Andrea Kane - The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

And he was a gardener. He worked with dirt all day. If he was freaking out about his involvement in a child abduction, he might very well have caved and left Casey that note.

There were too many clues to ignore.

Abruptly, Marc came to his feet.

“Come on, Hero,” he muttered to the bloodhound. “We’re going to pay a surprise visit.”

While Ryan jumped on his background checks, Casey took photos of DeMassi and his son to Claire.

“Hi.” Claire looked surprised to see Casey standing at her apartment door. “Has something happened?”

“I wish.” Casey waved the photos in the air. “I’d like you to take a look at these, tell me if you pick up anything from them.” She purposely refrained from identifying DeMassi, or giving Claire a hint as to what she should feel. This experiment had to be objective.

“Of course. Come in.” Claire stood aside and let Casey in. “I had no idea you knew where I lived.”

A hint of a smile. “I’m like Santa Claus. I know everything.”

“In other words, you had Ryan find me.”

“Exactly.” Casey glanced around her. Claire’s apartment was much like she’d expected it to be. Muted pastels. Wicker furniture-and not a lot of it. And paintings of sweeping landscapes decorating the walls. There was something both lovely and ethereal about the place. Just like Claire herself.

“Have a seat,” Claire invited, gesturing toward the living room. “I just made a pot of green tea, and I was about to review my notes on the Willis case yet again. Care to join me?”

“On both counts, yes, thanks.” Casey went in and sank down on the pale aqua-and-sand-colored cushion of the wicker sofa.

“The North Castle police called. They told me about the note that was left for you, and that Special Agent Hutchinson had sent it down to Quantico for analysis. Did anything come of it?” Claire asked, carrying in a tray of tea and scones.

“Nothing substantial. No discernible fingerprints. Just some traces of dirt on the page.”

“Dirt,” Claire repeated. A brief silence, while a veiled look clouded her eyes. “Whoever left that note on your stoop was frightened. They felt trapped. I…” She rubbed her forehead, trying hard to concentrate. “I’m feeling male energy. I could be wrong, though. I’m not physically at your brownstone. So I’m getting this far from the source.”

“Maybe you should be at my brownstone.” Casey took her cup of tea with a nod of thanks. “Permanently.” She hurried on, shelving that discussion for later. “I know you’re working for the police. But, Claire, I need anything you can give me. My confidence is starting to waver. Krissy’s been gone for too long.”

“Don’t let your faith sway. Krissy is still alive. I know it.”

“I pray you’re right. That feeling of yours is all Hope Willis has been clinging to.”

“But it’s not enough. I understand.” Claire sank down and poured herself some tea. Then she glanced at the photos Casey was holding and extended her hand. “May I see them?”

“Definitely.” Casey passed them over. “Take your time. Tell me anything you pick up.”

Claire looked at the photographs, one at a time. There were several of each man-alone, with their families, even just the two of them.

Five minutes passed. Then, ten.

Finally, Claire raised her head and met Casey’s gaze. “I’m not getting anything. Except an ugly feeling. These aren’t good men. But who they are, what they’ve done, that I can’t tell you. They’re strangers to me.”

Casey blew out a discouraged breath. “Any ties to Krissy? Even the vaguest sense of the younger man being in her presence?”

“Nothing.” Claire’s delicate eyebrows rose. “Why? Are they suspects?”

“They’re members of the Vizzini crime family. Lou DeMassi and his son, Lou Junior. There’s a possibility that they’re connected with both kidnappings-Felicity’s and Krissy’s.”

Claire studied Casey’s face with a perceptive expression. “But you don’t think that’s the case.”

“I don’t know what to think. Sidney’s ties to the mob can’t be ignored. But I feel as if we’re trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. The connection just doesn’t feel right. Although I’m still convinced that the two kidnappings are related. I don’t care if they are separated by thirty-two years. And Patrick agrees with me.”

Claire frowned. “But if it isn’t Sidney Akerman’s threats from the mob, then what’s the link?”

“That’s the problem.” Casey ran frustrated fingers through her hair. “I can’t find one. And I’ve got to.”

Ryan barely heard Marc leave. He was too busy cross-checking lists of prospective subjects and ranking them in order of importance before beginning his in-depth background checks. There was no point in striking out blindly. Some of these people he’d already done topical searches on. And some of them had been back-burnered when Bennato Construction had come into play.

Such as the main players in the Akermans’ personal lives-players whose appearances had escalated closer to the time of Felicity’s kidnapping. And players whose financial woes magically improved after the abduction.

His adrenaline pumping, Ryan’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his sharp eyes and even sharper mind taking in every piece of information that surfaced.

He happened to get lucky. Based on his calculations, one of the first names on his list popped up with something shockingly powerful.

Ryan stared at the screen in surprise. Then, he went into hypermode, digging and digging until he had a good chunk of the story in place. There were still pieces missing, like where the money had come from and how much it had been. Also, what psychiatric prognosis had resulted from the treatment, and exactly what people had been part of the support network. Any one of them could have been the connection to the mob.

There were lots of questions Ryan didn’t have answers to- yet . But he intended to find them.

In the meantime, he was already punching in Casey’s cell phone number.

Sal Diaz was clipping hedges at a home that was down the street from the Willises’ when Marc’s car pulled up. The gardener stopped what he was doing, although he made no move to run away. He simply watched Marc climb out of the car, leash up his dog and head over. If Marc had to guess, based on Diaz’s body language, it was almost as if he’d been expecting law enforcement to come knocking at his door.

“Hello, Mr. Diaz,” he greeted the short, squat man with the nervous dark eyes. “We spoke a few days ago. Do you remember?”

A terse nod. “You’re that guy who’s not the FBI or the police. You asked me a lot of questions. Rita, too. Everyone else believed me. You didn’t. I could tell. Even though my wife and I both have alibis, you still think we did something wrong.” He shifted uneasily. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No you don’t. But you will.” Marc spoke in that tough, no-bullshit tone that made the hair on people’s necks stand up. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to make you very unhappy. And I’ll do it where no one can see us and where there are no witnesses.”

Diaz paled, but he didn’t respond.

Hero had been sniffing the gardener’s work boots. Now, he let out a braying bark.

Marc glanced down at him. “My dog seems to recognize you,” he told Diaz. “That’s interesting. Because he wasn’t with me when I asked you those questions you’re talking about. So how would he know you? Or, more specifically, where would he know you from?”

“I don’t know.” Diaz’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “I never saw him before.”