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“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
