It was only fitting that the man who’d made his fortune in real estate development would live in such grandeur, Althea thought.
As they approached the estate, she noted several news vans parked on either side of the private road. The occupants of the vans eyeballed her and Damien as they passed by in their federal-issue SUV.
“The feeding frenzy has begun,” Althea murmured, realizing it must have been the same way when she was abducted eight years ago.
When Damien glanced at her, she knew he was thinking the same thing.
They continued up the long road before he braked to a hard stop beside the intercom panel outside the gate. Ignoring the aggrieved look Althea gave him, he buzzed down the window just as a voice crackled from the intercom speaker. “Yes?”
“Special Agent Damien Wade, FBI.”
The gate rolled silently open, then closed behind them. The reporters made no attempt to rush in after them, perhaps realizing that they wouldn’t get very far now that the feds had arrived. Or perhaps because their desire to respect the family’s privacy actually outweighed their desire to make deadline. Althea suspected the former.
A pair of gleaming luxury vehicles—a Rolls Royce and a Lamborghini—sat in the circular driveway in front of the house, along with three police cruisers. Claire Thorndike’s car had been confiscated by the crime scene unit to be vacuumed and analyzed for possible trace evidence left by her abductor.
Damien pulled up behind the last of the squad cars and killed the engine.
Althea looked at him. “Is this the part where you tell me to let you do all the talking?”
Damien met the subtle challenge in her gaze. “Is that how they treated you in Seattle?”
“Well, no, but Balducci said—”
“If you get out of line, believe me, I know how to reel you back in. I don’t play power games, Althea, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Althea flashed him a grateful smile.
Damien climbed out of the SUV and came around to open the passenger door for her, and together they started up the walk toward the imposing house. While they waited to be let in, they studied the front door in silence. No sign of forced entry. What about the back door? The windows?
A butler dressed in black finally answered the door and ushered them inside a cavernous entry hall, where a massive wrought-iron chandelier hung from the second-story ceiling. A uniformed police officer sat beside a glossy mahogany table reading The Baltimore Sun and drinking a cup of coffee. He acknowledged Althea and Damien with a brief nod. They responded in kind.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thorndike are still with the police,” the gaunt, unsmiling butler informed them in hushed tones. “They requested that you wait in the parlor until they conclude their meeting, which should be shortly. This way, please.”
Althea and Damien followed, their footsteps clicking against inlaid marble floors. They were led into a luxurious parlor filled with English antiques and silk-upholstered furnishings. A sedate fire crackled in the granite fireplace, although it was an unseasonably warm seventy degrees outside. A silver serving set had been placed on a Hepplewhite sideboard that had been polished to a hard shine. On nearly every surface throughout the room, Althea could see black fingerprint powder left by the crime scene unit. She knew it must have taken several hours, and three times the number of crime scene technicians, to comb through the sprawling mansion in search of physical evidence. Talk about trying to find a needle in a haystack.
She and Damien were seated on a chintz sofa near the hearth. “Would either of you care for tea or coffee?” the butler offered.
“No, thanks,” Damien declined.
Althea accepted a cup of tea with two sugars.
As soon as the butler departed from the room, Damien rose from the sofa and wandered over to a built-in bookcase that held an assortment of framed family photographs. He reached for an eight-by-ten portrait of a smiling Claire Thorndike astride one of her father’s prize horses, her green eyes sparkling with laughter, her long auburn hair cascading to her shoulders. The beautiful young socialite at her leisure. Beside that was another photo of her in a pink off-the-shoulder dress at her junior prom last spring. She looked like an all-American teenager, which was why this photo had been chosen over the other to be distributed to all media outlets. The rationale was that the viewing public could sympathize more with the missing girl’s plight if they didn’t have to be reminded of her enormous wealth.
As Damien studied more photographs, Althea sipped her tea and glanced around the room at oil portraits framed in gold leaf that depicted scenes of vintage American life: a sleek greyhound taking first prize at a dog show, dapper-dressed gentlemen cheering at the Kentucky Derby, Southern belles enjoying a leisurely afternoon of tea and beignets.
Damien turned at that moment, holding up a photo of Spencer Thorndike and a woman less than half his age. Suzette Thorndike, his second wife.
“Oh my God,” Althea whispered, so as not to be overheard. “She could be Claire’s big sister!”
Damien nodded, his mouth quirking at the corners.
He returned the photo to the shelf and rejoined her on the sofa just as they heard approaching footsteps.
A moment later Spencer and Suzette Thorndike entered the room, linked arm in arm. In his late fifties, the real estate mogul was of medium height with a trim physique and a neat, expensive haircut and dye job that made him look years younger. Even in dark jeans and a sweater, he exuded an air of wealth and importance.
His wife was a tall, strikingly beautiful redhead in a silk blouse, cashmere slacks, and Prada pumps—the epitome of style and sophistication. The resemblance between her and Claire Thorndike was so strong they could pass as sisters. Althea wondered how Claire felt about her father marrying a woman who not only looked like her but wasn’t even old enough to be her mother. And then Althea wondered how Suzette Thorndike felt about her teenage stepdaughter.
Althea and Damien rose from the sofa to introduce themselves to their hosts. Althea didn’t miss the way Spencer Thorndike’s eyes widened slightly when he heard her name. She also noted that Suzette’s green eyes were red rimmed and puffy, as if she’d been crying for several hours.
“Thank you for coming,” Spencer greeted Althea and Damien, shaking their hands in turn. “I spoke to Director Grayson this morning, and he assured me that finding my daughter would be the Bureau’s top priority.”
Althea doubted that the FBI director would have made such an unrealistic promise, but she refrained from saying so.
Once they were all seated, Damien removed a mini-cassette recorder from his breast pocket and placed it on the center table. He clicked it on after the Thorndikes agreed to be taped.
“Agent Pritchard and I are here to help any way we can to bring back your daughter,” Damien began, “but we’re going to need your full cooperation and patience. I know you’ve both already given your statements to the police, so I apologize in advance if any of our questions seem redundant. We’re going to cover a lot of the same ground, but I always believe in erring on the side of thoroughness.”
Spencer and Suzette nodded somberly. “We understand,” Spencer said. “We just want Claire back home, safe and sound. We want this nightmare to be over.”
Suzette gave his hand a comforting squeeze, and they shared a brief, tremulous smile.
“Before I begin the interview,” Damien said, “I have to ask both of you what may be an unusual question since Claire’s car was here, but considering that her purse, cell phone, and bookbag are gone, do you have any reason to believe she might have run away from home?”
The couple exchanged startled glances. “Absolutely not,” Spencer answered unequivocally. “Claire would never do anything that reckless and irresponsible. That’s not even a remote possibility.”
Suzette nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Even if she was angry?” Damien pressed. “Even if she felt she’d been unjustly punished for something, she wouldn’t run o
ff to a friend’s house to give herself time to cool down?”
“No,” Spencer clipped. “Claire may be headstrong and a little spoiled, but she’s not impulsive. And she’s certainly not mean-spirited enough to hide out at a friend’s house when she knows we’re over here worried sick about her!”
Damien nodded. “I had to ask. It’s my job to ask the tough questions.”
Suzette glanced hesitantly at her husband. “If Claire ever did want to get away from home,” she said slowly, “she wouldn’t go to a friend’s house. She would go to her mother’s apartment in Washington, D.C.” She paused for a moment. “Like she did before.”
“You mean Claire has run away to her mother’s apartment before?” Althea asked, speaking for the first time.
Spencer scowled. “That was two years ago. And she wasn’t running away from home. She was going through a difficult phase where she only wanted to be with her mother, whose job as an environmental lobbyist seemed very ‘exciting’ and ‘purposeful’ to Claire. Her enchantment didn’t last very long, however. After spending a week at her mother’s tiny, cluttered apartment and having no servants to wait on her hand and foot, Claire was more than ready to come back home.”
Althea nodded. “I understand that your wife, Madison—”
“Ex-wife,” Suzette corrected tightly.
“My apologies,” Althea smoothly amended, noting the cold, territorial gleam that had filled the other woman’s eyes. “I understand that your ex-wife, Madison, is out of the country on business, Mr. Thorndike. Attending an environmental summit in Edinburgh, Scotland.”
“That’s right. She’s been contacted and is supposed to be flying home tomorrow. The police have already been to her apartment—Claire isn’t there. Not that I expected her to be,” he added, giving his wife a look that conveyed his displeasure with her for raising the possibility in the first place.
Interesting, Althea thought. When Damien glanced briefly at her, she knew he’d caught the look as well.
“When was the last time the two of you saw Claire?” he asked the couple.
“Thursday morning,” Spencer replied. “She dropped us off at the airport before going to school. As you know, we spent the weekend at a ski resort in Colorado.”
Damien nodded. “I understand this was an annual trip for you. So it wasn’t the first time you’ve left Claire home by herself.”
“No, it wasn’t. But she’s hardly home by herself,” Spencer said almost defensively. “There are four members of my household staff who are always here—the housekeeper, the butler, the cook, and the chauffeur.”
“But they weren’t here on Friday night,” Damien noted.
“No.” Spencer clenched his jaw, his expression murderous. “Claire gave them the weekend off.”
“Do you know why? Did she tell you she was planning to do that?”
Spencer shook his head. “According to what the staff told me, Claire was thinking about spending the weekend at a friend’s house—her best friend Heather Warner—so she told the staff their services wouldn’t be needed. Needless to say, I gave every last one of them a piece of my mind.”
Althea could only imagine. “We’d like to talk to the staff, as well as to Miss Warner.”
“That’s fine. They’ve all been interviewed and cleared by the police already, but if you think you might learn new information, be my guest.” He hesitated, then added almost reluctantly, “Heather claims she had no plans with Claire. She told us she didn’t know that Claire was planning to spend the weekend at her house. The last time she saw or spoke to her was after school on Friday, and Claire didn’t mention anything about wanting to hang out.”
“Then why would Claire make up that story?” Althea asked, although she had already guessed the answer.
Spencer’s dark eyes hardened with anger. He averted his gaze, his jaw locking tightly.
Suzette answered, “We think she was planning to invite someone over here. A boy from school, perhaps.”
“Why do you think that?” Damien asked evenly.
Suzette glanced at her husband, who remained sullen and silent. “Whenever we go out of town,” she explained, “Spencer makes a point of taking inventory of his wine collection. He can account for every last bottle in the wine cellar. When we arrived home on Sunday afternoon, a bottle of Bordeaux was missing.”
“Not just any bottle,” Spencer growled. “It was the year 1985—the standout vintage of the decade.”
Seeing the silent look that passed between Althea and Damien, Suzette gave a little laugh that sounded forced. “Listen to yourself,” she gently chided her husband. “You’re going to have Agents Wade and Pritchard thinking you’re more concerned about your missing Bordeaux than your missing daughter.”
Spencer looked shamefaced. “That’s ridiculous. Nothing could be further from the truth. I didn’t even think about the damn wine until the police arrived and asked me if anything was out of place. Once we spoke to Heather and realized what Claire must have been planning that evening, that’s when it occurred to me to check the wine cellar. After I discovered the missing bottle of wine, it was easier to put two and two together.”
Damien nodded. “Neither of you spoke to Claire at all over the weekend?”
“No.” Spencer looked guilt-ridden. “Claire doesn’t like to hear from us when we go on trips. If we call, she thinks we’re trying to check up on her, like we don’t trust her. So we reached an agreement. Unless there’s an emergency, or unless we’re going to be out of town for a week or more, we don’t call her, and she doesn’t have to call to check in with us.”
Althea couldn’t remember a time her aunt and uncle had ever been so permissive with her. Even now that she was an adult and led a busy life, they worried if they didn’t hear from her after two days.
If Claire Thorndike survived this ordeal, it would be a very long time before her father let her out of his sight again.
“So when you arrived home on Sunday afternoon,” Damien probed, “you didn’t notice anything else out of place or missing? Nothing else had been taken—jewelry, heirlooms, clothing, electronics? Nothing had been disturbed?”
“No. Nothing.”
“There were no signs of a struggle? Nothing to indicate exactly what Claire may have had planned for the night?”
Spencer said bitterly, “If you’re asking whether there was a romantic table set for two, soft music playing on the stereo, or wilted rose petals floating on water in her bathtub, the answer is no, Agent Wade. We did not return home to a scene of seduction. We returned home to a crime scene. Claire’s alarm clock was blaring, and her bed had not been slept in. Someone waltzed into this house and snatched my little girl, and no one is doing a damn thing—” He broke off, his voice cracking with emotion.
Blinking back tears, Suzette reached over and took his hand. He turned to her, and they leaned their foreheads against each other’s, silent and mournful.
Damien waited an appropriate length of time before speaking again, his voice quiet and compassionate. “I can’t pretend to know how difficult this must be for you, Mr. and Mrs. Thorndike. I have an eleven-year-old daughter, and I couldn’t even imagine what I would do if anything happened to her. Believe me when I tell you that Agent Pritchard and I, along with the police, will do everything in our power to help bring your daughter home safely.”
They turned to him, eyes bright with unshed tears, soft, quivery smiles on their faces. “Thank you,” Spencer whispered.
Suzette said wonderingly, “You don’t look old enough to have an eleven-year-old daughter, Agent Wade.”
Damien’s mouth curved in a lazy grin. “Funny, that’s what she always tells me. Mostly when she’s trying to sweet-talk her way out of trouble.”
Spencer and Suzette laughed.
Althea watched the exchange, admiring the ease with which Damien had comforted the suffering couple, enabling them to forget, even for a moment, that their daughter was missing.
She waited a
full minute before returning to the matter at hand. “Mr. Thorndike, we understand from the police report that your security system was disabled on Friday. Which means everything was turned off—the surveillance camera on the electronic gate, the motion sensors on the property, the security alarm inside the house. Everything.”
Spencer nodded grimly.
“According to the security company,” Althea continued, “whoever disabled the security system used a passcode known only to you, Mrs. Thorndike, Claire, and the household staff, all of whom said everything was on when they left the house at five P.M. The company rep who spoke to the police said the system was shut off at 5:18 on Friday afternoon.” Althea paused. “Do you think Claire might have turned off the security system to make it easier for her guest to gain access to the property without your knowledge? I imagine she wouldn’t have wanted him—whoever he was—showing up on the surveillance camera when he arrived.”
Spencer hesitated, then nodded grudgingly. “That sounds plausible. Claire hated our security system. She complained about it all the time, said it made her feel like she was a prisoner. She used to claim that living out in the middle of nowhere made her feel isolated enough; she didn’t see the need for all the extra layers of security.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “The very thing she hated could have saved her life and kept a monster out of our home.”
No one said anything for a moment, reflecting on the tragic irony of his words.
“The perpetrator would have had to know that the security system was off,” Damien pointed out quietly. “He wouldn’t have taken a chance on coming all the way out here, to a well-guarded property, unless he knew the coast was clear.”
“Which is why the police believe she was abducted by whomever she was meeting that night,” Suzette said shakily.
“It’s highly possible,” Damien agreed. “Or it could have been someone else who was familiar with the family’s routine, someone who may have known that Claire would be home alone for the weekend and that she would open the door without question if she recognized them. I’d like to get a list of the people who have had access to your property in the last sixty days. Repairmen, delivery people, the cable guy, door-to-door solicitors. I’d also like a complete list of your employees and contractors.”
No One But You Page 7