by Andrea Kane
“Dirt?” Casey straightened. “What kind of dirt? The kind you find on a lawn or in a garden, or the kind you find at a construction site?”
“Hard to tell. It could have been any of the above.”
“Dammit.” Casey set down her coffee cup with a thud. “So we’re back to square one. What family are we discussing—the Vizzini family or the Willis family?”
Hutch was quiet for a minute as he poured himself some coffee. “It’s a little unusual for a mob soldier to be stupid enough not to wear gloves.”
Casey’s eyebrows drew together. “So you think it sounds more like a layperson than a seasoned criminal who left me that note.”
“Not sure. But my gut tells me yes.”
“So does mine. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t sleep all night. We’ve investigated the Willises and the Akermans from every possible angle. Yet I can’t help but wonder if we’re missing something. Plus, another thing occurred to me. I know that Claire isn’t a scientific source of information, but not one of the visions she’s had has included anything beyond Krissy and Hope. Why isn’t she picking up on the mob? She got the same feeling from Deale as I did—that he was a pawn who knew nothing more than he was saying. Should we be showing her the sketches of DeMassi and his son? Would that spawn some kind of reaction?”
Hutch drew a slow breath. “I can’t comment on that, Casey. You know I’m not big on the whole idea of psychics. But if you think otherwise, fine. It can’t hurt to show the sketches to Claire. In my opinion, however, our best tie-in to either family is Sidney Akerman.”
“The rest of the FBI team agrees with you. Peg and Don are reinterviewing Sidney this morning. Patrick’s joining them.” Casey inclined her head quizzically. “Want to be there? Because I sure do.”
“Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Peg, Don and Patrick were reinterviewing Sidney behind the closed doors of the first-floor den when Casey and Hutch arrived. Hutch’s presence was more than welcome. Any light he could shed on what they learned would be greatly appreciated. And Peg had no issue with Casey being there. To her, the time for protocol was over. All that mattered was finding Krissy Willis.
Sidney was perched nervously in a chair, his fingers working feverishly as he addressed the questions being flung his way. He’d been ready and waiting when the others marched in. He was staying here with Hope, despite her ambivalence about having him live under her roof, however temporary. On the one hand, he was her father. On the other hand, he was probably at the heart of everything tragic that had happened to her sister, and now to her daughter. It wasn’t an easy pill to swallow, but for expediting the investigation, it was a no-brainer.
Casey and Hutch settled themselves on the leather couch, while Peg and Don stood formidably in front of Sidney, and Patrick paced the floor, listening and occasionally firing an additional question Sidney’s way. “You have no idea who left Casey that note?” he pressed, although both Peg and Don had already asked that question—twice.
“Of course not.” Sidney’s reply was filled with resignation. “If I did, I’d tell all of you faster than you could ask. Krissy is my granddaughter. After the way I screwed up, I’d put my life on the line to find her.”
“DeMassi’s in jail, and his son’s in Sicily,” Peg stated aloud. “So if they’re responsible for the delivery of the note, they got one of their soldiers to do it.”
Don nodded, pursing his lips. “The traces of dirt suggest that it could be someone from Bennato Construction. Mr. Akerman, are you sure you didn’t recognize any of the names or photos I showed you of their workers? Or, particularly, of Tony Bennato himself?”
Sidney linked his fingers behind his neck and lowered his head in frustration. “For the tenth time, I never heard of or saw any of them before. But why would I? My connection to these bastards ended three decades ago. And, even then, I barely saw anyone, and I didn’t interact with any of them. Only Henry did.”
“Henry’s dead. You’re here. Keep thinking.” Patrick was at the end of his rope.
Casey’s chin came up, and she made eye contact with Patrick, silently requesting that he give her a few minutes of leeway.
At his nod, she turned to Peg. “May I?” she asked respectfully.
“Please do.” A sweep of the case leader’s arm.
“Thanks.” Casey straightened her spine and leaned forward, intentionally conveying a power stance to Sidney. “Let’s tackle this from another angle, Mr. Akerman. We’ve explored all your direct contacts and your knowledge of what went on with your friend Henry Kenyon. Maybe we should flip this around, and start at the personal end. Rather than dissect the mob, let’s discuss you and Felicity, and maybe we can get a handle on who had access to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your ex-wife told us that Felicity was the apple of your eye, that she was very much daddy’s little girl.”
Pain twisted Sidney’s features. “That’s true. I loved both my girls, but Felicity and I had a special rapport. We both loved all kinds of sports. And we were both crazy about arcade games. Our local pizzeria was one of the first places to get Pong. We went there together every weekend and played. And Felicity was crazy about old-fashioned Skee-Ball. She beat me every time.”
“So you went to the same pizzeria each time?”
“Uh-huh. But we knew the owners. They were decent, family-loving people, not mobsters.”
“I checked them out,” Patrick inserted. “They came up clean.” A self-deprecating pause. “Then again, I missed Kenyon’s mob connections. So we can check them out again. They’re in the case file.”
Casey nodded. “What about sports?” She continued questioning Sidney, covering all the bases. “I know Felicity was an athlete. Were you involved with that, or was it just spectator sports you shared?”
A hint of a smile, filled with nostalgia. “Both. We watched hours of sports on TV. But we shared the hands-on stuff, too. I’m sure Vera told you what an amazing soccer player Felicity was. She had daily team practices, but we practiced together on top of that. We kicked the ball around at her school, on the front lawn, every place we could set up a goal cage. And she went to soccer camp in the summer, even at her age. It was day camp, of course. She came home every afternoon. But I took off from work whenever I could, just to watch her compete. She was great. She would have gone far if…” His voice trailed off.
Casey glanced down at her case file. “Special Agent Lynch spoke to all the families on Felicity’s school and camp soccer teams.”
“Yes, he was very thorough. He covered the kids, the parents, the counselors and the coaches. And I’ll tell you what I told him, then and now. Everyone loved Felicity. She was kind, bubbly and happy. I can’t think of a single soul who’d want to hurt her. And I certainly can’t imagine any of the people you just mentioned having mob affiliations.”
“Your friend, Henry, was a regular guy, too,” Casey pointed out. “He just got himself into a hole and chose the wrong way out. Not everyone with ties to the mob are sinister, evil people. Some are just plain desperate, and they have no concept of the potential consequences of their actions.”
Hutch, who’d been silent up until now, spoke up. “Speaking of Kenyon, here’s a reach. Your daughter might have been a kid, Akerman, but she was obviously a talented kid. And I know how competitive those sports camps can be. What other camps did they play against? Was there any friendly betting that went on about the games?”
Sidney blinked. “Betting? On six-year-olds?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Peg’s eyes narrowed, and she gazed intently at Hutch. “Go on.”
“Following Casey’s line of reasoning, Felicity broke her arm the summer she was kidnapped. She’d just been given the go-ahead to play by her doctor. The cast was removed. Then she was abducted. Was her playing a threat to anyone’s pocketbook?”
“Wow.” Casey exhaled sharply. “That’s one I never thought of.” She inclined her head at Patrick. �
�I know you spoke to the staffs of all the camps Felicity’s team competed with. Do you think it’s possible that any of the parents or staff members could have been placing bets on the games? Did you get the feeling that anyone was hurting for cash or into gambling excessively—anyone who might have gone the same route as Henry Kenyon?”
Patrick wasn’t pacing now. He was planted in place, thinking. “We’re really reaching now. If this was the World Cup, I’d jump on your line of thinking. But a kids’ soccer game? How much cash could be exchanging hands? Enough for a mob payment? My gut says no.” A pause. “Still…you make a good point about the timing. Felicity was kidnapped the night before she rejoined the camp team. Is it possible that that wasn’t a coincidence? Sure. It’s the why I find shaky.”
“I won’t disagree,” Hutch said. “But let’s see it through, from every vantage point.” He turned back to Sidney. “How did Felicity break her arm—exactly? How long was she out of commission? And who was involved in her recuperation?”
Sidney unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He was wrung out and beaten. “It was an internal game, just a practice for an upcoming competition with a neighboring camp. She was knocked down by a couple of other kids. It was an accident. She didn’t even land that hard. She just landed wrong. She broke her forearm in two places. It took most of the summer to heal.”
“And she’d just had the cast removed the day she was abducted.”
“Yes.”
“So someone could have been waiting for her to heal before kidnapping her.” Hutch looked thoughtful. “Someone who knew her medical timetable.”
“That consists of the doctor who treated her, and whoever the Akermans shared information with,” Patrick replied. “The orthopedist was highly reputable and had an alibi. I can’t speak for anyone the Akermans told but didn’t mention to me.”
“The entire crowd at soccer camp knew the cast was coming off,” Sidney supplied. “So did our friends and neighbors. Felicity was so excited she practically shouted it from the rooftops.”
“Was there anyone who showed an enthusiasm that seemed over the top?” Casey asked.
Sidney turned his palms up in frustrated uncertainty. “I don’t know what you consider to be over the top. Her soccer coach, Ilene Stratton, was elated. So were the other parents whose kids played on the team. And, Linda Turner, the camp nurse, gave Felicity a stuffed tiger wearing a soccer uniform. She was a very kind and compassionate woman.”
“Your ex-wife mentioned her when we spoke,” Casey commented, glancing at her notes. “She was one of the people who could tell Hope and Felicity apart. And she was also one of the women who came to the prayer vigils after Felicity was kidnapped. Vera said that she stays in touch with her.”
Sidney didn’t look surprised. “I wasn’t aware of that. But it makes sense. Linda’s full-time job was as an E.R. nurse at the hospital where Felicity was taken after her accident. Linda rode with Felicity in the ambulance, and met us at the hospital. She facilitated things so Felicity was seen right away. Vera never forgot her kindness. And, before you ask, I doubt Linda either needed or squandered money. She was just a simple widow who spent her time helping people.”
“None of the reactions you just described are over the top, or out of place.” Casey ignored the touch of sarcasm in Sidney’s voice. He’d been grilled constantly since he drove down to Armonk. Painful skeletons had been dredged up. He was strung out and ridden with guilt. She had to cut him some slack. “So far you’ve only described the people who were elated. Did anyone seem unusually subdued about Felicity’s return to the soccer field? On edge? Worried?”
“Probably the other team she was about to play. Otherwise, no.”
“We’re not getting anywhere going down this path,” Patrick interrupted. “I agree that it’s peculiar that Felicity was kidnapped the day she had her cast off. But it could have been because the kidnapper thought it would be too much of a pain in the ass to deal with a kid with an injury, so he waited for the cast to come off. More important, the timing of the abduction coincides with Sidney’s refusal to cooperate with the mob. That’s the reason for the when and why. Not because of the timing of Felicity’s recovery.”
“Probably,” Don concurred. “But it’s interesting.”
“I agree,” Casey said. “I think it should be officially ruled out by widening our background checks to include anyone who was affiliated with Felicity’s camp or any of the camps she competed against.”
“We’ll have our support team take care of that,” Peg responded.
“Good. And Ryan will do it simultaneously.” He’ll take care of it in a matter of hours, with no red tape to slow down his progress, Casey thought.
“We need to see if anyone stood something to gain—like money—if Felicity was out of the picture,” Don continued. “Then we need to cross match that list with related people still in Vera or Hope’s life. If we find someone with a gambling or other questionable monetary problem, that someone could have been involved in Felicity’s kidnapping then and is being blackmailed by his or her past now. The blackmailer could have forced them to kidnap Krissy to perpetuate the attack on Sidney’s family.”
“Right.” Hutch nodded, considering the profile. “An act like that, committed by anyone with a shred of decency, would elicit guilt, which could have precipitated the delivery of that note to Casey’s door.”
Casey saw the doubt on Patrick’s face. “So far, DeMassi’s our only solid lead, Patrick,” she said quietly. “We’re running out of options. And time. Krissy’s been gone nearly a week.”
Lynch’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Let’s run with it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marc was perched at the edge of a rickety chair in Ryan’s lair, half-watching his colleague at work while he himself absently scratched Hero’s ears. He was a stickler for details. His training had taught him to retain every one, because any of them could be significant. In this case, the aspect that was niggling at him was the total lack of balance in the investigation.
The Forensic Instincts team, like the FBI, was now fully immersed in Sidney Akerman’s connection to the Vizzini family. They’d bugged Bennato Construction. They’d tracked down each mob soldier that was connected to Henry Kenyon. Now, Ryan was running background checks on every Tom, Dick and Harry who’d known Felicity Akerman while she was in camp.
It was all centered around the mob. But too many pieces were being ignored. Pieces that Marc’s intuition told him mattered.
There were still the unexplained facts that a ransom call had been made. That a drop had been arranged, and successfully executed. That a quarter of a million dollars had changed hands. Maybe that scenario wasn’t a smoke screen. Maybe that was a very real part of Krissy Willis’s kidnapping.
Then there was the note that had been left on Casey’s doorstep. Traces of dirt—a common soil found nearly everywhere—had been detected on it. That could suggest a construction site. But it could also suggest a front lawn.
Marc had never been comfortable dismissing Sal Diaz, the Willises’ gardener, and his wife, Rita, their housekeeper from the suspect list. If Ryan was searching for a couple who were in debt up to their asses, the Diazes would win the prize. Plus, Sal Diaz had a history of domestic violence. He could just as easily be taking mob money as the parent of a day camper.
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.”