None of that added up to shit at this point. Knowing t
hat the kidnapper had gotten inside and taken Oreo before abducting Krissy might have meant something three days ago. Now it was moot. Because nothing Diaz had said brought them any closer to Krissy Willis.
“I didn’t do anything.” Diaz had obviously misinterpreted Marc’s silence to mean he believed the gardener was lying. “Neither did Rita. I didn’t even tell her about what I saw. She’s a good woman. And she’s so honest. She would have gone to the police. I was afraid. I’m just a gardener. Rita’s a housekeeper. And the Willises are big, important people.”
Marc nodded. He knew enough about human nature to know that Diaz was telling the truth. There was no point in torturing the man—except where it might do some good.
“I believe you,” he stated flatly. “But the only reason I flagged you as a suspect is because of your history. Get help. Keep your fists off your wife. Pay your bills instead of throwing your money away on booze and cards. Now convince me you plan to do all that. Because it’s the only way I’ll tell the FBI and the cops that I believe your story.”
“Okay.” Diaz was nodding furiously. He looked ready to agree to anything. “I’ll do it. I swear. You can check up on me. You’ll see.”
“I plan to. And I’d better see.”
Casey was sitting in her car, reviewing the notes from the meeting with Sidney Akerman, when her BlackBerry vibrated. She glanced down at the caller ID.
It was Ryan.
She hit the receive button and put the phone to her ear. “Talk to me.”
“I may have hit the mother lode,” he said flatly.
“Go on.” Casey sat up straighter.
“Linda Turner, the camp nurse. She’s got an interesting history. One that, clearly, no one knows about, because it’s not the kind of thing you forget to mention. She had a daughter about Felicity Akerman’s age.”
“Had?”
“Yeah, had. It seems the girl—Anna—drowned in a lake on their property. It happened about six months before Felicity’s soccer accident. According to what I could hack into, Ms. Turner fell apart after Anna died. The hospital sent her for a psych evaluation. After that, she took a leave of absence and went for counseling sessions twice a week for three months. She went back to the E.R. part-time as soon as she was deemed capable. She supplemented her income with the job as camp nurse at Felicity’s day camp. But, according to the accounts I hacked into, she was hurting financially. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Wow.” Casey was processing all this as quickly as she could. “I don’t understand. How could she have had a child, much less lost one, and no one knew about it? Vera sure as hell didn’t. She spoke of Linda as if she were childless. And there were no obituaries? No local articles about a child drowning in her own backyard?”
“Evidently, Linda was the protective type,” Ryan replied. “She managed to keep everything out of the newspapers. All that exists is a police report. Even when Anna was alive, Linda homeschooled her, and kept her pretty isolated from other kids her age.”
A weighty pause that Casey recognized.
Ryan was about to tell her something significant.
“Except for soccer,” he reported. “Anna loved the game. So Linda let her play in a small league two towns over. It was private, exclusive—and damned expensive. But it was noncompetitive and low-key. She also had a private coach instruct her at home once a week—a very expensive private coach. Anna’s only other love was horseback riding. Linda gave in to that. She quarter-leased a horse for her. That costs a ton. Other than that, Anna was at home with her mother. No other siblings. No other family at all.”
“The father?”
“Died when she was a toddler. Linda Turner raised her daughter alone. And on a lean budget. Her husband didn’t leave her much money.”
“So she wasn’t flush after she became a widow. And she was an E.R. nurse—an admirable but not six-figure paying profession. Where did she get the means to give her daughter private soccer lessons, an exclusive team membership and her own horse?”
“You tell me. Also, tell me how far she would go to get her hands on that sum of money? Or what would she owe someone who gave it to her?”
“And isn’t it a coincidence that Anna’s main passion was soccer, of all things? Just like Felicity’s? Not to mention the timing of Anna’s death in relation to Felicity’s kidnapping?” Casey leaned back against her car seat, the phone anchored in the crook of her shoulder, her hands inadvertently gripping the steering wheel. “This is big, Ryan. It’s the biggest break we’ve had. And it feels right. Where is Linda Turner now? I don’t think that Vera’s seen her in a while.”
“And she probably won’t. Linda’s still listed at the same address in a rural area of Wappingers Falls, about an hour north of Westchester County. But her phone is disconnected, and there’s no one living there. I called the local PD right away. They headed over there ASAP. The place is deserted—all her clothing’s gone, there’s no food in the fridge, the whole nine yards.”
“So she cleared out.”
“You got it.”
“Damn.” Casey slammed her palms on the steering wheel in frustration. “No friends. No address. I’ll talk to Vera, but I’m sure she can’t tell us anything we don’t already know. She might have a photo of her in one of the camp pictures. And I’m sure she can give a description to a sketch artist.”
“Plus you have me. Get me that photo and I’ll use my age progression software to create a present-day image of Linda. Vera can proof it. And we can distribute it, along with her sketch, to every law enforcement agency in New York State.”