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.”
“Nor did I.” Claire frowned, staring at the concrete spot where Krissy had disappeared. “The only vibes I’m getting are right here. And they leave me cold. Cold and dark.”
Before Casey could respond, her cell phone rang. She scanned the number on her caller ID. “It’s Hope Willis,” she announced as she punched on the phone. “Yes, Hope.” A pause. “I’m on my way.” She turned to Claire. “A lead was called in on the toll-free tip line regarding the car that kidnapped Krissy. The tip was legit. The NYPD found the car. I’m heading over to the Willises’.”
“I’ll follow you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The car used to kidnap Krissy had been dumped in a South Bronx lot, and stripped clean during its hours sitting on garbage-strewn asphalt. The task force had traced the vehicle to a car rental company at Kennedy airport. The GMC Acadia had been rented using a fake ID and credit card. The signature on the rental agreement was no more than chicken scratch. And, given the high level of activity at the company’s location, most of the employees had no memory of the customer who’d rented that specific car a full day ago. One employee vaguely remembered a woman wearing a hat and sunglasses who might be the person the cops were looking for. Overall, the only thing the employees knew was that the Acadia had yet to be returned and was overdue.
At this point, it was never going back. It was disemboweled—and evidence in a crime.
An immediate evidentiary sweep by ERT showed nothing. Other than some smudges, there were no discernible fingerprints on the vehicle. The offender had obviously wiped them clean before abandoning it. And the car had been ransacked by so many people that there was no way a bloodhound could differentiate the specific scent of the kidnapper. Not to mention there was very little left to smell. The Acadia was as picked clean as a Thanksgiving turkey.
So it was back to square one. Sort of.
“The kidnapper had to leave Krissy somewhere before dumping the car. She wouldn’t risk taking her along,” Casey said to Peg.
“Nope.” Peg shook her head. “The odometer indicates she went straight to the dumping site from Krissy’s school. My guess? She met the main offender there, got rid of the car and took off with him—and Krissy.”
“These kidnappers aren’t stupid,” Casey replied, blowing out a breath. “They knew how to plan. And they know how to elude us.”
“The BAU is fine-tuning their profile, and filling in the task force now. I just came from there. Feel free to go to the command center and listen, since the Willises are going to fill you in anyway. You might as well have your facts straight when you narrow down your list of suspects.” Peg glanced over at Claire. “The North Cast
le police have invited you to attend, as well.”
“Thank you.”
Grace and Hutch were explaining the profile, as well as the inconsistencies of the offender or offenders who’d taken Krissy, when Casey and Claire walked in.
“Unless this is the first in an upcoming pattern of incidents, there’s no evidence that we’re dealing with a serial offender,” Grace was saying. “As a result we have to treat this as an isolated event. It still could be a kidnapping for ransom, although that’s looking less likely with no contact from the kidnapper. But that motive can’t be ruled out, especially when the parents are notably affluent.”
“Are we dealing with one offender or two?” asked one of the North Castle police detectives.
“Our guess is two, simply because of the complex way the crime was carried out and the stats. If our unsub is a child predator, he’s most likely a white male in his thirties, who works with or hangs around children, maybe through coaching or volunteer work. He’d be either unattached or in a nonsexual relationship, and he’d enjoy childlike activities like building model airplanes or playing computer games. He’d probably have endured childhood abuse, and be harboring latent anger, which would flare up if anyone threatened to stand between himself and his victim. The person who kidnapped Krissy Willis was female. Could she be acting alone? Possibly. There are a small percentage of child predators who are female.”
“So you’re definitely thinking this is a sexual offense.”
“That’s certainly right up there on the list,” Hutch replied. “But there are variables that just don’t fit—not the offender or the victim. Normally, a child predator has a much less complicated M.O. This one went to a hell of a lot of trouble to snatch one specific child. The typical child predator operates in a simpler and more invisible way. He seeks out a withdrawn, vulnerable child. Krissy is neither of those, nor is she an easy target. Her parents are both very high-profile people, and they’re both very present in their daughter’s life.”
“Which might give a certain type of offender a sense of power,” Casey commented from the rear of the room.
Hutch angled his head in her direction and nodded. “It might. That’s another gray area, both in terms of profile and motive. Whoever’s running the show here is either unbothered by, or turned on by formulating a plan that’s intricate and in our faces. He or she is smart. This crime was well planned and well researched. There wasn’t an iota of impulsiveness about it. And it’s personal. Krissy Willis is personal. Whoever took her wanted her, and her specifically. Which smacks of either a need for power or revenge.”
“If that’s true, this won’t end as a quiet closed case,” Casey responded. “The offender will want notoriety, or recognition. Krissy will turn up.”
“In one form or another, yes.” Hutch’s tone was grim. “Our job is to find her before she ‘turns up,’ and to find her alive.”
Marc sat calmly in the waiting room of Dr. Brian A. Pierson, flipping through the pages of a medical magazine. The renowned neurologist’s office, which until several months ago had been crammed with patients, was relatively quiet. And getting a new patient appointment, which would normally mean a lengthy waiting period, had been a snap. Not a surprise, given that the doctor’s name and photo had been splashed all over newspapers since he’d been charged with murdering his wife in cold blood. The evidence against him was staggering. There wasn’t a doubt in Marc’s mind that the SOB was guilty. And not just of murder. Through his discreet but well-informed contacts, Marc had uncovered all kinds of ugly little secrets about the renowned neurologist. Pierson should be rotting in prison, not making hundreds of dollars an hour practicing medicine.
But Edward Willis had defended him. And that was his ticket to freedom.
“Mr. Deveraux? Dr. Pierson will see you now,” the receptionist informed him.
“Thank you.” Marc followed her down the hall, where she motioned him into an inner sanctum the size of two adjoining lecture halls at the FBI Academy in Quantico. She left him there, shutting the door behind her.
The very recognizable Dr. Pierson rose from behind his heavy mahogany desk. “Mr. Deveraux,” he said, greeting Marc with a handshake. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured at a leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, simultaneously glancing down at the new patient forms Marc had filled out.
“So you’re suffering from severe headaches, and your primary care physician suggested they could be migraines.” Pierson’s eyebrows drew together. “You didn’t list the referring doctor.”
“Nope. That’s because there is none. And my headaches are usually from lack of food or sleep.”
Every muscle in Pierson’s body went rigid. “Are you a reporter? Because I’ll have you arrested on charges of—”
“I’m not a reporter,” Marc interrupted. “I’m a member of Forensic Instincts, a private investigative company.”
“I was acquitted.” Pierson rose. “Please leave.”
Marc made no move to stand. “I’m not here to discuss your murder case. I’m here to discuss the kidnapping of Edward Willis’s five-year-old daughter.”
The neurologist started. “His daughter? When did this happen?”
“Evidently, you don’t watch the news. Yesterday. After school. The Willises have hired us to find her.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?” A pulse was working at Pierson’s temple. “What motive would I have? Edward saved me from a life sentence in a maximum security prison.”
“And destroyed your reputation in the process. He’s a splashy guy, made sure your story was a household word. From what I gather, you and Willis had several heated arguments about his sensationalistic strategy, especially as you watched your patient list dwindle. Not to mention that his legal fees—which he refused to reduce—pretty well wiped you out. And I didn’t notice a waiting room full of patients here to tip the coffers in your favor. A hefty ransom would do wonders toward getting you back on your feet.”
“I feel nothing but respect and gratitude for Edward. He did what he had to do. And I don’t abduct children. Not for money. Not for anything.”
“But you certainly like them.”
Pierson’s pupils widened. “What does that mean?”
“It means that your ten-year-old daughter, Melanie, went off to boarding school soon after her mother died. Or, more specifically, right before your trial.”
“I didn’t want her subjected to—”
“Yes, that’s what Willis told the jury. But the truth is, Melanie had complained to your wife about the amount of time you were spending with her friends. Sleepover dates you encouraged, pool parties you threw on warm summer evenings—during which you spent inordinate amounts of time with the girls. Making physical contact with them when you taught them how to swim. Stopping upstairs in Melanie’s bedroom when they were getting ready for bed.”
“That’s enough.” Pierson’s fist struck his desk. “I don’t know where you got your information, but I could sue you for slander.”
“You could. But you won’t.” Marc bent one leg and propped it over the other knee. “Because everything I just said is true and is documented. Sealed, but documented. So tell me, Dr. Pierson, just how fond are you of five-year-old girls?”
Pierson’s breath was coming fast. “My daughter has an active imagination. I don’t covet young girls, and I certainly don’t lust after babies. A five-year-old? That’s sick. If you plan to spread rumors that I’m a sexual predator…”
“I don’t. So let’s stop talking in generalizations. Let’s get back to Krissy Willis.”
A frosty glare. “I’m neither a kidnapper nor an extortionist, Mr. Deveraux.”
No, Marc thought with revulsion. Just a pervert and a murderer. “Where were you yesterday from three o’clock on?” he asked.
“Right here in my office. My nurse, my receptionist and two colleagues can testify to that. I came in at ten and didn’t leave until six.”
“And then
?”
“Then I drove straight home. Speak to my housekeeper. She cooked me dinner and cleaned up afterwards. She didn’t leave until after eight.”
“What about lunchtime? Did you go out?”
“I had Chinese food delivered. Do you want to see the receipt?”
“Nope. That won’t be necessary.” Mentally, Marc crossed Pierson off his list of suspects. He’d known it was a long shot. But every lead had to be pursued. Plus, if nothing else, Marc’s visit would keep Pierson on his toes, force him to control his unnatural propensity for young girls. The last thing the neurologist needed right now was more scrutiny and scandal.
Marc would have loved to break the guy’s jaw. But that wasn’t in the cards—not this time.
“What about any of your wife’s relatives?” he asked instead. “Or her friends? Anyone close to her who disagreed with the not-guilty verdict and who’s got the temperament to act on it?”
“Fran had no living relatives,” Pierson replied in a clipped tone. “And I’m not well acquainted enough with her friends to know if any of them is deranged. Talk to the prosecutor. The people you’re asking about were his witnesses.”
“I already have,” Marc reassured him. “But I wanted to follow up with you. First, because I didn’t think you’d want the prosecutor to hear my theories about your daughter’s friends. And second, because he’s a lawyer—you were a husband. Generally, they’re privy to more intricate details of their spouses’ lives than a stranger is.”
“Fran’s friends were all mothers. I can’t imagine…”
“Nor can I. But it happens.” Marc skimmed his notes. “I got a list of those friends. Would you object if I were to interview them?”
“No. Not that it would matter. You’d interview them with or without my permission.”
“Actually, I already have.” He smiled what he knew was his most irritating smile. “I just wanted to see your reaction. Clearly, none of them has a clue about your affinity for preteen girls. Which is all that matters to me. Their opinions on the murder are moot. You were acquitted. Double jeopardy applies. Plus, my job is to find Krissy Willis, not your wife’s killer.”