had given her scads more chances until, finally, she’d had to let her go. Training a new clerk was brutal, and taking up far too much time and effort. There was only so much of Hope to go around.

Which meant that her hours with Krissy were limited.

And Edward? Talk about a strained marriage, and an equally strained family unit. Hope’s husband was almost never home. A defense attorney for a large, prestigious law firm with offices in both Midtown Manhattan and in White Plains, he worked obscene hours. In fact, other than an occasional and unplanned meeting in the courthouse, Hope seldom saw her husband, and Krissy saw him even less.

There was a definite void there. So today was about Hope spending quality time with her five-year-old.

She’d hurried through the parking lot, slid behind the wheel of her GMC Acadia and driven off toward Route 287 and their Armonk home.

Naturally, there was traffic. These days, getting out of White Plains was almost as bad as getting out of Manhattan.

Hope crawled along, finally reaching the highway, where she took advantage of the opportunity to rapidly accelerate. Eager to get home, she exited 287 and cruised onto Route 684 North.

It was at that precise moment that Hope’s life changed forever.

Everything might have been different.

If Hope had glanced out her window. If she’d spotted the other SUV passing by, headed in the opposite direction. If she’d seen the small passenger in the backseat, slapping and yanking at the door handle in an attempt to escape—and failing, the door secured with a childproof lock.

If …

But Hope did none of these. Her mind was on getting home to Krissy.

So, like two ships passing in the night, the two SUVs went their separate ways. Hope never saw the other driver. And the other driver never saw her.

Focused on the road, Hope had no way of knowing what she’d missed, or how close she’d come to averting the hell that was about to begin.

She was almost at the Armonk exit when her cell phone rang. A quick glance at the navigation system display told her that it was Liza Bock calling. Hope frowned. Liza’s daughter, Olivia, was in Krissy’s kindergarten class. And it had been Liza’s turn to drive the afternoon car pool that day.

With a mother’s sense of unease, Hope pressed the button that connected the call. “Liza?”

“Oh, Hope, thank goodness I reached you. I was afraid you’d still be at work.” Liza’s agitated tone did nothing to calm the growing distress knotting Hope’s gut.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Is Krissy with you?”

“With me?” Waves of panic. “Of course not. I assumed you’d picked her up after school today, and dropped her home with Ashley.” Ashley was the Willises’ nanny, and had been since Krissy was born.

“She’s not.” Liza’s voice was trembling now. “I just spoke to Ashley. She was very worried, so she called me. Krissy’s not there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I got to school, the kids all said you’d picked her up,” Liza explained. “I double-checked with the faculty members on bus duty, and they confirmed. Everyone saw Krissy leave the school, and everyone heard her call out, ‘My mommy’s here!’ and run to your car. They recognized your silver Acadia. It never occurred to them … or to me …”

“Are you saying Krissy’s gone?” Hope could hardly breathe.

“I don’t know. I called all the other kids’ houses. No one’s seen her. I don’t understand.”

“Liza, hang up and call the police. Tell them what happened. I’m calling Edward.” Hope disconnected the call.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived home to mass pandemonium. Cops. Friends. Neighbors. Ashley, weeping when she ran up to Hope and announced that Mr. Willis had spoken with the U.S. Attorney, who’d contacted the FBI. As a result, specialized agents were on their way, both to the house and to Krissy’s school. Local police were already at the school, questioning everyone, including all the car pool parents, who’d been summoned back to the crime scene.

Hope barely heard her nanny’s words. She pushed past everyone—including the cops who were clearly waiting for her to show up so they could talk to her—and raced upstairs. She ignored the yellow tape that read “Do Not Cross,” ducked under it and burst into Krissy’s bedroom.

Pristine. Nothing disturbed. Nothing missing.

Nothing anyone else would notice. Only Krissy’s mother. She noticed.

Oreo, Krissy’s beloved stuffed panda, was gone. She slept with it every night, and left it on the center of the bed, covered by a tiny fleece blanket, while she was at school.

Hope raced over to the bed and flung the pillows aside. Then, she dropped to her knees, peering under the bed to see if the panda had toppled beneath it. She groped around, praying. When she found nothing, she tore off the comforter and sheets, shaking them out like a wild animal. Nothing. She began rummaging through the closet. She opened the bureau drawers and dumped clothes onto the rug.

“Judge Willis—stop it! We’ve sealed off this room.” Officer Krauss, a member of Armonk’s North Castle Police Department, hurried in. Having overheard the commotion coming from Krissy’s bedroom, he sized up the situation, stalked over to Hope and blocked her frantic motions with his forearm. “You’re contaminating personal items that could lead us to your daughter. We need her linens, her clothes—whatever we can use to find her. We also need you to provide us with a recent photo, a description of what she was wearing today, a full health history—and any information that might tell us who abducted her. We need you to focus and talk to us, not go ballistic.”

Hope shoved his arm away and whirled around, whipping her head back and forth. “Talk to you? You’re supposed to be finding my child. Why are you all here instead of combing the streets looking for Krissy? She’s only been gone an hour. Now is the time to find her—before it’s too late. You need her personal things? Take whatever you want. Photos, yesterday’s clothes, her toothbrush. Check her comforter for prints. I doubt there’ll be any. This SOB is too smart not to wear gloves. But try. And what about Krissy’s school? That’s where she was abducted. Did the outdoor cameras pick up anything? Do you know anything?”

“Nothing from the security cameras. But we have an entire team interviewing every member of the faculty.” Krauss narrowed his eyes and stared at Hope. “But I have to wonder why you’re tearing Krissy’s bedroom apart and insisting we check her comforter for fingerprints, when you yourself just said she was kidnapped from her school. What aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothing you shouldn’t already have figured out!” Hope snapped back. “This was no random kidnapping. It was meticulously planned. For God knows how long. Obviously, the monster who abducted my baby researched the make, model and color of my car so he could pass it off as mine. He also took the time to study Krissy, and to learn what meant the most to her. Then he got his hands on it, and used it to dupe her into getting into that car with him….”

“What did he get his hands on—specifically?”

“That’s why I’m tearing up her room. To find it. But it’s gone….” Hope’s voice cracked as she stared at the overturned bedding. “He was here. Today. But not to take Krissy. To take.” Hope buried her face in her hands.

Before Krauss could demand that she finish her sentence, Edward swung his legs over the tape and strode into the room.

“Hope?” His gaze darted wildly around, as if by visually covering every square inch of the bedroom, he’d spot his child. “What have you found out?” He turned to the cop. “Officer …?”

“Krauss,” the other man supplied.

“Officer Krauss,” Edward echoed. “Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

Krauss didn’t ask why Edward Willis assumed this was a ransom case. He just filed the information away for later and shook his head. “No contact whatsoever. But it’s early.”

“Early?” Edward snapped. “We’re not talking about a morning stroll. My five-year-old daughter’s life is at stake.”

“We’re aware of that, sir. Our sergeant and two officers are at your daughter’s school, as are detectives from the Westchester County Police and FBI agents from the White Plains Resident Agency. They’re all questioning Krissy’s teacher, principal and the entire staff. More FBI agents from Violent Crimes are on their way over here to join us locals. So is the county’s CSI team. We’ll comb through your house for clues, and branch out to widen the investigation.”

“I called the U.S. Attorney. He alerted the FBI’s New York Field Office,” Edward announced. “I also made my own personal call to the field office. I have a contact there who specializes in Crimes Against Children.”

“That wasn’t necessary, sir. As I said, we notified the FBI to request their assistance as soon as we got Mrs. Bock’s call. They were already aware of the situation. The hotline reached the local RA, who contacted the CAC squad in New York. Their Assistant Director in Charge contacted FBI Headquarters, and requested a Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team. That team is en route. So is the team from the New York Field Office. They’ll be setting up an off-site command post, and working with us to safely recover your daughter. Plus, an Amber Alert’s been issued.”

“What about the NCIC Missing Person File?” Edward pressed on, referring to the National Crime Information Center’s entries. “Did you—”

“An entry was made immediately,” Krauss interrupted quietly. “Being an attorney, sir, and familiar with the law, I’m sure you’re aware that there’s no waiting period in a child kidnapping. Our police department may not be the size of the NYPD, but we know our jobs. And we do them—well.”

Krauss’s point struck home, and, abruptly, Edward realized what an overbearing tyrant he was being. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to attack you. But under the circumstances …”

“I understand. You’re going through hell.”

“Ed.” Hope interrupted, clutching her husband’s forearms. “Who would do this? Who took our baby?”

“I don’t know.” He drew Hope closer in a protective gesture. “But we’ll find out. And we’ll bring Krissy home.” Again, his gaze swept the room. “Who trashed her bedroom?”

“I did.”

Ed drew back, his brows knit in confusion. “I don’t understand. You told me Krissy disappeared at school. That she was taken right after the bell. So why …?”

“Your wife was about to answer that very question for me,” Officer Krauss interceded. “We checked this room out first, before we sealed it off for the Westchester County Forensic Investigation Unit. Everything seemed to be in order and completely untouched—at least until your wife turned the place upside down. Your nanny confirmed that she arrived right after you left this morning so she could do the laundry, bake cookies for your daughter’s after-school snack, and catch up on her own studying. She assured us that no one was at the house, or in this room, today.”

“Ashley’s wrong,” Hope countered. “So are the police.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “Whoever took Krissy was in this room. Today. During the time that Krissy was in school. Ed—” she turned to command her husband’s attention “—I looked everywhere. Oreo’s gone.”

His gaze snapped back to the bed. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. He and his blanket are both missing. The kidnapper must have come specifically to get them.”

“Dammit.” With a hard swallow, Edward turned to explain to Krauss. “Oreo is my daughter’s stuffed bear.”

“Panda,” Hope corrected.

“Panda. She drags him all over the house. The only time she puts him down is when she goes to school. Then, she covers him with a little blanket. It’s …” He paused to think.

“Lavender fleece,” Hope supplied. “It came with one of her dolls. She gave it to Oreo. She said she was afraid he’d get cold when she went to school and wasn’t there to hug him, so she tucked him in every day … on her bed….” With that, Hope finally, completely broke down. She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Edward touched his wife’s shoulder, but she backed away, wrapping her arms around herself in a determined attempt to withstand this emotional ordeal on her own. Still weeping, she drew inward, seeking comfort where none existed.

It was like reliving a nightmare. Only worse. Now she was grown. And now the victim was her child, her precious little girl.

Officer Krauss was scribbling notes onto a pad. “You’re sure the bear was here when Krissy left for school?”

“Positive,” Hope managed. “I saw him when I came in to get Krissy’s jacket. She was already waiting for me at the front door. We were running late. I took her directly to school. She never went back upstairs.”

“Which means she never reentered her bedroom.” Krauss double-checked the bedroom windows. “As I said earlier, no sign of forced entry.” He was already heading for the door. “My men and I will recheck the security system and every door and window in the house. Then, I’ll need those personal items and information we talked about.”

There was a long silence when Hope and Edward were alone.

“The FBI should be here any minute,” he said at last.

“I’m sure they will. They’ll set up Command Central, waiting for a ransom call, while they grill us. They’ll start with our relationship, since we’re Krissy’s parents and the primary suspects. Then, they’ll move on to every human being who holds a grudge against us—which will take days, given our careers. Meanwhile, Krissy’s out there somewhere. Scared. Alone. And God knows what else.” Hope’s hand was shaking as she whipped out her cell phone. “So, yes, I’m glad we have the police and the FBI on board. But it’s not enough.” She punched in directory assistance.

“Who are you calling?”

“Forensic Instincts.”

Edward blinked. “The profilers?”

“Yes,” Hope confirmed. “You know their track record. It’s unbelievable. Five cases. Five successes. They find criminals. Serial killers. Rapists. And kidnappers. They’re on the fast track. And they don’t have a dozen other cases they have to work at the same time.”

A scowl. “We should check with the FBI first. What if the involvement of an independent organization puts Krissy in more danger?”

“It won’t.” Hope was talking so fast she was tripping on her words. “I’ve followed their work. They know just how to handle things. Your friends at the FBI might not like it, but I don’t give a damn.” A hard look at Edward as her index finger hovered over the send button. “I’ve been through this nightmare before. I’m not losing Krissy.”

“I know what you went through. But you can’t compare the two traumas. It’s over three decades. Law enforcement’s capabilities have grown by leaps and bounds.”

“I don’t care. I can’t survive this again. Especially not when it comes to my daughter.”

“I understand. But—”

“Look, Edward, three decades ago or not, some things haven’t changed. Like the fact that an investigation can remain active for only so long. The last time the case went cold after two years. I’m not chancing that again. Not with my baby. Don’t bother arguing with me. I’m doing this. I’ll get them to drop anything they’re doing. I’ll pay them whatever fee they ask for.” Hope was finished waiting. She punched the green button and put the call through.

“In Manhattan, I need the number for Forensic Instincts, LLC.” Hope reached for a pad and pen.

“Fine. If you feel that strongly about it, go ahead,” Edward reluctantly conceded. “But I want them working with law enforcement. Not independently.”

“If that’s possible, great. If not—” Hope shrugged, scribbling down the number. Having gotten what she wanted, she disconnected the call, and began furiously punching in the telephone number. “The truth is, I don’t give a damn about the cops’ or the FBI’s internal politics. I don’t give a damn about anything—except getting Krissy home safe and sound. So if Forensic Instincts’ methods are too unconventional to suit you—hello?” Hope put her lips to the mouthpiece, her throat working as she spoke. “Is this Casey Woods?”

“Speaking,” a weary voice answered. “And this is …?”

“My name is Hope Willis. Judge Hope Willis. I live in Armonk. An hour and a half ago, my five-year-old daughter was kidnapped from her elementary school. The police are here. So is the FBI. But the minutes are ticking by. And the suspect list is way too long for them to tackle alone.”

“Really. And why is that?”

“Because I’m a family court judge, and my husband is a criminal defense attorney. We’ve racked up more grudge-holders and enemies than we can recall. We’ll try to compile a list, but it’ll be long. Plus, there are special circumstances involved that make this even more unbearable. I need to hire Forensic Instincts. Now. On an exclusive basis.”

There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the phone.

Special circumstances. An interesting and succinct choice of words. Plus, Casey could hear the repressed note in Judge Willis’s tone. The woman might be going through hell, but she was clearly holding something back. Half-assed candor didn’t fly for her—no matter how dire the circumstances.

“I’m terribly sorry about your daughter,” Casey responded. “But my team and I are just coming off a very intense, draining investigation, and we have other cases that have been back-burnered because of that, and now require our attention. I’m sure the FBI and the police will be on top of—”

“They’re not enough,” Hope interrupted. “I need more than conventional methods. We can’t afford to waste a second. Please. You know how crucial these first three hours are.”

“Yes,” Casey replied soberly. “I do.” And they’re slipping away, she mentally noted.

“Then will you come? I’ll do anything. Pay anything. Follow your instructions to a tee.” The last semblance of Hope’s facade cracked. “Please, Ms. Woods. I’m begging you. Find my baby.”

Casey had to cave. And not just because this case would mean big bucks for the company. But because instinct told her that the honesty and trust would come when they met in person. If not, the team would walk.

For now, a five-year-old child was missing.

“Okay. Stay calm. We’ll do everything we can,” she assured Hope, her entire demeanor softening. “Hang on.” A rustle as she snatched up a Post-it and pen. “Give me your address. Then give us an hour.”




CHAPTER THREE


Forensic Instincts showed up at the Willis house at the same time as the FBI. Watching them pull into the driveway, Casey immediately recognized the four special agents who’d been contacted and deployed by the Crimes Against Children Unit at FBI Headquarters in D.C. They were one of the two Child Abduction Rapid Deployment teams in the Northeast, and consisted of specially trained agents from several different field offices, each of whom had dropped everything and taken off the instant they’d been contacted. Aware of how crucial these first postabduction hours were, the CARD team was here to assist C-20, the New York Field Office’s CAC squad, in tracking down Krissy Willis and bringing her home.

The team members now jumping out of their car consisted of Supervisory Special Agent Don Owens, and Special Agents Will Dugan, Guy Adams and Jack McHale. And Casey knew exactly which of them would be smiling at the sight of her team’s arrival, and which of them would be exceedingly pissed off to see them.

“Hey, Don.” As she climbed out of the driver’s seat, Casey waved at the seasoned agent who had to be nearing fifty-seven and mandatory retirement. He was hard-core, married to the Bureau, and yet he was more open-minded about Casey’s team than some of the younger squad members. Go figure.

“Casey Woods. Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Owens acknowledged her with a slight smile, his trim gray mustache curving with his lips. “I’m lucky I sped to Logan, and that my shuttle flight from Boston arrived early. Otherwise, you would have already set up the FBI’s Command Post and canvassed half the neighborhood.”

“Damn straight,” Ryan muttered under his breath.

Casey rolled her eyes. Ryan was cranky. He hadn’t gotten any of the sleep he’d anticipated after closing the last case. Functioning on zero rest was Casey’s specialty. She could operate on empty and make it seem full. She was able to push past her fatigue and get the job done. And Marc was a Navy SEAL to the core. He could run on sheer adrenaline. So Ryan was the cheese who stood alone. He was a royal pain in the ass when he went without sleep. At times like this, barring essential needs to communicate, Casey and Marc avoided him like the plague.

“This place is going to be a circus,” Ryan continued to mumble. “The CARD team. The Feds. The county police. The locals. Can’t we send them all back to their desks?” A grunt. “You know, leave us alone…. I’ll hack into the little girl’s computer. Casey, you can run down the list of suspects, interrogate the right ones. Marc can beat the crap out of the scumbag who did this. Then you’ll size up his reactions until we figure out where he hid the poor kid. And Krissy Willis will be safe in her own bed before the miserable prick who took her can do his worst. After that, we can all go home and crash.”

Before Casey could reply, Ryan spied the tall, slender woman who was squatting down just outside the Willises’ garage. Her brow was furrowed in intense concentration, and her delicate fingers were gliding over the streamers that dangled from the handlebars of what was clearly a little girl’s bicycle.

“Oh, great,” Ryan complained more loudly. “Look who’s here. It’s Claire-voyant—the cops’ favorite psychic, doing her thing. Now, we’ll be grilling suspects, and she’ll be clutching Krissy Willis’s dirty socks trying to get up in her head. I can hardly wait.”

Casey stifled a smile. Claire Hedgleigh—Claire-voyant, as Ryan insisted on calling her—was a noted, self-described intuitive who consulted with several police departments, using her special skills to help solve cases. Casey and her team had crossed paths with her on a couple of cases. And Casey was more than impressed. She’d done extensive background research on Claire, both educationally and professionally.

Academically, Claire held a master’s degree in Human Development and another in Transformative Theory and Practices. In addition, she had teaching accreditation from schools in the U.S., England and Australia in everything from psychic development to metaphysical sciences. And professionally, she had an A+ reputation and a three-year track record with the police. She was so good, in fact, that Casey was determined to lure her over to Forensic Instincts. She’d be a great addition to the team—once Casey broke the news to Ryan and pried the chip off his scientific shoulder. Instinct told her it wouldn’t be as hard a sell as Ryan pretended. He and Claire interacted in a way that only masqueraded as combat. But both Marc and Casey recognized it as a smoke screen for something more.

At this point, Claire was rising to her feet. Tall and willowy, with pale blond hair and light gray eyes, Claire had a gentle, ethereal quality about her that suited her calling. Now, she released the bicycle handlebars, brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and spotted them. An exasperated expression crossed her face when she saw Ryan. Clearly, she was not in the mood for a verbal sparring match. And Ryan was practically vibrating to start one.

Casey’s grin widened. An electrically charged tête-à-tête was definitely on the horizon. And Casey and Marc had already placed their bets on a timeline—and an outcome—for that.

For now, some barbed banter would be fine with her. The moments of levity would feel good. More than good. It would be like Novocain before a root canal. Because the latter was what they were about to walk into. Child abductions were among the toughest crimes to swallow.

“Play nice, Ryan,” she said drily as they approached the garage. “Claire knows what she’s doing. So don’t give her too much crap.”

“Who? Me?” he replied with mock innocence.

“Yeah. You look like a lion who’s been prodded with a sharp stick. Relax. You can go back and hole up in your lair as soon as we get the lay of the land here.” Casey reached Claire and stopped. “Hi, Claire. You’re working this case?”

A friendly nod. “And, obviously, so are you. Anything I can do to help out, let me know.”

Ryan made a derisive sound. “I think we’ll rely on science. Messages from inanimate objects just don’t cut it, at least not for me. But thanks anyway, Claire-voyant.”

“Ah, Ryan. More obnoxious than usual, I see. What happened? Did you forget your Batman lunch box?”

“Ignore him,” Casey advised. “He hasn’t slept in a few days.”

“Well, that explains it.” Claire looked more amused than bothered—which pissed Ryan off even more. “Thanks for the news flash. I’ll consider myself forewarned.”

With that, she headed into the house. “Time to commune with inanimate objects,” she called over her shoulder. “You’d be surprised how much talking they do—in a world that’s realer than cyberspace.”

Ryan definitely had an answer for that one, but he pressed his lips together and refrained from spouting it, as he, Casey and Marc reached the CARD team.

“So, the Willises hired you already.” Special Agent Guy Adams looked even more unhappy than Ryan about the prospect of working together. Adams was a trained hostage negotiator, in his mid-thirties, sharp, and as competitive as Ryan and Marc. And he had little regard for approaches other than those he’d learned through the Bureau—least of all Forensic Instincts and their out-of-the-box methods.

“Is that a problem?” Marc asked in a cool, probing tone.

“Not as long as you don’t overstep.”

“We’re here to work with you, Guy. You and C-20.” Casey nipped the tension in the bud. “We all want the same thing—to bring Krissy Willis home, safe and with as little trauma as possible. So let’s not turn this into a pissing match.”

“Our special agents are already inside,” Guy informed her, purposely sidestepping her attempt at detente. “The New York Field Office sent Harrington and Barkley. They’re with the parents now, working on the Child Victim Background Questionnaire. The rest of the New York team is at Krissy’s school, along with a couple of agents from the White Plains RA. Harrington and Barkley are about to debrief us. Harrington is lead case agent on this one.”

“Good choices,” Casey replied.

“Glad you approve.”

“I do.” Casey ignored his sarcasm. She was mulling over the agents she was about to deal with in the Willis home. Peg Harrington and Ken Barkley were both seasoned agents who’d been working CAC cases for over a decade. They were intelligent, and they were self-assured—which meant they didn’t trip over fragile egos. That made working with them tenable. And having Peg at the helm would be great. She was cool under pressure and effective as hell.

“Did your clients supply you with all the facts?” Guy was asking Casey.

She wiggled her hand in an ambivalent gesture. “I checked in with Hope Willis from my car. I got the basics. Anyone happen to catch the license plate on the Acadia the kidnapper was driving? “

“Just a letter or two. Nothing solid to go on. The cops put out an APB. So far, nothing’s turned up. They also notified the Westchester hotline, issued an Amber Alert and entered the case into the NCIC. Officers are at both scenes—here and at the child’s school, along with the county police and CSI.”

It dawned on Casey that Guy was being unusually chatty and informative, given his preliminary hostility. She glanced past him, and spotted McHale and Dugan head into the house. So that was Guy’s plan. To keep her talking while the rest of the CARD team agents joined their C-20 counterparts and got a jump start on the case.

She had to admire their tenacious attempt to outmaneuver her, even if it had been feeble. She also had to admit she’d have done the same thing in their place. The fact was, C-20 had every right to run the show. They were law enforcement; she and her team weren’t.

Nonetheless, she was getting into the house and meeting the Willises. The FBI couldn’t deny her that—they were her clients. The truth was, she didn’t just want to meet them, she wanted to study them. She needed to know what Hope Willis was holding back. And she needed to get a firsthand look at how Hope and Edward Willis were coping—both individually and as a couple—with these initial hours after their five-year-old child’s abduction.

Body language was a powerful revealer.

The FBI and the police had already conducted official interviews with the Willises, and were about to turn their efforts toward debriefing the CARD team. The usual procedure. Eliciting the usual response from Forensic Instincts. While the doors were firmly shut in their faces, they’d take full advantage of the opportunity to get information from their surroundings and the people in them. Each of Casey’s team members would accomplish this in his or her unique way.

“Playtime’s over, Guy,” Casey stated bluntly. “You can shut us out of your debriefing sessions, but you can’t shut us out of the house. Hope Willis hired us. We’re going in to meet her and her husband. We’ll be discreet. And we won’t interfere with your investigation.”

“That’s fine,” Don said, though with a bit of a sigh. “Any insights you glean would be a welcome addition to our efforts. We’re talking about the life of a five-year-old little girl. I’ve got a granddaughter that age. Let’s pool our resources and solve this one—successfully.”

“Agreed.” Casey gestured for her group to follow Don and Guy inside. This was great. They’d made peace with the CARD team supervisor. Barkley and Harrington had worked with them a lot, and they respected them. Ditto for the Violent Crimes squad in White Plains, and the Westchester County Police.

“Sweet,” Marc murmured quietly. “Now we just have the locals to convince. Unfortunately, that’s the hardest part.”

There was no argument from his coworkers. The locals, especially the smaller precincts, were often skeptical of what and who they didn’t know. Some were also determined to prove themselves, which made them territorial and leery of Forensic Instincts’ independent status.

“We might get resistance, but we won’t get beginners,” Ryan said. He’d done a brief computer search on the North Castle P.D. “They’re pretty solid.”

Marc edged him an inquisitive look. “What did you find out?”

“They’re got a retention rate that’s sky-high. Their cops and detectives just stay on. They like their jobs. They’re well trained and dedicated. There’s not a lot of major criminal activity for them to deal with—mostly car and house break-ins. But they’re ready for big stuff, too. They’ve got an impressive Emergency Service Unit. It’s been around for over a dozen years. They’ve also got a strong community spirit. They take care of their own.”

“Sounds good,” Marc responded. “Unless they’re insular and uncooperative.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Casey nodded. Best possible scenario. Best investigators. Best police support.

Now if she only knew what Hope Willis was hiding.

* * *

Hope was in the living room of her sprawling house, pacing around and tucking strands of blond hair behind her ears in erratic, repetitive motions, when Casey first laid eyes on her.

It took about ten seconds for Casey to feel convinced. The woman with the haunted eyes and the inability to sit still had had nothing to do with her daughter’s disappearance.

Edward Willis was a little tougher to read. Stiff by nature, Willis was a polished attorney who was accustomed to hiding behind a well-established veneer. But beneath that veneer a fine tension rippled the surface. Just as there was obvious tension between him and his wife. Physical and emotional distance. Separate entities instead of one frantic unit. Edward was edgy, and way too knowledgeable about the law not to know he was a suspect.

Casey walked directly over to the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Willis? I’m Casey Woods.”

Instantly, Hope stopped pacing. She closed the gap between herself and Casey. “There’s been no word,” she blurted out. “No ransom note. No phone call. Not even a threatening email.” Hope looked helplessly from Casey to the FBI agents she’d just spoken to, to the CARD team now moving in. “Does that mean he’s hurting her? Worse? If he doesn’t want money, what else could he want besides … oh God.” Hope drew a few sharp breaths, her features contorting with fear.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Judge Willis.” Don stepped in front of Casey and introduced himself, keeping his voice quiet and calm. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Don Owens. These are Special Agents Will Dugan, Guy Adams and Jack McHale. We’re part of a specially trained child recovery team. We’re here to help find your daughter. Have you given Special Agents Barkley and Harrington, as well as the police, a full description and photos of Krissy, along with clothing samples …?”

“Yes.” Edward Willis moved to his wife’s side. “Thank you for coming, Agent Owens. I’m Edward Willis, Krissy’s father. In answer to your question, we filled out a background questionnaire. We gave the police and the FBI a preliminary list of neighbors, friends, relatives, Krissy’s friends, classmates and teachers—and we’re working on a list of all of Hope’s and my potential enemies. We also provided the photo and clothing you just mentioned, along with Krissy’s comb and toothbrush, and all the details of the abduction that we have—which aren’t many. What else can we do?”

“Make yourselves available for whatever’s necessary,” Don replied. “Media broadcasts. Following our lead when we ask you to prolong any phone calls we’re recording. Working with us to separate what’s real from what’s bogus as the public starts to communicate potential leads. Which they will. Some through our hotlines. Some through the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Some through tips to law enforcement. You’ll both be required to submit to polygraph tests. I assure you, it’s routine. Don’t be insulted—just do it. Eliminating suspects can be as important as pursuing them. And, most of all, have faith.”

“Pursuit,” Hope echoed, reminded for the umpteenth time of the potential flight risk involved. “What about roadblocks?”

“Taken care of county-wide and beyond,” Don assured her. “And highway patrols are combing the area. Trust me, Judge Willis. We all know what we’re doing.”

Hope nodded, lowering her eyes as tears slid down her cheeks.

It was clear from the expression on Don’s face that he empathized with Hope’s fears. It was also clear that he knew there was only one way to alleviate them.

“If you’ll excuse me, my team needs to be debriefed,” he informed her. “The quicker the better. That way we won’t lose a minute. What room can we use?”

“My home office,” Hope said at once. She pointed. “It’s down the hall, second door to your right. The other FBI agents are in there with the police. There’s a conference table and more than enough chairs.”

With a brief nod of thanks, Don and his CARD team disappeared in that direction.

Hope turned back to Casey.

“I picked up on a certain evasiveness in your voice,” Casey stated without preamble. “You’re hiding something. Before we go any further, I want to know what that something is.”

Inhaling sharply, Hope responded to the obvious first. “Do you honestly believe I could harm my child? Is that why you think I was being evasive?”

“Initially, it was one of the explanations I considered.” Casey continued to be frank. Simultaneously, she was watching an interesting scene taking place diagonally across from them, in the kitchen. But the answer she provided Hope was definite and direct. “But after seeing you in person, my suspicions are gone. However, that doesn’t answer my question. You are holding something back. What? And why?”

“Because it has no bearing on our daughter’s disappearance,” Edward Willis inserted abruptly.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, Casey signaled for Marc and Ryan to go do their thing. Once they’d complied, she leveled a direct stare at Edward.

“Tell me if I’m wrong, Mr. Willis, but I get the feeling you’re not much in favor of your wife’s decision to hire us.”

“You’re not wrong. I’m a firm believer in the legal system.”

“As an attorney, I’m sure you are.” Casey kept her tone respectful. But she didn’t like this man. He was judgmental and controlling. And it was no surprise that he believed in the legal system—his legal system. He specialized in putting violent criminals back on the street in exchange for high visibility, a rush of self-importance and a hefty fee.

Aloud, all she said was, “I understand where you’re coming from. Rest assured, my group won’t be abusing law enforcement or whatever decisions you make with them. We’re here to follow their lead—if our discussion with you now results in a mutual decision for us to work together.”

“If?” Now Edward was taken aback. It was clear the man was used to getting his own way—even if, like this time, it meant Casey and her group vanishing into thin air.

His jaw tightened. “I don’t understand, Ms. Woods. My wife hired you.”

“True. But there’s a stipulation. I need my answer. What is it I’m not being told?”

Hope stared at the floor for a minute. The hard swallow that she gave, the way she steeled herself, and the way she shifted into autopilot told Casey that she’d relayed this story countless times, but that it never ceased to hurt.

“My sister Felicity was kidnapped thirty-two years ago,” she said quietly, her voice quavering from emotional strain. “We were six. She was sleeping next to me when it happened. I was chloroformed. So was she. Only it was Felicity the kidnapper chose to take. I’ve never understood why. We are—” a painful pause “—were identical twins. Very few people could tell us apart—unless they were familiar with our personalities. Which, to me, says the kidnapper was someone who knew us at least fairly well. And before you ask, Felicity’s body was never recovered. The case was labeled cold, and closed two years after the abduction. Now, history is repeating itself … with my baby.” Choking up, Hope pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a sob.

“Now you see why I didn’t want you to pursue this line of questioning,” Edward snapped, once again putting an arm around his wife. The gesture seemed oddly stiff, even staged. “Dredging up a painful incident from Hope’s past is pointless.”

“I disagree.” Casey quickly processed the implications of what she was being told, even as her gaze flickered once again to the kitchen doorway. “It explains that this terrifying crime is even more terrifying for your wife than it might be for another woman. Two treasured loved ones kidnapped in a lifetime—the first unsolved, and occurring when your wife was an impressionable, young child? Scars like that don’t heal, Mr. Willis. Especially when the victim is an identical twin, who most people claim is like half of a whole. And now, a child—the very heart and soul of a mother. I can see why Judge Willis would be coming apart at the seams, reliving the past, and willing to go to any extreme to avoid a repeat of it.”

“So you understand.” Hope scrutinized Casey, her gaze filled with agonized pain.

“I do,” Casey said without hesitation. “I understand your fear. And I understand what you weren’t saying on the phone. Consider yourself our top-priority client.”

Hope literally sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

Casey wasted no time in getting down to business. “Your babysitter—it’s Ashley, right?” She gestured in the direction of the kitchen.

Startled by the abrupt change in subject, Hope looked up and followed Casey’s stare. Edward’s head snapped around, too.

“My babysitter?” Hope repeated. “Yes, it’s Ashley Lawrence. Although she’s not really a babysitter. She’s been Krissy’s nanny since the day Krissy came home from the hospital. So we don’t think of her as an employee. She’s family. And she adores Krissy.”

“All the more reason for my curiosity. If everything you’re saying is true, why has she spent the entire time since I walked in here on her cell phone, arguing with someone?”

“It’s probably her boyfriend.” Edward waved away the observation. “I’m sure he’s unhappy about her decision to stay here until we have news about Krissy.”

“I see.” Casey could sense Edward’s escalating tension. “So he’s a serious boyfriend. What’s his name?”

“Frank. Frank Barber.”

Casey jotted that down. “You mentioned that Krissy’s stuffed panda was stolen from the house sometime today. Did the police find evidence of a break-in?”

“None.”

“And no one had access to the house except Ashley, who claims that nobody came by here all day, and who’s now arguing with her boyfriend.”

“Oh, no.” Vehemently, Hope denied the notion that Ashley could be involved. “As I said, Ashley adores Krissy, and the feeling is mutual. The poor girl was crying hysterically when I got home. She’s in shock. She’s probably talking to her boyfriend for emotional support.”

“I don’t think so. She seems more agitated than distraught. Agitated and, if I’m reading her body language right, scared.” Casey pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe she just realized she bit off more than she could chew, and that events are spiraling out of control.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Ms. Woods,” Hope insisted. “Ashley’s not capable of harming Krissy.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have to be—at least not directly.” Casey’s gaze shifted to the pile of sophisticated-looking textbooks sitting on the kitchen table. “It looks like Ashley’s in grad school. Unless you’re paying her a fortune, I assume she has outstanding student loans. What does Frank do for a living?” The ensuing silence gave her her answer. “Nothing lucrative, I take it.”

“He dabbles,” Hope replied, reluctance and wavering trust evident in her tone. “He’s a part-time bartender, and a part-time bouncer. Nothing concrete.”

“And nothing a huge windfall wouldn’t help in a big way.” A poignant pause. “Think about it—a vulnerable young woman in love with the wrong man. A young woman who has direct access to your home, your schedules and your daughter.”

For the first time, Casey’s gaze flickered coolly to Edward, who—as Casey had anticipated—had gone very, very still. “I’d say that’s a solid enough lead to check into, wouldn’t you, Counselor?”

His jaw was working, but his gaze pierced hers with laser intensity. “I’d say that’s your call, Ms. Woods.”




CHAPTER FOUR


It’s been a terrifying day. I know you’re scared. But you’re such a special child.

Unique. Precious.

The sleeping pill is working. Your eyes are shut. Your breathing is even. Your long blond hair is tousled, spread out on the pillow. I wish your lashes weren’t spiky and wet with the tears you cried for hours, or that your neck wasn’t damp with the perspiration caused by your struggles.

You look like you belong here. Which is good, since there’s no escape. Even though right now that’s all you’ll want to do.

When you wake up, you’ll cry. Beg. And finally withdraw. You’ll have that haunted look in your expressive blue-green eyes.

It’s my job to erase that. To change your mind about being here. To make you want this to be your home.

I will. I’m the only one who can.

I got all the tools I need from your book bag. You’ll have nothing to do but comply.

Sweet dreams, Krissy. It will all begin when you wake up.

* * *

Ashley hastily disconnected her call the minute Casey walked into the kitchen. She looked jumpy—like someone who was either at the end of her rope, or had something to hide—as she met Casey’s stare.

“Hi.” she said in a tentative voice.

“Hello, Ashley.” Casey extended her hand. “My name is Casey Woods, and my organization is working with the Willises to help find Krissy.”

“Organization?” Ashley shook Casey’s hand, her own skin warm from holding the cell phone, and damp with nerves. “You’re not with the police or the FBI?”

“Nope. I’m with Forensic Instincts. We’re a private company, specializing in solving cases like these. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Ashley’s tongue wet her lower lip. “I’ve already told the authorities everything I know.”

“I’m sure you have. But since my colleagues and I just arrived, I’d appreciate if you could fill me in, as well.” Casey didn’t have to turn around to know that the Willises had come up behind her and walked into the kitchen. Nor did she have to hear their footsteps. She could read it all over Ashley’s face, see it in her eyes as her gaze darted past Casey, filled with a mixture of uncertainty and an appeal for help.

“It’s all right, Ashley,” Hope assured her, although Casey was quite certain that Hope wasn’t the Willis she was appealing to. “Tell Ms. Woods whatever she needs to know.”

Casey turned to Hope. “May I speak to Ashley alone? Maybe in a den or comfortable setting? I’m sure she’s overwhelmed by the events of the day.”

“Of course. There’s a Florida room behind the kitchen.” Hope pointed. “Take as much time as you need.” She went to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of water, and handed one to Casey and one to Ashley. Edward stood to the side, his features and posture stiff.

“Thank you.” Casey followed Ashley to the Florida room. The girl was definitely on overload. Maybe it was just a meltdown from the day. Or maybe it was guilt.

Casey suspected it was both.

“I’d like to start out by going over some basics with you,” Casey began as soon as they were seated on the comfortable lounge chairs in the glass-enclosed Florida room. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes.” She pulled out a pad and pen.

“I don’t mind.” Ashley spread her hands in confusion. “But wouldn’t it be easier for you to get a copy of my police interview? “

“I’ll do that, too. But my group tends to focus on the personal rather than the procedural. So there might be things you can tell me that will help us help the authorities.”

“Like what?”

Casey clicked on her ballpoint pen and leaned forward. “Like giving me a mental picture of Krissy. Not her appearance—I can study the cops’ photo for that. I can also read the victimology report her parents supplied. But often those aren’t as in-depth as I’d like. Not where it comes to Krissy’s hot buttons, her private likes and dislikes, her subtle behavioral traits. In many ways, you were her primary caretaker. The Willises have busy, high-powered careers—especially Mr. Willis. That doesn’t mean they’re not exceptional parents but you’ve spent the most time with Krissy, ever since she was born. There might be nuances you’re familiar with that are fresher in your mind than they are in theirs.”

A faint smile touched Ashley’s lips. “Krissy’s always been special. She’s happy, she’s bright and she’s so precocious that even I have trouble staying a step ahead of her.”

Ashley went on to describe a bouncy, enthusiastic child who loved books, drawing and Disney’s Club Penguin, had lots of playdates and friends—including a little boyfriend named Scotty—was a Daisy Girl Scout, wanted to play the tuba when she reached third grade and who wished her straight blond hair was red and thick like her friend Erin’s, whose hair reached all the way down her back without getting even a little thin and pointy.

“Krissy would love your hair,” Ashley told Casey in a tone so filled with fondness that it couldn’t be faked. “She’d ask you a million questions about who in your family is a redhead and how you managed to inherit it.” Another small smile. “She’d also ask if you had a boyfriend, and if he liked red hair. Then she’d tell you all about Scotty and how much longer she can hang upside down on the monkey bars than he can. She’s not what you’d call shy or quiet.”

Casey put down her pad. “She sounds like a great kid.”

“She is. Everyone likes her.”

“What about her parents? Does everyone like them, too?”

An uncomfortable flush stained Ashley’s neck. “That’s a hard question for me to answer. They’re wonderful to me, and they always have been. They have tons of friends. But they both also have these jobs that produce enemies. So I can’t say….”

“I didn’t expect you to know details about their work lives. I was referring to any major disputes in their personal lives—with others, with each other.”

“Not that I know of,” Ashley answered quickly, defensively. Casey could see the pulse at her neck start beating a little faster. Nerves? Maybe.

Casey continued to speak in a calm, reassuring tone. “Ashley, my questions aren’t meant to hurt the Willises. They seem like lovely people. I just want to find Krissy. I’m not interested in uncovering any family skeletons. Those are none of my business. But family arguments can lead to outside confidences. And outside confidences can lead to angry, bitter friends. You practically live here. So I’m asking you if there are any internal or external conflicts you know about.”

That calmed Ashley down. “No, none.”

“Okay.” Casey switched gears. “I understand you were here at the house all day today, and that there were no visitors,”

The swift change in subject caught Ashley by surprise. “That’s right.”

“Do you keep the burglar alarm on?”

“Not during the day. But I do keep the doors locked. I’d know if someone broke in. Plus, I would have heard them.”

“True,” Casey agreed. She pursed her lips. “What about the mail?”

“What about it?”

“I noticed the mailbox is at the foot of the driveway, which is winding and long. Did you bring in the mail today?”

“Yes,” Ashley admitted. “I already told that to the police. And, yes, the door was unlocked during that time. But I was only gone for two, maybe three, minutes. So if you’re wondering if someone could have slipped in and out of the house, I doubt it. Is it possible? I suppose so. I’d like to think I would have spotted them. Not to mention how unlikely it is that they’d have had time to go upstairs, take Oreo, and leave—not to mention knowing the layout of the house, where Krissy’s room is—”

“Unless someone drew them a diagram,” Casey interrupted quietly.

“Who would—” Ashley broke off, her eyes widening as she realized where Casey was going with this. “Do you mean me? You think I’m part of this kidnapping?”

“I don’t know what to think.” An offhand shrug. “I can see how much you care about Krissy, and how torn up you are by what’s happened. But you were the only person here all day. So you could be lying, or you could be involved on some level—maybe as an accomplice.”

The shock that registered on Ashley’s face was unmistakable. “An accomplice to who? My God, I’d never, ever hurt Krissy. I’d never take her from her family. I’d never put her through this.”

“After everything you’ve said, I believe you.” Casey softened her expression—and her tone. “But I had to ask. Especially because of Frank.”

“Frank?” Again, Ashley was on the defensive. “What about him?”

“The Willises tell me that your boyfriend is kind of a drifter, and that he’s far from rolling in cash. And you’re in grad school. You have tuition and textbooks to pay for. The Willises are rich. It occurred to me that Frank might have pressured you into doing something you’d never ordinarily do, and convince you it was harmless. He’d make sure Krissy never knew who took her. You’d make sure he never hurt her. He’d just keep her long enough to get a huge payment from the Willises, then get her back to them. You’d both be rich. And no one would be any the wiser.”

“And Krissy would be scarred for life.” Ashley was trembling. “I’d never, ever be part of such a sick scheme. Not for a million dollars.”

“Would Frank?”

“Absolutely not. Frank’s not exactly a go-getter, but he’s not a thief. And he’d never kidnap a child.”

“It’s not a great theory,” Casey murmured. “Considering there’s been no ransom call—yet. But I had to ask. Not so much about you, but about Frank. That was him you were just arguing with on the phone, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was it about Krissy?”

“Yes … no … I mean, it was about Krissy, but not in the way you mean.” An uneasy pause. “He’s upset about how much time I’m spending here. I know that sounds horrible. But he’s a guy. He feels bad about Krissy, but he’s had enough. He’s been questioned by the police. He’s listened to my hysteria all afternoon. And now he’s dealing with my saying I’m not leaving this house until Krissy comes home safely. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just impatient and pissed off.”

“Sounds like most guys,” Casey said with a smile.

“I know.” Ashley was clearly relieved by Casey’s reaction.

“So you and Frank are tight?”

“Pretty much. We’ve been together for a year.” Ashley opened her bottle of water and took a gulp. “I don’t see us walking down the aisle or anything. But, like I said, he’s a good guy.”

“He just wishes you’d spend more time with him.”

“Yes.” Another swig of water. “And I wish he’d work a little harder. Want to be a little more. I doubt that’s in the cards.”

Casey gave an understanding nod. “Ambition’s one of those qualities you’re either born with or you’re not.”

“Exactly.” Ashley shifted on her chair. “If there’s nothing else, I’d really like to get back inside. Maybe the FBI’s heard something.”

The concern, the worry, the freaked-out look in Ashley’s eyes—all that was real.

“You really love Krissy a lot,” Casey said.

“You can’t imagine.” Ashley rolled the bottle of water between her palms. “Corny as it sounds, I feel like a second mother to her. Like you said, I’ve helped Judge Willis raise her since she was born, and because of the Willises’ long hours, I spend tons of time with her. And she really is the best kid in the world. Cheerful. Smart. She’s only in kindergarten, but she’s got a second grade reading level. She adds and subtracts faster than I do. And you should see what a whiz she is on the computer. She spends hours on Club Penguin. She chats on it. She colors pictures on it … she’s awesome. And her penguin avatar is super cool.”

“I’m sure it is.” Casey rose. “I think we’ve covered everything. Let’s go inside for an update. Oh, and Ashley.” she added as the younger woman stood up. “Krissy’s lucky to have you in her life. You’re a wonderful nanny.”

“Thank you.” Ashley gave a wan smile. “Now if I could only bring her home.”

The debriefing session was breaking up when Casey walked into the house. The first thing she did was to seek out Special Agent Peg Harrington.

“Hi, Peg.”

“Casey.” The trim, forty-two-year-old woman with the short dark hair and intense expression greeted her. “Don told me the Willises had hired you. I don’t need to tell you the rules.”

“No, you don’t. This is your case. My team and I are here to help my clients, and to support you in any way we can. All I need to know is how you’re laying out the chain of command.”

Peg cleared her throat. “Mr. Willis would prefer that the leadership came from the New York Field Office. So I’ll be heading things up, with Ken Barkley as my co-case agent. But the White Plains RA’s Task Force and the North Castle Police Department have good people on board, as well. And, of course, you saw the CARD team arrive. Plus, two agents from BAU-3 should be here in an hour,” she added, referring to the division of the Behavioral Analysis Unit that dealt with crimes against children. “We’re leaving no stone unturned.”

Casey nodded. “Anything from the crime scene yet?”

“No. The entire school staff is being interviewed, particularly those who witnessed the incident, and the car-pool mom who had a bird’s-eye view. So far, we’ve come up empty. The Willises are about to release a statement to the media, and issue a plea on TV. We’re setting up a tip line for anyone with a potential lead to call in—anyone who might have spotted a silver GMC Acadia with a child inside and the letters ‘X’ and ‘M’ in the license plate.”

“A suburban car in a suburban neighborhood,” Casey mused. “Doesn’t exactly raise any red flags.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right. Not only that, we’ve got two parents who have more than the average number of grudge-holders who’d love to strike them where it hurts. And what’s more powerful than taking their only child?”

Casey grimaced. “Not a thing.” She glanced around and watched the FBI team coordinating plans. “Look, Peg, we’re probably going to overlap in our suspect interviews. So if there’s anyone you want us to talk to, anyone on that list you think we’re well suited to gain insights from, just say the word. Like I said, the list of potential suspects is a mile long. And we all want the same thing—Krissy’s safe return. So use us as you need to.”

“I will.” Peg had seen Casey in action enough times to know that she didn’t give a damn who got credit for the win. On the flip side, she was equally unmotivated by the rules of bureaucracy. And that sometimes ruffled feathers. “Right now, we’re dividing up the list. Once we do, I won’t hesitate to take you up on your offer. Count on it.”

Once Peg had headed back into the tense huddle that was her team, Casey scanned the area for her own people. Marc was in the hallway, talking to a couple of C-20 agents. Ryan was nowhere to be found, but Casey suspected he was upstairs in Krissy’s room, probing things with the agent assigned to analyze Krissy’s computer for forensic evidence.

Hope and Edward were currently being prepped for the statement they’d be issuing within the hour on TV. Ashley was right beside them, listening intently. Her physical positioning and her body language were very telling. Casey made a mental note of both.

She then turned and made her way through the lower level of the house. She planned to wait until she could talk to Hope and Edward before she left. After that, when she and her team were armed with enough details to kick into high gear, she planned to drive over to Krissy’s school and start conducting some in-depth interviews.

Strolling from room to room, she didn’t expect to enter the eerily quiet playroom only to find Claire Hedgleigh sitting cross-legged on the carpet, rolling a crayon between her fingers while her other palm was pressed to a partially finished picture in an open coloring book.

Tears were trickling down her cheeks.




CHAPTER FIVE


Mommy?

Where are you? I’m scared. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.

The picture I finger-painted for you in school is drying. My book bag zipper got stuck. So the bell rang two times before I came out. I was surprised to hear you honk the horn. Surprised but happy. You left work early. You left that bench you always sit on just so we could play. You hadn’t even changed out of the black suit I helped you pick out this morning, so you could get to school before Olivia’s mommy took me home.

Now I remember that smelly scarf. I tried to tell you it was stinky, but you were talking. Not to me. To somebody else. The car kept moving. I woke up a little. You gave me a drink to make the yucky taste go away.

I feel funny. Am I sick? This is not my bed. And these aren’t my pajamas. I don’t like pajamas. I get hot and they stick to me. I like nightgowns. Where’s my nightgown?

I don’t like it here. Was that Daddy’s voice before? Is he still here? Are you?

What if you both left?

What if there’s no one here but me and Oreo?

I keep calling your name, but you don’t come. I called Ashley, too. She didn’t answer. I don’t want her anyway. I don’t want Daddy either. I want you.

Where are you, Mommy?

Please come.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, reflexively recoiling as the little girl’s fear and confusion flowed through her.

The child was becoming more aware. The cobwebs were clearing from her head. And from Claire’s. Afraid. So afraid.

Krissy was crying. Big droplets on her eyelashes, cheeks and chin. She was wiping them away with the backs of her hands. The top of Oreo’s head was wet from the tears she couldn’t catch.

Panic. She was starting to panic. Yelling for her mommy. Sobbing … begging …

“Claire?”

At first the voice didn’t penetrate. Then Claire heard it, realized someone was calling her. She jerked back to her current surroundings, blinking as she glanced behind her and saw Casey.

“Are you okay?” Casey asked.

“No.” Slowly, Claire rose to her feet, unaware of the dampness on her face. “Krissy is terrified. She doesn’t know where she is. And she keeps calling for her mommy.”

Casey didn’t bat a lash. “You could sense what she was feeling. Was she reliving anything that happened? Anything you could pick up on?”

A slight nod. “Whoever took her was wearing a classic black suit similar to the ones her mother wears to work. Her hair was blond and parted on the side, just like Judge Willis’s.”

“Was it real? Or a wig?”

“I don’t know. Krissy didn’t have a feeling about that….” Claire spread her hands wide in an uncertain gesture. “The woman was wearing dark sunglasses. She was clearly disguising her appearance. But, more important, she was doing her best to impersonate Krissy’s mother. Her car. Her hair. A big smile. A welcoming wave.”

“And a kidnapping.” Casey’s mind was racing. “Was Krissy remembering what happened in the car? Was the kidnapper alone? Did she hurt her?”

“I think she chloroformed her, and later drugged her again. And Krissy heard her talking. I didn’t sense anyone else in the car, so I’m guessing she was on the phone.”

“Probably talking to whoever she’s working with—or for.” Casey pushed on. “What else did you sense? Where’s Krissy now? Could you see her surroundings? Who was with her? Anything at all that could help us find her? “

This time Claire hesitated. “Casey, I really should talk to the police first.”

“You probably should. But it’s freshest in your mind now. The cops are in meetings, getting their assignments so they can head out and start interviewing. I’m here. I’ll memorize everything you say. I can be there when you talk to the task force, so that just in case a detail starts to fade, we’ll ensure you give them the clearest and most comprehensive picture possible.” A pause. “Claire, you’ve worked with me before. All I want is for that little girl to be found before it’s too late. So tell me what you remember.”

“She wants her nightgown,” Claire replied quietly. “She doesn’t like pajamas, but she’s wearing flannel ones. She’s in a downstairs bedroom, behind a door with a lock on the outside and a separate one on the inside for when the kidnapper is with her. No one’s there now. She heard voices before, but now it’s silent, and she’s frantic for her mommy.”

“The room—did you see it?”

“Flashes of it, yes. It’s bare. Quiet. There’s a canopied bed with a white bedspread that has little gold crowns on it and pink ruffles all around the sides. There’s enough light in the room, but it’s from a lamp on the nightstand. No sunlight. And no window. Just four pale pink walls and a bare carnation-pink carpet. Like an institutional room, but with a few personal touches.”

“No surprise,” Casey responded. “The main offender is most likely a man. He’ll want to put Krissy in an environment where she feels totally vulnerable, but surrounded by enough personal touches to lower her defenses and convince her that he cares. That’ll provide him with the greatest sense of control. As for the little-girl decor, I’m sure that’s courtesy of his female accomplice. She’ll do it for him, but I’m hoping that a small part of her will also do it for Krissy. That would mean the woman feels a shred of pity or compassion—up to the point where she’d be crossing the line and jeopardizing her own safety. If that’s true, we can use her emotions to our advantage.”

Claire nodded, walking over and picking up the coloring book and crayons. “I’m going to find the North Castle detectives.”

“Assuming they’re still here,” Casey reminded her. “It’s possible that everyone’s out doing their job and that the only law enforcement here are whoever Peg assigned to the Willises and the phones.”

“Then I’ll talk to them.”

“Do you want me to be there?”

“No.” A raw pause. “In this case, my recall is one hundred percent—unfortunately.”

“I can imagine.” Casey didn’t envy Claire’s gift. It had to be enormously painful at times like this. “Whoever you talk to, just don’t do it in front of the Willises. They’re about to give a media statement, and the BAU isn’t here yet to coach them. The last thing they need is to hear that Krissy is terrified and locked up—for God knows what purpose. We can talk to them later. We’ll make sure to emphasize the fact that Krissy is alive.”

Halfway to the door, Claire paused, looking at Casey as if she were truly seeing her for the first time. “You’re very insightful.”

“So’s my whole team,” Casey replied. “It’s something that you and I should discuss—when the time is right.”

Claire’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “Okay. We will.”

Just after Claire left the room, Casey’s BlackBerry rang. She glanced down at the caller ID. No surprise at what she saw.

She punched on the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” said a deep, masculine voice. “I wanted you to know that I’m in your neck of the woods. I’ve got a case in Westchester County. I’m not sure when I can break away, but when I do, can we get together? Maybe later tonight?”

“Oh, a lot sooner than that,” Casey assured him. “I’m at the Willises’ house right now. I assume that’s where you’re headed?”

A sharp intake of breath. “They hired you already?”

“What can I say? They’ve got good taste. Just like you.” Casey’s light banter vanished. “I’m glad you’re coming. We’ve got to find Krissy Willis before she’s killed—or worse. Hurry.”

* * *

Casey got the Willises alone before the BAU-3 team arrived to prep them.

“After your TV statement, my team and I are going over to Krissy’s school,” Casey told them. “We’ll be interviewing a few specific staff members.”

“Why just a few?” Hope interrupted. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Please, Ms. Woods, don’t skim the surface just because the authorities are pressuring you. I hired you because of your creativity, your track record and your freedom to push the boundaries. Edward and I are both lawyers. We know the drill. Law enforcement is bound by rules that you can circumvent. So circumvent them. Do whatever you have to. Do it thoroughly. And do it fast.”

“I intend to.” Casey spoke as quietly as her client. “Don’t confuse specificity with reticence. If I think someone on your list is a person of interest, I’ll delve into their background, even if our investigation overlaps with the FBI’s. But if my instincts tell me they’re a dead end, it would be a waste of time to pursue them when I could be devoting my attention to more likely suspects, or people who could lead me in the right direction. I especially want to talk to Liza Bock, the car-pool mom who saw Krissy jump into the kidnapper’s car. I also want to talk to her daughter, Olivia, and all Krissy’s other friends. Kids very often know more than they think they do. The FBI task force will cover the gamut.” Particularly the sex offenders, she thought silently and grimly. “Let us cover the probable.”

Hope nodded. “All right.” She handed Casey a stack of papers, including everything she’d given to Peg Harrington: a full list of personal names and each individual’s relationship to Krissy, and pages and pages of professional names that Hope and Edward had come up with as potential enemies, resentful plaintiffs and/or defendants, parents who’d lost custody of their children, and all the other people who might hold a grudge against them.

“I’ll review all this and get started,” Casey said. She thumbed through the pages. “First come the angry parents. An eye for an eye would be strong motivation. Ferreting through that part of the list and interviewing the right candidates will be my job. I’ll have Ryan concentrate on trimming down the list to the most logical thinkers among those. Whoever orchestrated this was sharp, focused and intelligent. And Marc will zero in on those who have the greatest access to you, your home and your day-to-day lives, plus anyone with a criminal record. You have no idea how fast and thorough we are. Have faith.”

“I’m trying.” Tears slid down Hope’s cheeks. “But she’s my baby.”

“I know,” Casey replied gently. “And, on all fronts, you’ve got the best of the best working for her safe return.”

“Hey.” Marc came up behind Casey. “Speaking of which, the BAU’s here. They sent Hutch.”

Casey half-turned. “Yes, I know. He called a little while ago.” She watched as the familiar, commanding presence of SSA Kyle Hutchinson filled the room. For a man who epitomized the word reserved, Hutch managed to take charge without even trying. There was a natural, compelling quality about him that screamed leadership. From the power of his build, the innate confidence he exuded, even the jagged scar across his left temple—a souvenir of his days as a Washington, D.C., police detective—the whole package yanked everyone’s gaze his way and told them he was someone of significant importance.

He never gave credence to those reactions. As always, he had just one purpose in mind. Doing his job.

He pressed forward, his sharp blue eyes focused on the Willises. Right behind Hutch was his partner, SSA Grace Masters, who was every bit as formidable as her partner. Anyone fooled by her slender build or wavy, light brown hair was an ass. She had a steel-trap mind, guts and grit to spare and an unflappable personality. Hutch’s expressions were unreadable. Grace’s were well thought out and executed. The two pros had worked together for years, and now brainstormed with the ease of a long-term partnership, and the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Marc. Casey.” Hutch nodded at each of them, then shifted his attention to the Willises. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Kyle Hutchinson and this is my partner, Supervisory Special Agent Grace Masters. We’re from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He and Grace shook the Willises’ hands.

“You’re here to profile the bastard who took my daughter,” Edward stated.

“We’re here to behaviorally analyze the crime to help the investigative team do their job,” Grace replied. “But, yes, we’ll zero in on motivation, personality types, number of offenders—anything that will lead us to your daughter’s kidnapper or kidnappers.”

“Let’s put off the details for now.” Hutch nipped Edward’s questions in the bud. “We’ve got to deal with the immediate. You’re going on TV in ten minutes. So let’s get you prepped and ready.”




CHAPTER SIX


Claudia Mitchell was ironing and watching a rerun of one of her favorite TV comedies when a special report interrupted. Breaking news. An Amber Alert had been issued. Krissy Willis, the five-year-old daughter of Family Court Judge Hope Willis and prominent defense attorney Edward Willis had been kidnapped.

The parents appeared on-screen, ready to speak.

Quickly, Claudia turned off her iron and set it down on the stand, hurrying over to turn up the volume. The Willises were issuing a statement, a plea, begging for their child’s safe return. Claudia stared at Judge Willis, the woman to whom she’d been court clerk for years. In all the time she’d known her, Claudia had never seen or heard her like this. No makeup. Panicked. A lost look in her eyes. Choked sobs in her voice. For a woman who was always put together and in complete control, it was a startling sight.

But why shouldn’t she look like death warmed over? Her little girl was missing. The most important person in her life had been taken away, and could be lost forever.

It was a terrible ordeal, one that elicited great sympathy. It made Claudia wonder if maybe Judge Willis would have gone easier on her, shown her more compassion, if she’d already endured this life-altering trauma before she’d fired Claudia. At that time, Claudia had felt just the way Judge Willis felt now. Terrified and helpless. Alone. Joe had just ended their engagement and walked out of her life. Claudia had believed the decision was permanent.

Joe was her whole world. So, yes, she’d gone to pieces. And Judge Willis had tolerated it for a month, maybe two. Then, she’d let Claudia go, saying her work was unsatisfactory and that her improper management of the docket was compromising courtroom procedure.

So Claudia found herself not only alone but unemployed. And, given the state she was in, she was in no condition to seek employment elsewhere. Her entire life was in shambles.

Now maybe Judge Willis would understand. But, actually, how could she? Krissy wasn’t her whole world. She was barely a part of it, given the number of hours the judge worked. The precious child was raised by a nanny, not a mother and father.

And Judge Willis would never be alone. She had a husband. Money. And now she was saying something about taking a leave of absence until her daughter was found and brought home safe and sound. A leave of absence? Her job would still be waiting for her. Her career would be intact. And she’d be held in high regard for her maternal commitment, rather than stared at like an emotional basket case.

Given the circumstances, Claudia felt a wave of guilt, which dissipated beneath the weight of an overwhelming sadness. She could still remember the first time Krissy had visited Judge Willis’s courtroom, her wide-eyed excitement when she’d sat in her mother’s chair and held her gavel. She was a wonderful child. None of what had happened was her fault. The poor little girl. She needed love, security. She didn’t need—

The front door swung open, and Joe walked into the house. Claudia rushed out of the kitchen to greet him. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. He’d come back to her. The circumstances didn’t matter. He’d come back.

“Joe.” She put her hand on his arm, stopping him before he could pass by on his way to the basement.

He looked annoyed, glancing up from the video game he’d purchased and was now reading a description of. “What?”

“Judge Willis is on TV. She’s announcing that her daughter was kidnapped, and she’s pleading for her safe return.”

“I heard about it on the car radio,” he replied. “The little girl will be fine. And I wouldn’t get any pangs over the judge—not after what she’s done. I’m heading downstairs. You start dinner.”

“But, Joe …”

His gaze hardened. “I’m not in the mood, Claudia. Let it go. I don’t want to repeat myself. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Quickly, she released his arm and backed off. “I’ll peel the potatoes.”

“Good.”

“When will you be coming up?”

“I’m not sure. I have a new game to try out.”

It was almost midnight.

The Forensic Instincts team gathered around the brownstone conference table, reviewing their notes, their accomplished tasks and their plans. The Willises’ TV statement had gone off without a hitch. The FBI task force was utilizing the lower-level media room of the Willis house as their command center. In addition, all the telephone recording devices and the toll-free tip line were in place, and concerned citizens—along with the usual cranksters—were starting to call in. The interviewing process had long since commenced and would be continuing round-the-clock.

Casey had spent another hour with the Willises—including a half hour alone with Hope—filling in some crucial blanks.

Armed with their individual information, it was time for the team to regroup.

Ryan began by describing what he’d learned in conjunction with the forensic computer specialist who was doing a cursory sweep of Krissy’s computer before removing it for a thorough evidential analysis. No real surprises. As expected, Krissy was a normal, if precocious, five-year-old whose only computer activities appeared to include games, crafts and chats via her avatar.

Whether or not one of her chat buddies was, in fact, a child predator laying the groundwork to get his hands on her remained to be seen. Once the computer reached the lab, an in-depth investigation would be conducted.

Marc reported in next, telling them that he’d used his FBI clout to gain info that would cross a chunk of suspects off the list—although he was still bugged by Sal and Rita Diaz, the Willises’s gardener and housekeeper, who happened to be husband and wife and who the BU had ruled out due to confirmed alibis. Alleged alibis or not, Marc still viewed them as a couple who’d maxed out on all their credit cards and who were in debt up to their eyeballs. A couple who constantly had their noses shoved in the Willises’ affluence, and who might very well feel they wanted a piece of it. A couple with a husband who had a history of bar fights, and a wife who was clearly cowed into submission.

It was a classic setup for a kidnapping—except for the fact that two separate employers had vouched for their whereabouts all afternoon, and that no ransom demands had come in. Still, Marc wasn’t ready to let it go.

Casey had talked to all the car-pool mothers, particularly to Liza Bock. And, while she hadn’t learned anything glaringly new, the evasiveness she’d encountered—on a whole different front—had raised her antennae and convinced her that her earlier suspicions were well-founded.

“I think Edward Willis is sleeping with Ashley Lawrence,” she announced.

“The nanny?” Marc arched an eyebrow. He looked more intrigued than surprised. Very little about human nature surprised him these days—certainly not an affair.

“Yup.” Casey leaned forward and propped her elbows on the conference table. “All the signs are there—Ashley’s body language and her bickering with her boyfriend. Edward’s antagonism toward us and absurdly forced show of protectiveness toward his wife. The weird dynamic that permeates the house. Affection mixed with tension and a hint of desperation, not to mention a healthy dose of anger and mistrust. Hope cares for her husband, but she’s resigned herself to his career-immersed absence from her life and from Krissy’s. Judging from the way she pulls into herself and away from her husband, I’d be shocked if she doesn’t suspect there’s another woman—and equally shocked if she thought it was Ashley. As for Ashley, she adores Krissy, but feels guilty as hell about something. And Edward is an arrogant, egocentric powermonger, who’s perfectly suited for his job, and for screwing over his family.”

“Does that include grabbing his kid and his hot young nanny and taking off for parts unknown?” Ryan asked.

“Uh-uh.” Casey shook her head. “He loves his daughter—as much as he’s capable of loving anyone—but he sure as hell doesn’t want full responsibility for her. Any more than he wants a life with that hot young nanny. What he wants is exactly what he’s got—the whole nine yards. A perfect little family. Great sex from a young woman who worships him. And a prestigious legal practice that he’d never in a million years leave. It feeds his bank account and his ego. Nope. Edward’s got a good thing here. He just doesn’t want us to blow it by telling Hope. As it is, he knows he’s under the FBI’s microscope, since he’s Krissy’s father and, therefore, a prime suspect. So he’s not a happy camper.”

Marc was tapping his pencil against his leg. Now he hunched over and drew a line through two names. “So we’re crossing off the nanny and her loser boyfriend. What about other relatives—grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles?”

“Edward’s an only child. Both parents deceased,” Casey responded. “Hope, as you know, has a much more complicated past. After her twin sister, Felicity, was kidnapped and the trail went cold, her parents’ marriage fell apart. Her father started drinking heavily. He and his wife divorced. He took off, never to be heard from again. The wife, Vera, came close to a nervous breakdown. Having a six-year-old who needed her kept her from going over the edge. She still lives in the same house the twins grew up in. Hope says that part of her mother never gave up praying that Felicity would come home.”

“Where is this house?”

“New Rochelle. A solid half hour away. Vera Akerman is too shaken and heavily medicated to drive herself. For obvious reasons, Krissy’s kidnapping is bringing back the worst memories of her life. But she needs to be with her daughter. So Hope’s arranged for a car service to pick her up and bring her to Armonk.”

“Do you plan to interview her?” Ryan asked.

“Gently, but yes. Tomorrow afternoon. I want to give her some time alone with her daughter.”

“I agree,” Marc said with a nod. “It’s doubtful she can cast any light on Krissy’s kidnapper anyway. In the meantime, let’s move on. I scanned some internet articles on recent cases Edward was involved with as defense counsel. A few of them raised some red flags. Wealthy, white-collar scumbags, with backgrounds that scream violence. I’m sure they’re guilty of the crimes they were charged with committing, but are instead free as birds, living the good life, thanks to Edward Willis. I already called in a few favors. I’ll be getting a look at the court transcripts. Then, I’ll be paying a few visits.”

“How soon?” Casey asked.

“Tomorrow morning. I’ll be pounding the pavement by noon.”

Casey’s head dropped back against the chair’s backrest, and she blew out a frustrated breath. “We’re fighting the clock. Krissy’s already been missing for longer than the first crucial hours. Peg told me they have nothing solid from the call-ins. And there’s been no contact about ransom. None.”

“Child predator,” Marc muttered. “You know that’s what Hutch and Grace are going to come up with.”

“Yes,” Casey said quietly. “I know. But there are too many unique personal details here for our kidnapper to be a random sex offender, even one with a fetish for little girls. He specifically wanted Krissy. Why? We have to tie the two together.” A pause. “I plan on being at Krissy’s school tomorrow, and talking to her friends during recess. The parents all gave me permission, as did the school. It’s a comfortable environment, and the kids won’t feel pressured. I’ll keep it light. But I’ll get what I can. Tonight, I’m running through the list of disgruntled parents from Hope’s family court. I’ll talk to as many of them as I can tomorrow. Oh, and I’ll also be talking to Claudia Mitchell, Hope’s former court clerk. Seems she broke up with her fiancé recently, and skitzed out enough so that Hope had to fire her.”

“Both of you are going to step on more than a few law enforcement toes tomorrow,” Ryan said thoughtfully. “So let’s keep me out of the mix to minimize the collateral damage. Give me the lists. I’ll hole up and do some in-depth searches. Based on what I find, I’ll put together likely scenarios for the suspects I think have not only the motive, means and opportunity, but the brain power and access to the right people to pull this off. I take it we’re looking for a main player who’s male and a compliant accomplice who’s female.”

“I think so, yes.” That triggered another issue in Casey’s mind. “I believe that Krissy’s being held in a basement that was converted into a princess-pink bedroom. The woman who took her impersonated Hope, right down to her tailored black suit. She drugged her and took her to wherever she is. As of late afternoon, Krissy was terrified and isolated, but still alive.”

“How do you know.” Ryan broke off, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been talking to Claire-voyant. I saw her wandering around the house. I don’t know why the cops—and you—listen to her.”

“Because ninety percent of the time she’s right,” Casey shot back. She steeled herself, and went for it, head-on. “You know I plan to expand Forensic Instincts. I think we need a better balance to the group. We’ve got logic up the yin-yang. A little ethereal input would be good for us. I’ve done my homework, Ryan. Claire Hedgleigh’s the real deal. I want to hire her.”

“Ah, shit.” Ryan slapped his palm on the table.

Casey ignored him, turning to Marc. “Ryan’s feelings are obvious. Yours?”

Marc pursed his lips, silently weighing the question. “You know I’m not a big believer in psychics,” he replied at last. “The fit’s not going to be easy. But I do see your point. I know Claire’s success rate. That’s fact, not speculation. Do you know if she’s interested?”

“Not a clue,” Casey answered honestly. “I wanted to talk to the two of you before I broached the subject. So I take it you’re not opposed?”

A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “How tough is she? There’s going to be a lot of infighting going on. Can she take it?”

“Not a doubt.” Casey arched a brow in Ryan’s direction. “Can you?”

Ryan met Casey’s gaze. “I can take anything. But I’m not going easy on her. If I think she’s spouting crap, I’ll say so.”

“Are you going to go after her on purpose?”

“I’m not in middle school, Casey. If you think she’s a value-add, I won’t fight you—or her—unless I disagree. Which I probably will. But I’ll make it work, if it makes the group stronger.”

“Good. Because I think it will.” Casey rose. “Why don’t the two of you go home and get some rest. We never did sleep off the Fisher case. Plus, I want to hit the ground running first thing tomorrow.” She frowned. “It makes me ill that Krissy Willis is out there tonight, scared to death, and possibly being violated in some sick way.”

“Sexual predators don’t wait for bedtime, Casey,” Marc reminded her quietly. “If that’s who has her, time is what matters. Not time of day.”

“I know.” Casey raked a hand through her hair. “And I’d pound the pavement all night, if I thought that Peg Harrington wouldn’t cut us off at the knees. We’ve got to play ball a little or the Feds will kick us out on our asses. They’ll be out there 24/7. So I’ll spend tonight reviewing my notes and seeing if something I haven’t spotted yet jumps out at me.”

“You get some rest, too,” Ryan advised, yawning as he came to his feet. “You’ve got a packed day tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

But both guys knew that meant “won’t do.” Just as they knew they’d be burning the midnight oil themselves.

It was well past two in the morning when Casey’s doorbell rang.

She’d been scribbling notes in the margins of her lists, and had pretty much reached a roadblock that couldn’t be skirted until the morning’s interviews.

She put down her pen and smiled. Only one person had the stamina, the tenacity and the incentive to show up on her doorstep at this ungodly hour.

She went down the two flights of stairs and peeked outside. Then she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Hi,” she greeted her guest with a smug grin. “Here for breakfast?”

Hutch walked inside, kicked the door shut and dragged Casey into his arms. “Damn straight.” He was already unbuttoning her shirt as he covered her mouth with his. He lifted her off the floor and turned sharply, pressing her against the wall as he continued yanking off her clothes. “First time will be right here,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “Then I’ll take you to bed.”

“It’s four flights,” she reminded him breathlessly, unzipping his fly. “I might not leave you with the strength.”

“Try me.”

“I plan to.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


Day Two

Krissy rolled over and hugged Oreo. She buried her face in his soft fur. Like always when it was dark. And here, it stayed dark whenever the lamp wasn’t on. The night-light helped. It looked just like hers. It kept her from getting too scared.

The bed was soft. The blanket was, too. And she was wearing a nightgown now. The pajamas were gone. They’d been gone for a long time.

With her eyes shut, she could pretend she was home. She hadn’t been able to do that before. Too many bad things had happened. But since she drank the milkshake, the bad things were going away. She felt warm and sleepy. She’d been happy to climb into bed. The hand that stroked her hair as she went to sleep felt like her mommy’s. The voice was gentle like her mommy’s. Maybe she’d dreamed the whole scary day.

Maybe when the lamp went back on, she’d be in her own bed. Then she could tell her mommy about the bad nightmare.

If her mommy had already left for work, she could always tell Ashley.

But she didn’t really want to.

Not anymore.

With a huge yawn, Casey towel-dried her hair. The sun was just rising outside her bathroom window. An hour and ten minutes of sleep. Not exactly the requisite amount for a productive day. Yet Casey had never felt more energized. If it weren’t for the case preying on her mind, she would have loved nothing more than to stay in bed with Hutch until noon, making up for lost time. He was an amazing lover, and with weeks, sometimes months, separating their visits, the intensity of their time together was pretty damned breath catching.

But those extra hours were not meant to be. Not this time. Not when both of them were committed to finding Krissy Willis.

Casey came out of the bathroom to find Hutch tossing aside his towel and pulling on his clothes. He glanced up as she walked across the bedroom in her terry robe, and shot her a very sexy, very sated grin.

“Thanks for the best shower I’ve had in ages,” he said. “I barely remember getting clean.”

“You did,” she assured him. “I washed your back myself.”

“Among other parts.”

“And you returned the favor.”

Hutch pulled her against him for a long, deep kiss. “To be continued tonight.”

“It’s a date.”

“By the way,” he told her, shrugging into his shirt and buttoning it. “I brought you a present.”

Casey’s brows rose. “Really. What is it?”

“First comes the where. Then the what.”

“Now you’ve really got me curious.”

“Good.” Hutch finished buttoning his shirt. “Then give me a half hour. I’ll be back with two cups of strong coffee, and your gift.”

“It’s in your car?”

“Nope. But close by. And that’s all I’m going to say.” He gave her a sly wink. “See you in thirty.”

True to his word, Hutch knocked on the door twenty-eight minutes later.

Casey opened the door, and blinked. She was expecting the cardboard tray of steaming coffee that Hutch clutched in his right hand. But she wasn’t expecting the leash wrapped around his left. Or what was at the other end—a handsome red bloodhound. The dog sat obediently by Hutch’s side, his deep hazel eyes soulful and curious, his high-curved tail wagging back and forth as he stared at Casey.

“Your gift has arrived,” Hutch announced.

“A bloodhound?” Stunned, Casey found herself bending down and stroking the dog’s glossy head. “You brought me a bloodhound?”

“Not just any bloodhound. A human scent evidence dog. Certified, but retired. Hero drove up with Grace and me. He came straight from Quantico. He fulfilled his two-and-a-half years of training. Unfortunately, after his certification, his handler discovered that he was a terrible air traveler. Which doesn’t cut it. The team hated retiring him—evidently, he was a star pupil in his training class. But they had no choice. Anyway, I spoke to the breeder and offered to find a new home for him. I knew how much you wanted a dog, particularly a bloodhound. Now you have one.”

“A human scent evidence dog,” Casey murmured, still stroking Hero’s head. Hutch was right. She was crazy about dogs. She’d had one most of her life. And bloodhounds were a particular passion of hers. She and Target, her last bloodhound, had gone through tracking and trailing classes together, right up to the time when he’d passed away at the ripe old age of twelve. She missed those classes terribly. But the time commitment was too extensive for her to continue once she’d started Forensic Instincts. Still, the company was under control now, growing but settled. And bloodhounds were noble and unique—far too special to pass up. Plus, her life seemed a little empty without a canine companion.

“Like I said, he just turned three,” Hutch was telling her. “He’s sharp, fiercely loyal, and has an olfactory sense that’s off the charts. Oh, and his instincts are keen, so he’ll even fit in with your company name.”

A smile curved Casey’s lips. “Hey, Hero,” she greeted him, scratching his long ears. “I love your name. And I have a gut feeling it suits you.”

In response, Hero crossed the threshold and began slobbering enthusiastically at Casey’s face.

“I take it you know they drool,” Hutch commented.

“Profusely.” Casey laughed. “And they’re stubborn as hell. Sounds like most men.”

“Very cute.”

“I thought so.” Casey turned her attention back to Hero. “We have only a small backyard for you. The good news is that the fence is so high, you won’t be taking off.” Casey sprawled on the floor so she could rub Hero’s white underbelly. “Also, Tribeca has a couple of fabulous parks that would give us room to maintain your trailing skills. Plus, I could take you out for a morning and an evening jog. You won’t even have time to be lonely. Marc and Ryan are in and out all day, and they’d be thrilled to have you join the team. They’re both stubborn, too, yes, so you’ll have your work cut out for you. Between the two of them and me, you’ll have plenty of play pals. How’s that sound, Hero?”

“And, whenever you can’t be around, Casey, there’s a great place just a few blocks from here that offers everything from doggie day care to five-star hotel service,” Hutch added. “Believe me, I saw it firsthand. That’s where Hero spent the night. His accommodations made mine look like a Dumpster.”

Casey tilted back her head and gazed up at Hutch. “You knew I couldn’t say no to this gift, didn’t you?”

“I was pretty sure, yeah.” He grinned. “I have a crate, food and a bunch of other essentials in my car. The rest is up to you. So, what’s the verdict? Does Hero have a new home?”

Hero perked up at the sound of his name. He looked so erect and professional that Casey could swear he was applying for a job.

“Welcome to Forensic Instincts, Hero,” Casey said in response. She massaged his jowls, then scrambled to her feet. “Let’s get you settled. Then we’ll give Ryan a call and ask him to pop up here ASAP. You two need to meet, since both Marc and I have a ton of interviews to conduct and Ryan can do everything from here today.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Hutch gulped his coffee. “I’ll get Hero’s gear from my car. Then I’ve got to run. Grace and I have to get over to the Willis place.”

“And I’m starting out at Krissy’s school. Maybe her little friends know something they don’t even realize they know. Someone hanging around the school, or pulling up in a car to talk to Krissy. I’ve got a zillion bases to cover.”

“As do I.” Hutch gave her a quick kiss and Hero a quick scratch behind the ears. “I’m sorry for an abrupt end to a great night.”

“You’ll make it up to me,” Casey assured him with a twinkle in her eye. “You’ve already made a down payment by bringing me my new best friend.”

Casey called Hope as she drove up to Armonk. “Any news?”

“Nothing.” Hope sounded like she was about to shatter. “The FBI task force has been working all night, crossing names off the suspect list, establishing alibis and manning the phones. I’m a mess. My mother’s due here in an hour, and I don’t know how I’m going to keep it together for her.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“At the office.” A pause. “He was going crazy sitting around here, waiting for a ransom call or a breakthrough. But he’s ready to come home at the drop of a hat,” she added quickly in his defense.

Casey refrained from responding. “I’m on my way to Krissy’s school. Then I’m checking out some of the parents on the losing end in your courtroom, as well as Claudia Mitchell.”

“Claudia?” Hope sounded horrified. “I know she was hurt and angry when I let her go. But do you really think she’s capable of kidnapping a child?”

“I don’t know. But no one’s above suspicion, and I’m leaving no stone unturned. My whole team is on the move. I’ll stop by the house later. In the meantime, call me with any updates.”

“I will.”

* * *

Claire Hedgleigh circled the area in the school parking lot where the car that had taken Krissy away had picked her up. The vibes here were dark. Something ugly had definitely happened. And it had taken Krissy totally by surprise. By the time she understood what was going on, it was too late.

With a heavy heart, Claire squatted down and touched the pavement, willing herself to sense more.

Nothing.

“Claire?” Casey walked out of the school, spotted Claire and approached her.

“Hi, Casey.” Claire rose and turned around to face her. “This is the spot where Krissy was kidnapped. It took less than ten seconds for the automatic door locks to close her in and the handkerchief to cover Krissy’s nose and mouth. Another ten seconds and the car was speeding off. Krissy never had time to react.”

Chilling though it was, none of that information surprised Casey. She joined Claire precisely where she stood, and peered over her shoulder. “A well-chosen spot. Out of the surveillance cameras’ field of view.”

Claire followed her gaze. “I didn’t think of that. Obviously, we have an intelligent kidnapper on our hands.”

“You said you sensed Krissy. Is she still alive?”

A helpless shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t connected with her since you and I last spoke. I’m trying to pick up on something—anything. Last night, I took home one of Krissy’s favorite T-shirts. But, so far, nothing. That doesn’t mean she’s alive, or that she’s not. It just means that I can’t will these connections to come. They just do.” Claire gave Casey a measured look. “Unless you’re one of those people who secretly thinks I’m either crazy or a fraud.”

“Nope.” Casey shook her head. “I have the greatest respect for your abilities. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I know you enjoy working for law enforcement. But I’m eager to hire you away. I want you on board at Forensic Instincts.”

Claire started at the blunt and unexpected invitation. “You want to hire me?”

“Uh-huh. On a permanent basis, salary, benefits and all.”

“But you know almost nothing about me.”

“To the contrary, I know a lot about you, starting with your impressive educational background. I know how many cases you’ve worked on. I know your success ratio. I know that you hate the term psychic, because you see it as clichéd and commercial. So do I, by the way. I know that you attribute your metaphysical abilities to claircognizance. I know that claircognizance is perceiving things without being able to understand or explain how or why, but just accepting that you do. I’ve heard you say that sometimes you awaken from a dream with a clear vision of something that’s either happened or is about to happen. I’ve watched you hold a victim’s personal items in your hands and have what others called visions. Terminology doesn’t matter. Neither do nonbelievers. You use your gift as a tool to help others, and with great success. Now, do you still think I know nothing about you?”

For a long moment, Claire just stared, looking both astonished and flattered. It wasn’t often that her talents were so highly regarded, and certainly not so thoroughly researched.

“I’m not sure what to say,” she replied at last. “I’m a little taken aback. This is the last thing I expected when you said you wanted to talk.”

“Well, now you know. I don’t expect an answer on the spot. But would you consider it?”

“Probably.” Claire was nothing if not honest. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t welcome a work environment where my abilities were fully utilized.” A pause. “But I have to ask the obvious. Have you discussed this with your team? Because I seriously doubt Ryan will be all smiles about this.”

“I have, and he is.” Casey’s lips curved. “Did he put up a fight when I brought it up? Sure. Is he skeptical? You know the answer to that. Was he pissed off when I made him pull all that research on you? Of course. But I see your differences as a plus. Healthy debate, bringing different viewpoints to the mix, is what produces the best results. Marc approaches things with an investigative and analytical eye. Ryan is more strategic and technological. I’m all about the psychological, and I tend to go with my gut. We need a spiritual eye to round things out. You’d bring balance to the team. Even Ryan didn’t argue with that. He just promised to challenge you along the way.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Gee, what a surprise. Actually, I thought it would be worse. I thought he’d write me off as a freak, and threaten to quit if I joined the company.”

A chuckle. “Ryan’s not nearly as narrow-minded as he acts when he’s around you. Give him a chance. Give the group a chance. I promise, at the very least, you’ll never be bored.”

“Now that never occurred to me,” Claire responded drily. “Can you give me a day or two to think about it? Especially since I’m committed to the North Castle police on this kidnapping case.”

“Of course. Right now, I don’t want you to invest time in anything except finding Krissy Willis. We’ll pick this conversation up after that. Oh, one more thing. You’re not allergic to or afraid of dogs, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“We got a new team member as of this morning. His name’s Hero, a bloodhound, trained and certified as a human scent evidence dog.” Casey found herself smiling again. “In fact, Ryan’s showing him the ropes this morning. I’m sure I’ll have colorful stories waiting for me when I get back.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Claire glanced over at the school building. “Did you interview teachers?”

“Teachers, custodial staff, mostly the ones who were on the scene when Krissy was taken,” Casey replied. “I didn’t learn anything new. And I certainly didn’t get the sense that any of them was involved.”




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