The Girl Who Disappeared Twice (23 page)

“Wow.” Casey was processing all this as quickly as she could. “I don’t understand. How could she have had a child, much less lost one, and no one knew about it? Vera sure as hell didn’t. She spoke of Linda as if she were childless. And there were no obituaries? No local articles about a child drowning in her own backyard?”

“Evidently, Linda was the protective type,” Ryan replied. “She managed to keep everything out of the newspapers. All that exists is a police report. Even when Anna was alive, Linda homeschooled her, and kept her pretty isolated from other kids her age.”

A weighty pause that Casey recognized.

Ryan was about to tell her something significant.

“Except for soccer,” he reported. “Anna loved the game. So Linda let her play in a small league two towns over. It was private, exclusive—and damned expensive. But it was noncompetitive and low-key. She also had a private coach instruct her at home once a week—a
very
expensive private coach. Anna’s only other love was horseback riding. Linda gave in to that. She quarter-leased a horse for her. That costs a ton. Other than that, Anna was at home with her mother. No other siblings. No other family at all.”

“The father?”

“Died when she was a toddler. Linda Turner raised her daughter alone. And on a lean budget. Her husband didn’t leave her much money.”

“So she wasn’t flush after she became a widow. And she was an E.R. nurse—an admirable but not six-figure paying profession. Where did she get the means to give her daughter private soccer lessons, an exclusive team membership
and
her own horse?”

“You tell me. Also, tell me how far she would go to get her hands on that sum of money? Or what would she owe someone who gave it to her?”

“And isn’t it a coincidence that Anna’s main passion was soccer, of all things? Just like Felicity’s? Not to mention the timing of Anna’s death in relation to Felicity’s kidnapping?” Casey leaned back against her car seat, the phone anchored in the crook of her shoulder, her hands inadvertently gripping the steering wheel. “This is big, Ryan. It’s the biggest break we’ve had. And it feels right. Where is Linda Turner now? I don’t think that Vera’s seen her in a while.”

“And she probably won’t. Linda’s still listed at the same address in a rural area of Wappingers Falls, about an hour north of Westchester County. But her phone is disconnected, and there’s no one living there. I called the local PD right away. They headed over there ASAP. The place is deserted—all her clothing’s gone, there’s no food in the fridge, the whole nine yards.”

“So she cleared out.”

“You got it.”

“Damn.” Casey slammed her palms on the steering wheel in frustration. “No friends. No address. I’ll talk to Vera, but I’m sure she can’t tell us anything we don’t already know. She might have a photo of her in one of the camp pictures. And I’m sure she can give a description to a sketch artist.”

“Plus you have me. Get me that photo and I’ll use my age progression software to create a present-day image of Linda. Vera can proof it. And we can distribute it, along with her sketch, to every law enforcement agency in New York State.”

“Fine, but that takes time. We’ve got to act now. We’ve got to figure out Linda’s mind-set—her
real
mind-set—at the time Felicity was kidnapped.” An ambivalent pause as Casey wrestled with what she wanted and what she knew was ethical. “You mentioned that Linda had counseling after her daughter died.”

“Yup.”

“You don’t happen to know who her therapist back then was, do you?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Ryan chuckled, ignoring Casey’s customary internal battle. “I’ve got a name and address of his current practice. And, from my cyber stalking, I learned the happy fact that Linda’s shrink is a pack rat who keeps files from the year one. So somewhere in that office is his file on Linda Turner.”

“And you’ve already thought of a way to get your hands on it.”

“I repeat—do you really need to ask?”

This time Casey smiled. “Never. Not when it comes to you.”

“The psychiatrist’s name is Stanley Sherman. His office is in a three-story building in White Plains, not far from the courthouse where Hope presides. As soon as you and I hang up, I’ll be hitting up Marc. He and Hero blew out of here a little while ago. He was a man on a mission.”

“And that mission, I take it, is about to change?”

“Damn straight.” Ryan was already tinkering with something in the background. Casey could hear the sounds of metal being manipulated. That meant one of Ryan’s toys. And she knew exactly which one.

“The little critter?” she asked.

“Yup. Gecko is about to make his debut performance.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Marc met Ryan inside his van at the designated spot half a block away from Dr. Sherman’s building.

“Nice work with Diaz,” Ryan commented after Marc had hopped in. “You didn’t trust him from the beginning.”

A shrug. “All we found out was that he’d left Casey the note and that he saw Krissy’s abductor come and go from the Willises’ house. Not much at this point. And it pales next to what you dug up.” Marc glanced over his shoulder at the back of the van to see what supplies Ryan had brought with him today. There was a packed duffel bag, along with Ryan’s ever-present laptop. “So how are we doing this?”

“I did a quick tour of the building while you were filling the FBI in on Diaz’s story. Sherman’s office is on the second floor. His receptionist is out today. So we’ve got that on our side. But Sherman’s in with a patient. We’ll have to wait for him to go to lunch.”

Marc grunted. “At which point he’ll lock the office door behind him.”

“You’ll take care of that part,” Ryan continued, reaching behind him for the duffel bag. He pulled out some tools, which Marc pocketed, followed by a maintenance uniform, which he passed over to Marc. “Time to wear service coveralls again. You should be used to it by now—and they bring out your eyes. Now go in the back and put this on,” he instructed. “I’ll fill you in on the rest as you change.”

“Done.” Marc climbed into the rear section of the van and began yanking the uniform on over his clothes. “Why do I know this is going to involve your little critter robot?”

“Because it is.” Ryan didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been dying to try him out. Now’s my chance. There’s a maintenance closet in the basement,” he informed Marc. “That’s where I found your uniform. Grab one of those carts so you can look authentic. Then we’ll time this until you can do your thing with the lock. Once you’re inside Sherman’s office, I’ll tell you what to do. More specifically, Gecko will.”

Marc’s fingers paused on a shirt button. “Explain.”

“When I stole your uniform, I went up to the roof,” Ryan said calmly. “I placed my little guy inside the air-conditioning ductwork. I’ll steer him down to where we want him, inside a duct in Sherman’s office. There are built-in cameras inside Gecko that’ll scan the place, and a microphone that can communicate with you. So Gecko becomes your robo-lookout. And it’s all connected to my trusty laptop.” Ryan reached back and patted the computer. “Together you and I will find the file on Linda Turner. You’ll photocopy what we need, put everything back the way you found it, and get out of there. I’ll steer Gecko back to safety. And we’ll hope that there’s something in the file that’ll lead us to our suspect.”

“Got it.” There wasn’t a shred of surprise in Marc’s response. He knew Ryan, knew the way his brilliant mind worked. He respected the hell out of him. And, tactical and physical skills combined, they worked really well together. “Do I need an earbud?”

“While you’re waiting for my ‘all clear’ signal, yes. But, once you’re inside the office, we can talk to each other through Gecko’s mike. The earbuds alone wouldn’t give me a visual. Besides, like I said, mostly I’m dying to try the little guy out. This is a cool way to do a trial run.”

“Ready.” Marc finished donning his uniform, adjusted his earbud and peered out the window. “You first, or me?”

“You. I can position Gecko in ten minutes.”

“Then I’m gone.”

Marc sauntered down to the maintenance closet and found a cart, which he promptly filled with mops, brooms, rags and various chemical cleaners. Then he made his way up the stairwell, avoiding the elevators so he wouldn’t run into anyone who asked questions. He carried the cart ahead of him, until he’d reached the second floor. He passed a couple of women walking down to the main corridor, laughing and heading out for a coffee break. He kept his head low and his attention on his cart, although he couldn’t help but chuckle silently at the man-bashing conversation. His presence didn’t slow them down a bit. To them he was invisible, so they continued their chatter. Charlie—the clueless boyfriend whose head was on the chopping block—was about to be dumped. Evidently, he was an inconsiderate bastard, and lousy in bed to boot.

It was this kind of crap that made Marc glad he wasn’t the heavy-relationship type.

The second-floor staircase was deserted, and Marc emerged without a hitch. The hall was a different story. There were three lawyers standing outside their offices, discussing a litigation case. Marc moved slowly past them, noting the numbers on the doors. Good. Sherman’s office was around the bend. As long as the attorneys stayed where they were and Marc didn’t run into anyone else, he’d be able to do his job without a problem.

Almost home free.

“He just left for lunch.”

Marc heard Ryan’s voice in his ear as he rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Dr. Sherman.

“No shit,” Marc muttered under his breath. Aloud, he murmured a heavily accented, “Excuse me,” keeping his head low. Ryan almost lost it and cracked up laughing, as he heard Sherman call Marc a clumsy idiot, before tromping off.

Marc spied Sherman’s office, his name on the door in big letters. Reflexively, he gave a quick scan of the hall. Empty.

Satisfied, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then, he extracted his flathead screwdriver and file, carefully inserting them in the lock and feeling his way, listening until he heard the telltale click. He pushed open the door and tucked away his tools. Dragging the maintenance cart in behind him, he yanked the door shut, walking through the reception area and into the main office behind it.

“What took you so long?” Ryan inquired through the air duct.

Marc arched a brow. “Nice warning. Timely, too. I almost flattened the shrink. What happened to not drawing attention to myself?”

“Sorry. Let’s get to it. Sherman takes short lunch breaks. That gives us maybe thirty minutes tops.” Ryan fell silent for a moment. “I think I see a file room in the back.”

“Yup, you do. And fortunately there’s no lock on the door.” Marc picked up the pace, striding across the floor and shoving open the door. “Are you in here?” he asked Ryan.

“Sure am. There’s an air-conditioning vent to your left. Gecko followed you in.” A low whistle. “I knew Sherman was a pack rat, but this lends new meaning to the phrase. There are file cabinets everywhere.”

“Lucky me.” One by one, Marc scanned the labels on the cabinets, which listed the files inside by date. “These only go back twenty-five years. Shit. Where are the rest?” He scrutinized the room.

There were loose stacks of files in the far corner.

“Let me try those,” he said to Ryan, pointing.

“Good idea.” Ryan waited while Marc squatted down and began rummaging through the files. He was careful to keep them in the same order he’d found them.

“These are the oldies but goodies,” Marc muttered, going back thirty, then thirty-plus years. “Bingo.” He stopped when he saw the name:
Turner, Linda.
“I got it,” he told Ryan.

“Great. The copying machine’s in the reception area. I’m moving Gecko to the main corridor outside the office. He’ll watch the door and the hallway.”

Marc headed right for the reception room and the copying machine, which was in plain view. He turned it on, and it whirred to life. Opening Linda’s file, he took out the stack of handwritten pages, and fed them into the machine.

It took about fifteen minutes to complete the job, and three minutes to return the reassembled file to its pile in the back room.

Leaving the office, Marc shut and locked the door behind him. He looked up at the vent and snapped off a salute. “See you back at the van, little guy.”

I’m scared, Mommy. Please come and find me.

It’s been a bunch of days. My cartoons have been reruns five times. I counted. She puts them on for me every day. And then she sits and watches me watch them.

It’s creepy, Mommy.
She’s
creepy.

I keep crying and crying—not when she’s here, because it makes her act weird and mushy. And that’s scarier than when she watches me play or tries to play with me. I only cry when I’m alone with Oreo and Ruby.

I don’t want to play the stupid computer game she gave me. She said she made it. I don’t care. I want
my
games back. I want to play them in
my
room, on
my
computer. But every time I ask if I can go home, she says I
am
home. I don’t know what she means. I’m in a pink room. She says it’s my princess room. I’m afraid to tell her that it’s not mine.

She’s wearing your necklace. And she smells like you. I don’t know why. But it makes me want to hide.

Oreo’s fur is all wet. Ruby’s feathers are, too. My crying did that. But they understand because they’re crying, too.

Why does she keep telling me that she’s my mommy? She’s
not
my mommy.
You
are. But when I tell her that, she gets mad at me. She says weird stuff. I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid she’ll do something bad. So I don’t say it anymore.

She keeps coming down here. I can count the stairs by the sound of her shoes. There are fourteen.

I hate that number. I hate hearing her come. I’m so happy when she goes away.

I don’t know who’s upstairs. But when she’s up there, I can hear her talking to someone. Only they never come down. Only her.

Maybe they’re scarier than she is.

I wish she’d go away forever. I don’t care about the ice cream and the toys and the bubble baths. I just want to go home.

Please, Mommy. I’m scared.

Please come and take me home.

Casey met Marc and Ryan in the parking lot of an Armonk pub. She left her car and climbed into Ryan’s van. There, she studied the psychiatrist’s official report for the hospital’s medical review board, declaring Linda fit to return to work. She also read through Linda Turner’s file, line by line, even though Marc and Ryan had summed it up perfectly on the phone.

There was no doubt that the poor woman had come apart at the seams right after her daughter drowned. She was inconsolable and despondent when she’d first starting seeing Dr. Sherman. Anna had clearly been her entire world. And that world had died with Anna.

Linda had made very little progress in the first months. But after intensive therapy, and a chunk of time, she’d begun to come back. Dr. Sherman was very pleased with her progress. And, by the time he’d given her the green light to return to work, he’d been more than confident that she was ready to start rebuilding her life, one baby step at a time. Starting with work, which he believed would give her a sense of purpose and something to focus on besides her grief.

He had, however, recommended that Linda continue with her counseling sessions, at least on a weekly basis. And she had…for a while. Then, without warning, she’d stopped going. From the doctor’s notes, it looked as if her insurance was no longer willing to cover the visits. Dr. Sherman had offered to work out some arrangement, perhaps a reduced rate, so that Linda could continue with her sessions. But she had respectfully turned him down, assuring him that her monetary situation was fine, as was her mental health. Things in her life were looking up.

In what way? With what money?

There were no answers to Casey’s questions. Because, abruptly, the file came to an end. The progress reports stopped. So, apparently, did Linda’s association with Dr. Sherman.

That in itself was a red flag.

But the chilling part was that Linda’s psychiatric sessions ended two weeks before Felicity Akerman was kidnapped.

Casey tossed down the file. “This is it. The timeline and coincidences can’t be ignored. And it changes everything, maybe even the focus of the investigation. We’ve got to act now.”

“We can’t take this one on alone, Casey,” Marc stated flatly. “We’ve got to involve the FBI task force.”

Ryan turned to Marc. “Since when do you worry about playing by the rules?”

“He’s right, Ryan,” Casey said. “This isn’t about rules. It’s about telling law enforcement what they need to know, and increasing our manpower. Linda Turner has to be found.”

“We can’t just turn over her psychiatric file,” Ryan responded. He went back to punching in information on his laptop, searching at top speed for any trail of their suspect. “We got it illegally. That means we could go to jail. Plus, the Feds can’t use it in court, anyway.”

“We won’t turn over the file,” Marc said. Being former BAU, he had the greatest knowledge and the most experience with the FBI. “We’ll just act as confidential informants. Based on what we know, we’ll give them verbal specifics, which will convince them to act without compromising their case.”

“I agree.” Casey was already up and climbing out of the van, her car keys in her hand. “Let’s go.”

Peg, Don and Hutch—along with two other CARD team members, three agents, Sergeant Bennett of the North Castle P.D. and Patrick Lynch—gathered in the command center in the Willises’ media suite, listening while Casey and her Forensic Instincts team presented the facts they’d uncovered.

The reaction was much as Ryan had suggested.

Hutch jumped in first. “Where did you get your information?”

Casey met his gaze directly, unblinking, as she replied. “From the most reliable of sources. That’s all you need to know.”

“You mean, that’s all we’ll
want
to know,” Peg clarified. She rolled her eyes, torn between irritation, worry over making a potential conviction stick and the sense of urgency based on getting to a woman who might very well have Krissy. “Dammit, Casey, why do you insist on putting us in this position?”

“It’s not intentional. You know that. But it’s almost a week, Peg. Krissy’s life is in our hands.”

“Casey’s right.” It was Don who spoke up. CARD team or not, he wanted to find that child. “We can argue over protocol later. Casey’s team hasn’t compromised us by sharing physical evidence that might or might not have been illegally obtained. It’s all word of mouth. We’ll find a way to write this up and present it in court—later. Now we’ve got to pool our resources and find Linda Turner.”