Andrea Kane - The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

“I agree,” Patrick Lynch chimed in. “I remember what a mess he was after Felicity was taken. He was actively involved in every step of the investigation. He might remember something we’re forgetting. We have to track him down and talk to him.”

Casey whipped out her BlackBerry. “I’ll get Ryan on it right away. He can find anyone.” She punched in her office number and swiftly relayed the details of what she needed to Ryan. “He’ll get back to me as soon as he has something,” she reported, punching off her phone.

Lynch reversed his steps, turning and heading for the hall. “I’m going to pull Peg Harrington aside and tell her the situation. Then, we can get started.”

Casey glanced at Hope, who was currently leaning over to soothe her mother. Using the brief window of time to her advantage, Casey walked discreetly over to Patrick Lynch, way-laying him in the doorway with a hand on his forearm.

“Mr. Lynch, before you go, I have a blunt question to ask you. Would you be willing to combine your resources with Forensic Instincts, and work in conjunction with us? The advantage is that you and my team share the same independent status. The FBI task force is inundated with avenues to pursue and potential suspects to interview. I doubt that opening up a cold case that’s three decades old is high on their list.”

A corner of Lynch’s mouth lifted. “In other words, you want access to my notes and to the old case file.”

“Precisely.” Casey saw no point in playing games. “Like I said, the Bureau can’t put their resources into what appears to be a long shot. But we can. Not to mention the fact that we can push the boundaries in ways the police and the FBI can’t.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “I agree with your first premise. The task force has to concentrate on the most promising-and current-leads. As for the boundary-pushing, I’m not interested. After thirty-five years with the Bureau, I’m a creature of habit. On the other hand, I don’t miss the paperwork. So I don’t mind cutting a few corners. Just don’t expect me to be a maverick. If you can live with that, I’d be happy to take you up on your offer- if the sharing of information is mutual.”

“It will be.”

“Good.” Lynch’s tone said that he was on board. “And, by the way, the name’s Patrick.”

Informal. Direct. No bullshit.

Casey liked this man.

“And I’m Casey,” she replied. “I’ll make sure you meet my other team members, Marc and Ryan, ASAP. In the meantime, can we talk after you get the okay from Peg? That way, you can fill in some blanks for me, and I’ll do the same for you. It’ll eliminate my having to ask too much of Mrs. Akerman. The last thing she and Hope need is to be repeatedly dragged through the worst time of their lives. Especially now. We need to keep their hopes alive, not imply that Krissy’s case will end the same way Felicity’s did.”

“I think that’s wise.” Patrick nodded. “I’ll talk to Peg. Then I’ll meet you outside the house in twenty minutes.”

As requested, Casey gave Ryan a quick call while she was waiting outside.

“Okay, I’m alone now,” she said. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I’ve got the names of four disgruntled fathers who lost custody of their kids in Judge Willis’s courtroom during the last few months,” he replied. “All who were ripping pissed when she took away their custodial rights. All whose background checks show raging tempers and questionable lifestyles. All who fit our main kidnapper’s profile-right down to girlfriends with low self-esteem. And all who openly threatened Judge Willis in her courtroom. I’ll text you the list.”

“Let’s not waste time hanging up and texting.” Casey whipped out a pad and pen. “I’ll write down the info and check into it.” She scribbled all the specifics Ryan provided, including names, addresses, phone numbers and current employment information. “I’ll pay these guys visits as soon as I’ve talked to Patrick Lynch. He’s a real find. You’ll like him.”

“I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll dig up what I can on Sidney Akerman. The guy is either dead or really doesn’t want to be found.”

“Interesting.” Casey digested that tidbit. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Your canine vacuum cleaner and gauze pads got here, along with some jars and tongs. And your dog just peed on my shoe.”

Casey laughed. “Then take him out. He could use the exercise. Unlike you, he doesn’t have a gym membership.”

“Maybe he should. He’s already dragged me to the park and sniffed out every square inch.” A sigh. “Fine. I’ll take him out back and tire him out. I hope he’s not getting a salary. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“He will. That’s what that STU-100, canine vacuum cleaner, is for.”

“Good. Then he can use his first paycheck to reimburse us for the rug-and me for my shoes. On the other hand, he’s got a hell of a nose. He’d be a great navigator for adventure racing.”

“You and Hero can coordinate your schedules later. And I’ll explain the STU-100 to you.”

“No need. This is me. Already checked the website. I know the drill. Gauze in place. Personal article on gauze. Vacuum for thirty seconds. Gauze collects smells. Jar stores gauze. Hero has Krissy’s scent. Done deal.”

“Nice. Concise. Now go find Sidney Akerman.”

“All over it like white on rice.”

Sal Diaz stopped pushing his lawn mower, and dragged a sweaty arm across his forehead. He was working at the house across the street from the elementary school. The place was crawling with cops and FBI. It was only a matter of time before they questioned him and Rita, alibis or no alibis. Sal was the Willises’ gardener, and his wife was their housekeeper. They spent hours a week at the huge Willis house. The cops would definitely be asking about them. They’d dig up the facts that Sal had a history of brawling and domestic disturbances, and that he and Rita were in debt up to their asses. If the Muellers and the Kitners hadn’t vouched for their whereabouts, they’d probably be in custody now.

But how long would that safety net last?

Sal had been cutting the Kitners’ lawn between two and four yesterday. And Rita had been cleaning the Muellers’ house.

The Willis kid had been taken by a woman. The Muellers both worked, Mrs. Mueller until three. She’d walked through her door yesterday afternoon right around the time school closed. Technically, Rita could have left the house, grabbed the kid and stashed her somewhere, then pretended to be downstairs in the laundry room if Mrs. Mueller walked in a minute before her. The timing was too damned close. And Sal’s background was too damned sketchy.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He couldn’t risk putting himself and Rita in the hot seat. Not unless-or until-the cops put them there. At that point, he wouldn’t have to go to them. They’d come to him.

And he’d tell them what he knew.

Hope stood in Krissy’s bedroom, tears coursing down her cheeks as she berated herself for everything that had happened.

It was her fault. Why hadn’t she left work just a little earlier yesterday? Why hadn’t she surprised Krissy by picking her up at school? Why hadn’t she known in her gut that something was wrong?

She was a mother. And mothers were supposed to know.

But she hadn’t.

Had she told Krissy she loved her when they said goodbye that morning? Had she hugged her? Had she tucked those stubborn wisps of unruly hair behind her ears before letting her out near the kindergarten door?

Would she ever have the chance to do those simple, priceless things again?

Her precious little girl. Would she ever hold her again, hear her sweet voice, revel in her exuberance? Would she ever share her childhood, struggle through her teens, see her grow to womanhood?