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“And?” Bill Parsons turned, his eyebrows arched in question.
“And the poor woman nearly had a coronary. If that’s what Tony was looking for, he got it.”
A nod. “That’s what Tony was looking for. That means his information was good. And it’ll point the Feds, the cops and that nutcase Navy SEAL in a different direction. Thanks, Denise. I owe you one.”
Casey hadn’t slept well.
Long after Hutch was out cold, his breathing deep and even, she’d been tossing and turning, trying to figure out what was bugging her. It wasn’t Hutch. If anything, tonight had been an important turning point in their relationship. They’d set some boundaries, and acknowledged the depth of their involvement.
No, it was that damned note she’d been left, and its all-too-elusive meaning.
She got out of bed just after dawn, shrugged into her robe and walked across the hall to her little kitchenette, where she brewed a pot of coffee. Hutch found her there a half hour later, sitting at the counter, hunched over her cup.
“Hey, the bed was cold,” he commented, tipping up her chin and kissing her lightly on the mouth. “I’ve obviously lost my touch if you’re running away at dawn.”
Casey gave him a wan smile. “You haven’t lost anything. My body aches in places I never knew I had.”
“But the case is eating at you.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, I can give you more information, but it’s not going to cheer you up. I just got a call from Quantico. The lab finished their results in record time. Unfortunately, those results add up to a big goose egg. Zip. Nothing.”
“No fingerprints at all?”
“Oh, yeah, there were fingerprints, but they were smudged. Nothing the lab could match to an entry in CODIS. So we have no way of knowing if the DNA was that of a previous offender.”
“Meaning we’ve got nothing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The fingerprints didn’t give us a name, but they did tell a story. They were lightly covered with dirt.”
“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.”
