My memory of Bruce was blurry. Dad and Mom had kept me away from the search for Mack when they were going back and forth to his apartment after he disappeared. I had a vague memory that Bruce had sandy hair and rimless glasses.
His greeting was cordial enough, and he chose to sit, not in what I think would be his usual chair, but in one of the two matching leather chairs on either side of his desk. He began by offering sympathy for the way the tabloids were tying Mack to the disappearance of Leesey Andrews. “I can only imagine what that is doing to your mother,” he said. Then he added, after a pause, “And of course to you.”
“Bruce,” I said, “you can understand how desperate I am not only to find Mack, but whether I find him or not, to clear his name of any connection with the women who disappeared.”
“I absolutely understand that,” he said. “But the point is that Mack, Nick, and I merely shared an apartment. Mack and Nick were tight. They hung out together, they dated together. Nick was at your house for dinner a fair amount. He’s a much better person to ask about Mack than I am. You might as well be talking to the rest of the graduating class at Columbia, for all I can tell you.”
“What about Barbara?” I asked. “She came to dinner once. I thought she was Nick’s girlfriend, but he told me she had a crush on Mack, then she married you after Mack disappeared. Have you ever talked with her about Mack? Would she have any idea what was in his mind before he vanished?”
“Barbara and I have of course talked about Mack with all this recent publicity. She is as bewildered as I am at the idea that he could be involved in any crime. She said that certainly isn’t the person she knew.”
His voice was calm, but I saw a deep flush creep up from his neck to his cheeks. He does hate Mack, I thought. Is it jealousy? And how far would that jealousy have carried him? He was so buttoned up, so contained, an ordinary-looking man, who, judging from his success, was an extraordinarily gifted real estate tycoon. An image of Mack, with his stunning good looks, his wonderful sense of humor, his ever-present charm, flooded my mind.
I remembered having heard that Mack beat Galbraith out by a fraction to be in the top ten of the graduating class. That must have been a massive blow to Galbraith’s ego, I thought. And after Mack disappeared, Barbara, the girl Nick said had been crazy about Mack, married Galbraith, maybe as her ticket to medical school. . . .
“I met Barbara at my house years ago,” I said. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk with her.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Galbraith said flatly. “Her father is very ill. He lives on Martha’s Vineyard. She flew up there with the children to be with him in his final weeks.” He stood up, and I got the message the meeting was over. He walked me to the reception room, and I reached out to shake his hand. I didn’t miss the way he rubbed his palm on his trouser leg before he reluctantly accepted mine. His was still sweaty and damp. A plain man in an expensive suit, his eyes shuttered.
I remembered that Nick had called him “the Lone Stranger.”
40
If there was one person Lil Kramer disliked more than Howard Altman, it was Steve Hockney, Derek Olsen’s nephew. That was why when he arrived unannounced on Friday morning, Lil felt thoroughly rattled. Howie’s advice to her and Gus—that it would be unwise to rush to Pennsylvania as if they had something to hide—they had originally welcomed with gratitude. But she was totally aware of Olsen’s shifting alliances between his nephew Steve and his assistant, Howie, and seeing Steve alone terrified her.
Howie is on the outs with Olsen, she thought, and Steve is going to take over. She was glad Gus had gone upstairs to change the filters in some of the air conditioners. He was in a foul mood after cleaning the staircase between the second and third floors. One of the college kids had spilled beer there during the night.
“They must have been dragging up a keg,” he had grumbled minutes before Hockney arrived. “Spilled beer all over the whole flight. Wouldn’t have killed them to have mopped it up themselves.”
It’s a good thing Gus noticed it before Hockney got here, she thought. He’ll probably make a big show of checking out the halls and the staircases trying to find something wrong. A sudden feeling of fatigue overcame her. Maybe, after all, it would be nice not to be busy all the time. Trying to sound civil, she invited Hockney in and asked if he’d like a cup of tea. He flashed her a broad smile as he strode past her.
He certainly is good-looking, she thought, and he knows it. He always was full of himself, and when he was around twenty, Olsen had to bail him out of a few problems. He almost went to jail. Now there was a certain insolent glitter in his eyes. He declined the tea but settled on the couch, his arm over the back, his legs crossed.
“Lil,” he began. “My uncle turned eighty-three last month.”
“I know it,” she said. “We sent him a card.”
“You’re better than I am.” Steve smiled again. “But I feel it’s time that I took over a lot of the management of his affairs. You know him. He won’t show that he’s feeling his age, but I can see that he is. I also know that Howie Altman is getting on his nerves a lot lately.”
“We get along with him,” Lil said carefully.
“He’s been bullying you about giving up this apartment, hasn’t he?”
“I think that’s over.”
“He’s a bully. I know my uncle would listen to you if you made him aware just how nasty Howie has been and can be to you both.”
“Why would I cause trouble when it’s none of my business what Mr. Olsen thinks of Howie?”
“It’s because I want your help, Lil. You seem to forget that I was here in the building when Mack MacKenzie all but accused you of stealing his watch. That was only a few days before he disappeared.”
White-lipped, Lil stammered, “He found that watch. He apologized.”
“Did anyone hear him apologize?”
“I don’t know. I mean, no, I don’t think so.”
Hockney unfolded himself from the couch. “Lil, you’re lying about the apology. I can tell. But don’t worry. I never told anyone about Mack’s watch and I never will. We don’t like Howie, do we Lil? By the way, I’ll tell Uncle Derek that this building is the jewel in his crown, thanks to the way you and Gus keep it.”
41
Derek Olsen was far from being only the irascible, petulant old man that his nephew Steve and his buildings manager, Howie, thought him to be. He was in fact a shrewd investor who had watched his real estate holdings in strategically chosen apartment buildings turn into a personal fortune worth many millions of dollars. Now he had come to the conclusion that the time was right to begin liquidating his assets.
On Friday morning he called Wallace and Madison and brusquely demanded to be put through to Elliott Wallace. Elliott’s secretary, long used to Olsen’s behavior, did not bother to tell him that Mr. Wallace was on his way to an urgent meeting. Instead, she asked him to hold, and rushed down the corridor to catch Elliott at the elevator. “It’s Olsen,” she said.
With an exasperated sigh, Elliott retraced his steps to his office and picked up the phone. “Derek, how are you?” he asked, his tone hearty.
“I’m all right. Your so-called nephew’s in a lot of trouble, I see.”
“As you well know, Mack has been missing for ten years. It is absurd that the police are trying to connect him to any crime. What can I do for you?”
“He caused me a lot of trouble by disappearing when he was living in one of my apartments. Anyhow, that’s not why I called. My birthday was last month. I’m eighty-three years old. It’s time to sell everything.”
“I’ve been suggesting that for the past five years.”
“If I had sold five years ago, I wouldn’t get the price I’ll get now. I’m coming in to talk to you. Monday morning, ten o’clock, okay for you?”
“Monday at ten would be fine,” Elliott said, cordially. When he was sure Olsen had hung up, he slammed the phone down into the cradle. “I’ll have to resc
hedule the entire day,” he snapped to his secretary as he hurried back to the elevator.
She watched him go with sympathetic eyes. The meeting that had been scheduled was to decide who would assume Aaron Klein’s responsibilities in the firm. After staying home for four days, Klein had phoned in his resignation, saying that it was impossible for him to work side by side with someone who was the champion of his mother’s killer.
42
Gregg Andrews had set out a pattern for himself, and he stuck to it. After he left the hospital, he went straight home, grabbed something to eat, and went straight to bed. His alarm was set for one A.M. By two A.M., he was nursing a beer at the bar of the Woodshed and stayed there until closing time. Then, sitting in his car down the street, he watched to see the pattern of how the waiters, bartenders, and band members exited the building, checking to see that they all left within a few minutes of one another, and that no one came out alone, as they’d all claimed about the night Leesey disappeared.
For the last three nights, he had then walked the mile distance between the club and Leesey’s apartment, stopping to talk to anyone he saw on the street and asking if by any chance they had been around at the time Leesey vanished and perhaps had seen her. The answer was always negative. The fourth and fifth nights, he drove back and forth covering other streets, just in case she might not have taken the most direct route.
On Saturday morning, at 3:30, after watching the employees lock the door of the Woodshed, he was about to start driving around the neighborhood when there was a rap at the window. A man with streaks of dirt on his face and unkempt hair was staring in at him. Sure it was a request for money, Gregg rolled the car window down only a few inches.
“You’re the brother,” the man said, his voice hoarse, his alcohol-laden breath sour. Instinctively, Gregg pulled his head back. “Yes, I am.”
“I saw her. Will you promise I get the reward?”
“If you can help me find my sister, yes.”
“Take my name down.”
Gregg reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pad.
“It’s Zach Winters. I live at the shelter on Mott Street.”
“You think you saw my sister?”
“I saw her the night she disappeared.”
“Why didn’t you come forward at once?”
“Nobody believes people like me. I tell them I saw her, next thing they’ll be saying I did something to her. That’s what happens.” Winters put a grimy hand on the car to steady himself.
“If whatever you tell me helps us find my sister, I will personally hand the reward to you. What do you know?”
“She was the last customer out. She started to walk that way.” He pointed. “Then a big SUV pulled up and stopped.”
Gregg felt his insides twist. “Was she forced into it?”
“No way. I heard the driver call, ‘Hey, Leesey,’ and she jumped right in the SUV herself.”
“Could you tell what kind it was?”
“Sure. It was a black Mercedes.”
43
On Saturday morning he was overcome with one of his periodic episodes of remorse. He felt terrible about what he had done. I didn’t think I’d ever kill anyone again, he thought. I was scared. After the first one, I tried to be good. But then it happened again twice. I still tried to stop. But I couldn’t. But then he made me do it again—and again. And after that I couldn’t stop.
Sometimes I feel like telling him. But that would be crazy, and I’m not crazy.
I have an idea that I’m thinking about. It would be dangerous, but then, it’s always been dangerous. I know someday I’ll be caught. But I won’t let them send me to prison. I’ll go my own way and take whoever’s around with me.
I haven’t touched the phone since Wednesday night. I’ll make the next phone call on Sunday.
It’s such a good idea.
And after that, I’ll find someone else.
It isn’t time to stop yet.
44
Early Saturday morning, Gregg Andrews called Larry Ahearn’s cell phone, the words tumbling from his mouth, to report that someone had seen Leesey get into a black Mercedes SUV the night she disappeared. “And she knew the driver,” Gregg insisted, his voice hoarse with fatigue and strain. “He called out her name, and she jumped right in.”
In the eleven or twelve days since Leesey had been reported missing, Ahearn had not slept more than four hours a night. When his phone rang, he was at home in a heavy sleep from exhaustion. Now, fighting to awaken, he looked at the clock. “Gregg, it’s 4:30 in the morning. Where are you?”
“I’m on my way to my apartment. I have Zach Winters, a street person, with me. He’s drunk. I’ll let him sleep it off at my apartment, then I’ll bring him in to talk to you. I’m convinced he doesn’t know any more than what I told you, but it’s our first solid lead. How about that nightclub owner, the one who invited Leesey to sit at his table? What does he drive?”
Nick DeMarco was driving an SUV that night, Ahearn thought. He told us he used that vehicle because he was carrying his golf clubs. I’m not sure if he said what color it is. Now, fully awake, he sat up, slid out of bed, and walked out into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him. “DeMarco has at least three different sets of wheels,” he said carefully. “Let’s find out if his SUV is a black Mercedes. I think I remember that it is. Gregg, we’ll also have to check on this witness. You said his name was Zach Winters?”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll look him up, too. If you’re bringing him to your apartment, be careful. He sounds like a wino.”
“He is. But I don’t care. Maybe he’ll remember something more about Leesey when he wakes up. Oh, God!”
“Gregg, what is it?”
“Larry, I’m falling asleep. I almost hit a cab that cut in front of me. I’ll see you around ten o’clock in your office.”
A click told Ahearn that Gregg Andrews had disconnected his cell phone.
The door from the bedroom opened. Larry’s wife, Sheila, still tying the sash on her robe, said matter-of-factly, “I’ll make coffee while you shower.”
* * *
An hour later, Larry was in his office with Barrott and Gaylor. “It sounds fishy to me,” Barrott said flatly.
Gaylor nodded. “My guess is that if this guy, what’s-his-name, Zach Winters, was on the Woodshed block that night, he was probably too drunk to see, never mind hear what was said. I’ll bet anything he’s just trying to get the reward.”
“That’s the way I read it,” Ahearn agreed. “But let’s start checking him out. Gregg said he’d bring him in here around ten o’clock.”
Gaylor was consulting his notes. “When DeMarco was here the first time, he talked about having his SUV in the loft garage because he was going to transport his golf clubs to the plane the next morning.” He looked at Barrott and Ahearn. “His SUV is a black Mercedes,” he said crisply.
“So maybe after he left the club, he went to his loft, picked it up, and decided to go back and try to connect with Leesey.” Ahearn’s lips were a tight, narrow line. “I think it’s about time we put the heat on DeMarco and let the media know that he’s a ‘person of interest’ in Leesey’s disappearance.”
Barrott was opening the MacKenzie file. “Listen to this, Larry. The first time the father came here after the son had been reported missing, the guys took notes of what he said. ‘No reason for Mack to take off. He’s on top of the world. Graduated in the top ten of his class. Duke Law School. Bought him a Mercedes SUV as graduation present. You never saw a kid so thrilled. Only a couple of hundred miles on it when he disappeared.’ ”
“So what?” Ahearn snapped.
“He left it in the garage when he disappeared.”
“Did you ask what color it was?”
“It was black. I’m just wondering if it’s still Mack’s favorite vehicle.”
“What happened to the one the father bought him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe t
he sister can tell us.”
“Give her a call,” Ahearn commanded.
“It’s not even six o’clock,” Gaylor pointed out.
“We’re up, aren’t we?” Barrott said.
“Hold on.” Ahearn held up his hand. “Roy, did you ask Carolyn MacKenzie to give you the note her brother left in the collection basket?”
“She handed it to me the day she came to see me two weeks ago,” Barrott said somewhat defensively. “I gave it back to her. It was a scrap of paper in block printing with ten words on it. I thought it was useless to try to do anything with it. We don’t have her brother’s fingerprints on file. Her uncle the priest, at least one usher at the church, MacKenzie herself, and her mother had handled it.”
“It probably is useless, but I want a subpoena issued for it, and for that tape she didn’t give you the other night as well. Now call Carolyn and ask what happened to her brother’s car. My guess is that after a year or two, they sold it.”
Barrott admitted to himself that there was some satisfaction at waking Carolyn so early. Her refusal to play the tape or give it to him on Monday evening had convinced him that beyond any doubt she was protecting her brother. He was pleased when she answered on the first ring, suggesting to him that she had not been sleeping well. Neither have the rest of us, he thought. He spoke to her briefly. From the startled look on his face, Ahearn and Gaylor knew he had stumbled onto an interesting development.
When he disconnected, Barrott said, “She’ll check with her lawyer. If he agrees, she will turn over the tape and the note. You may have heard me assure her that he will agree.”
“What about her brother’s SUV?”
“You’re not going to believe this. It was stolen out of the Sutton Place garage in the family’s apartment building about eight months after Mack took off.”