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“Then I drove straight home. Speak to my housekeeper. She cooked me dinner and cleaned up afterwards. She didn’t leave until after eight.”
“What about lunchtime? Did you go out?”
“I had Chinese food delivered. Do you want to see the receipt?”
“Nope. That won’t be necessary.” Mentally, Marc crossed Pierson off his list of suspects. He’d known it was a long shot. But every lead had to be pursued. Plus, if nothing else, Marc’s visit would keep Pierson on his toes, force him to control his unnatural propensity for young girls. The last thing the neurologist needed right now was more scrutiny and scandal.
Marc would have loved to break the guy’s jaw. But that wasn’t in the cards—not this time.
“What about any of your wife’s relatives?” he asked instead. “Or her friends? Anyone close to her who disagreed with the not-guilty verdict and who’s got the temperament to act on it?”
“Fran had no living relatives,” Pierson replied in a clipped tone. “And I’m not well acquainted enough with her friends to know if any of them is deranged. Talk to the prosecutor. The people you’re asking about were his witnesses.”
“I already have,” Marc reassured him. “But I wanted to follow up with you. First, because I didn’t think you’d want the prosecutor to hear my theories about your daughter’s friends. And second, because he’s a lawyer—you were a husband. Generally, they’re privy to more intricate details of their spouses’ lives than a stranger is.”
“Fran’s friends were all mothers. I can’t imagine…”
“Nor can I. But it happens.” Marc skimmed his notes. “I got a list of those friends. Would you object if I were to interview them?”
“No. Not that it would matter. You’d interview them with or without my permission.”
“Actually, I already have.” He smiled what he knew was his most irritating smile. “I just wanted to see your reaction. Clearly, none of them has a clue about your affinity for preteen girls. Which is all that matters to me. Their opinions on the murder are moot. You were acquitted. Double jeopardy applies. Plus, my job is to find Krissy Willis, not your wife’s killer.”
“Then talk to whomever you like. I have nothing to hide.”
“Right.” Marc came to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Pierson. Glad to hear that you’re innocent of murder and of sexual deviance. There’s nothing like a clear conscience.”
Casey had a bad feeling.
Her interview with Claudia Mitchell had never happened. She’d rung the bell a half-dozen times. No one had answered. But she knew someone was home. She’d heard the flurry of muffled footsteps, spotted the outline of a woman through the window. The woman had retreated to the kitchen and hidden behind the counter. Judging from her height and build, it was Claudia Mitchell.
So why wasn’t she opening the door?
The deception raised a host of red flags. Especially since Casey had preceded her trip to Claudia’s house with a visit to the White Plains courthouse where Judge Willis presided. The couple of employees Casey had tracked down who were familiar with Claudia had confirmed Hope’s description of the clerk’s state of mind at the time of her dismissal. Two of them, along with one of Claudia’s neighbors, knew her fiancé. And, judging from their description, the couple was a classic fit for the kidnappers’ profiles. Dominant man—at least with Claudia. Passive woman, with a build not dissimilar from Hope’s.
Then came what Casey already knew. There was motive on both their parts. Revenge for Claudia, who was clearly bitter about Hope firing her during her hour of need. And a windfall and who knew what else for Joe, who the neighbor described as odd and more than a little antisocial. Also, when Casey peeked in the window to see if she could spot Claudia, she noted that the living room was filled with plenty of boy toys. Not the electronic gizmos that fascinated most men, but younger, more juvenile computer games.
The whole scenario screamed for further investigation. Casey would pass the info along to Peg. But she had no intention of waiting for Peg to take the necessary steps for probable cause and a search warrant. Casey was determined to get into that basement now. She’d come back in the evening, when Joe was at his second job and Claudia was at county college taking a class. She’d bring Marc. After hearing “suspicious sounds” from inside, Marc would pick the lock and get them in. If Krissy was there, they’d find her.
After a quick phone call to Marc setting up their evening plans, Casey headed back to see Hope and to meet Hope’s mother.
Other than her gray hair, Vera Akerman resembled a small, frail sparrow. She also looked far older than her sixty-four years. It was obvious that the blow life had dealt her thirty-two years ago had taken its toll—a toll from which she’d never recovered.
After Hope had made the necessary introductions, Casey sat down across from Vera. She opened the conversation by expressing her heartfelt regrets over Krissy’s kidnapping. She also explained to Vera a little bit about Forensic Instincts and how they could take a more creative and less regulated approach to solving cases than law enforcement could. She concluded by assuring Hope’s mother that the entire team was working round the clock to find her granddaughter.
Vera thanked her in a tear-filled voice.
Casey was just about to tactfully broach a few questions, when the front doorbell rang. A minute later, a square-jawed man in his early sixties with a solid build and salt-and-pepper hair entered the room.
Hope rose. “Are you with the police or the FBI?”
“I’m former FBI,” was the terse reply.
“Former?” Hope pressed, brow drawn. “I don’t understand.” Before she could continue, she heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. She turned. “Mother?”
Vera was staring at the man. Her eyes had widened, recognition erupting across her face.
