Where Are You Now?

“Stolen!” Gaylor exclaimed.

  “Were other vehicles taken?” Ahearn asked quickly.

  “No. That was the only one. It’s not a large facility. One kid was on duty, asleep in the booth after midnight. Next thing he knew, he had a bag over his head, tape over his mouth, and was handcuffed to the chair. By the time he was found, that SUV was gone.”

  The three men looked at one another. “If Mack stole his own wheels, it’s entirely possible he’s still driving it,” Gaylor suggested. “My father-in-law has had his Mercedes for twenty years.”

  “And if he’s still driving it, and if the wino’s story checks out, there’s an equally good chance that Leesey may have driven off with MacKenzie, not DeMarco,” Larry Ahearn said somberly. “All right, let’s get those subpoenas. Maybe that tape MacKenzie made with the drama teacher will give us something to work with.”

  45

  Howard Altman was well aware of his boss’s shifting loyalties, but his first hint that something was seriously wrong occurred when Mr. Olsen did not go out to brunch with him on Saturday morning. He had noticed Olsen using the new Montblanc pen and correctly guessed that it was probably a present from Steve Hockney, Olsen’s nephew.

  Steve is schmoozing the old man, Howard thought bitterly. It would be just like Olsen to leave everything to him. The first thing Steve would do is fire me. Then he’d sell all the apartment houses and pocket the cash.

  The building he lived in on Ninety-fourth Street was one of the smallest Olsen owned. It was four stories high, with only two apartments on each floor. Most of the tenants had been there for years. His apartment was the only one on the lobby floor. Sparsely furnished and immaculately neat, the living room was dominated by his sixty-inch television set. Most of Howard’s evenings were split evenly by his two favorite activities, watching movies on television and visiting on the Internet with buddies from all over the world. He found them infinitely more interesting than the people he met in his daily life.

  An excellent chef, he always cooked himself a good dinner, watched a movie while he had a couple of glasses of wine and ate from a tray table, then turned off the television set and went directly to his bedroom computer.

  Howard loved this apartment, which came with his job. He loved his job, especially now that he was in charge of all Olsen’s buildings. I earned it, he told himself, defensively. I got it because I proved myself. I can fix anything that’s broken. I can put up a wall to make two rooms out of one. I can replace old wiring and build cabinets. I can paint and wallpaper and scrape floors. That’s why Olsen kept promoting me. But what happens if he leaves everything to Steve?

  The question persisted in his mind. For once, he could not focus on the movie in his DVD player. How could he get Olsen to sour on his nephew?

  And then the answer came to him. He had a master key to all the apartments in the building where Steve Hockney lived. He’d put a security camera in Steve’s apartment. I’ve seen him when he’s high, and I’ve always suspected that he deals in drugs, Howard thought. If I can prove it, that would finish him with his uncle.

  Blood is thicker than water. Maybe.

  Pleased at finding a possible solution to the impending problem, he turned off the television and went down the hall to his bedroom. He smiled at the familiar whooshing sound he heard as he turned on his computer.

  He realized how much he was looking forward to connecting with his friend Singh in Mumbai tonight.

  46

  I had barely slept Friday night, and the six A.M. call Saturday morning from Detective Barrott finished any hope I had of drifting off again for at least a few more hours.

  Why is Barrott so interested in what happened to Mack’s SUV? I asked myself, as I replaced the receiver and got out of bed. As usual, I had left the windows of my bedroom open, and padded across the room to close them. The sun had already risen over the East River and it held the promise of a beautiful day. The breeze was cool, but I could see that this time the weather forecasters were right—it would be sunny and pleasant, about seventy degrees by noon. In short, a perfect morning in late May, which meant that right now there was undoubtedly an exodus from the city by people who hadn’t already left for their summer place last night. The residents of Sutton Place who didn’t have a second home in the Hamptons almost inevitably had one on the Cape, or Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, or somewhere.

  Dad had never wanted to be anchored to one vacation home, but before Mack disappeared we always went away in August. My favorite was the year I was fifteen, when Dad rented a villa in Tuscany, about half an hour from Florence. It was a magical month, all the more so because it was the last time we were all together.

  My mind snapped back to the present. Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?

  Our garage is relatively small. It only accommodates the automobiles of the residents of the building, with about ten extra spaces for visitors. Dad had just bought the SUV for Mack a week before he disappeared. Mack had parked it in a garage on the West Side, near his apartment. When he’d been missing two weeks, Dad took the spare key and brought the SUV back here. I remember Mack had obviously driven it in bad weather, because it had some mud splatters on the side and on the driver’s mat. Dad paid a guy in our garage to clean it, and he did a great job—so great that nothing was recovered when the cops decided to check the car for prints.

  When it was stolen, Dad had been sure that one of the garage attendants had spotted it and planned to steal it. He always thought that the guy who had been tied up was in on the scheme, but there was no proof, and he quit soon after that.

  Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?

  It was a question that kept repeating itself in my mind as I made coffee and scrambled an egg. The newspapers were at the door, and I glanced through them as I ate. The tabloids were still milking the Leesey Andrews disappearance and speculating about Mack’s involvement. Aaron Klein’s accusation that Mack had killed his mother to recover his tapes was still a hot story. Now, on page three, there was Mack’s yearbook picture, but it had been enhanced to show how he might look today. Trying not to cry, I studied it. Mack’s face was a little fuller, his hairline slightly higher, his smile ambiguous. I wondered if Elliott had these same newspapers delivered, and if so, had Mom seen them?

  Knowing her, she would have insisted on seeing them. I thought of what Elliott had told me at Thurston Carver’s office—that Mom had always been convinced some kind of mental breakdown had caused Mack to disappear. Now I wondered if she could be right, and if so, was it possible that Mack had stolen his own automobile? The prospect was so incredible to me that I realized I was shaking my head. “No, no, no,” I said aloud.

  But I spoke to him two weeks ago, I admitted to myself. He left that message for Uncle Dev. The only rational explanation for Mack’s behavior may be that he is irrational. Mother is afraid that if he is responsible for Leesey Andrews’s disappearance and is tracked down by the cops, he may be shot if he resists arrest. Is that reasonable, or possible? I wondered.

  Neither Mom nor Dad nor I saw any hint of a change in Mack’s behavior before he disappeared, but maybe someone else did. How about Mrs. Kramer? I asked myself. Between cleaning and doing the laundry, she was in his apartment regularly. She acted so nervous when I met her. Did she perceive me as a threat? Maybe if I could get her alone, without her husband around, I could get her to open up to me, I thought.

  Bruce Galbraith hates Mack. What happened between them to cause that? Nick suggested that Barbara was crazy about Mack. Is Bruce simply jealous, or did something happen that still makes him angry after ten years?

  That train of thought made me speculate on Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith’s trip to Martha’s Vineyard to see her ailing father. I wondered how long she planned to stay there. I remembered that Bruce had responded heatedly when I told him I’d like to talk to her. The thought occurred to me that he might have gotten her out of town to prevent my seeing her or the police from looking her up. Her name
is in Mack’s file as a close friend, I reminded myself.

  I put my few dishes in the dishwasher, went into Dad’s office, and turned on the computer to see if I could get her father’s address and phone number on Martha’s Vineyard. There were several Hanover couples, “Judy and Syd,” “Frank and Natalie,” and one Richard Hanover listed in the Vineyard. I knew Barbara’s mother had died just around the time she graduated, so taking a chance, I dialed Richard Hanover’s number.

  A man answered on the first ring. It was an older voice but certainly cheerful enough. I had planned what I would say. “This is Cluny Flowers in New York. I want to verify the address of Richard Hanover. Is it eleven Maiden Path?”

  “That’s right, but who’s sending me flowers? I’m not sick, dead, or having a birthday.” He sounded fit and healthy.

  “Oh, I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” I said quickly. “The arrangement is for a Mrs. Judy Hanover.”

  “No problem. Next time they might be for me. Have a good day.”

  When I disconnected, my first reaction was to be ashamed of myself. I had turned into an outright liar. My second thought was that Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith had left New York not because her father had suffered a heart attack, but because she did not want to be around to be questioned about Mack.

  I knew what I was going to do. I showered, dressed, and began to throw a few things in a bag. I had to confront Barbara face-to-face. If Mom was right, and Mack had snapped ten years ago, had she witnessed behavior that might have suggested mental illness? I realized that I was becoming frantic to frame a defense for Mack if he was really out there, alive, unstable, and committing crimes.

  I called Elliott’s cell phone. The fact that he did not say my name and in a low voice promised he’d call me back told me that Mom was within earshot.

  When he did call back half an hour later, I could not believe what he told me. “Your Detective Barrott came here looking to talk to your mother. I told him we would have our lawyer present, but then Olivia screamed at him something like, ‘Don’t you realize my son had a breakdown? Don’t you understand he’s not responsible for any of this? He’s sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’ ”

  My mouth was so dry I could only whisper, though there was no need to. “What did Barrott say?”

  “He verified what your mother said, that she believed Mack may be mentally ill.”

  “Where is Mom now?”

  “Carolyn, she was so hysterical, I called a doctor. He gave her a shot, but he feels she should be under observation for a few days. I’m driving her up to a wonderful sanitarium in Connecticut where she’ll be able to get some rest—and, ah, counseling.”

  “What place?” I asked. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “It’s Sedgwick Manor, in Darien. Carolyn, don’t come. Olivia doesn’t want to see you, and it will only upset her more if you insist on visiting her. In her mind, you’ve betrayed Mack. I promise I’ll take care of her and I’ll call you back as soon as she is settled in there.”

  I could do nothing but agree. Nothing could be worse for Mack than having Mom telling the police again that she’s sure he’s insane. When I clicked off, I went into my bedroom and got out Mack’s tape and played it while I studied the scrap of paper on which he had printed the ten words he had written to Uncle Devon. “UNCLE DEVON, TELL CAROLYN SHE MUST NOT LOOK FOR ME.” I listened to his voice: “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries.”

  I could only imagine Barrott’s reaction if he was able to get his hands on that note and tape after hearing Mother’s outburst. I had barely finished that thought when the concierge phoned to say that Detective Gaylor was on his way up. “I’m sorry, Miss Carolyn, he wouldn’t let me announce him. He showed me a subpoena he has to deliver to you.”

  Before the bell rang, I frantically called Thurston Carver, our criminal defense lawyer, on his cell phone. He told me, as he had when we met at his office, that I could not refuse to turn over what was ordered in the subpoena.

  When I opened the door for Detective Gaylor, he handed me the subpoena, his manner professional and impersonal. It was for the note Mack had left in the collection basket and the tape I had found in his suitcase. Shaking with fury, I almost threw them at him. I took some comfort in knowing that I had made a copy of each.

  After he left, I slumped into the nearest chair and again heard myself repeating over and over in my head Mack’s taped quotation, “I all alone beweep my outcast state . . .” Finally, I got up, walked to my bedroom, and emptied the bag I had started to pack. It was obvious that any plans I had been making to drive up to Martha’s Vineyard would have to be postponed. I was so deep into concentrating on what my next logical move would be that I didn’t realize my cell phone was ringing. I rushed to pick it up. It was Nick, about to leave a message. “I’m here,” I said.

  “Good. This would have been a convoluted message. Carolyn,” he said, tersely, “I think you should know that I’ve just been named a person of interest in the disappearance of Leesey Andrews. I see from the papers that the cops’ other theory is that Mack has been running around killing people. I might as well tell you that when I was down at the D.A.’s office on Thursday, they even suggested you and I might be cooperating to protect Mack.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to reply before he said, “I’m flying to Florida this morning for the second time this week. My father’s been in the hospital. He had a mild heart attack yesterday. I expect to be back tomorrow. Barring any reason I have to stay in Florida, can we have dinner tomorrow night?” Then he added, “It was so good to see you, Carolyn. I’m beginning to understand why I looked forward to being invited to dinner with your family and why it wasn’t the same when Mack’s kid sister wasn’t around.”

  I told him that I hoped his father would recover quickly, and that yes, tomorrow night was fine. I held my cell phone to my ear for a few moments after Nick clicked off. My mind was a mess of conflicting emotions. The first one was that I acknowledged to myself I’d never gotten over my crush on him, that all week I’d been hearing his voice, remembering the warmth I’d felt sitting across the table from him the other night.

  The second reaction was to wonder if Nick was playing some kind of cat and mouse game with me. The D.A.’s office had named him a “person of interest” in Leesey Andrews’s disappearance. I knew that was very, very serious, practically an accusation of guilt. But the police also believed he might be helping me to protect Mack. Nick had not contacted me all week, even though Mack’s name had been in the headlines. When we had dinner, he had not been even remotely sympathetic to my fear that Mack might need help.

  Had Nick really been named a person of interest? Or was it just a device suggested to him by the police to disarm me? And was Nick, close friend of his former roommate-turned-criminal, now hoping to use his influence to persuade me to turn Mack in if he contacted me again?

  I shook my head, as if to clear it of all these questions, but they didn’t go away.

  Worse still, they didn’t lead me anywhere.

  47

  Dr. David Andrews had not left his home in Greenwich since the phone call from Leesey came in. Sleepless, and now a gaunt shadow of the man he had been before his daughter’s disappearance, he kept a vigil by the phone, grabbing it at the first ring every time it rang. He always carried the portable receiver from room to room with him. When he went to bed at night, he placed it on the pillow next to his head.

  When he did get a call, he immediately cut the conversation to a few words, explaining that he wanted to leave the line open in case Leesey called again.

  His housekeeper of twenty years, who usually left after lunch, began staying into the evening, trying to get Dr. Andrews to eat something, even if it was only a cup of soup or coffee and a sandwich. He had made it clear to his friends that he did not want anyone to tie up the line, and refused to allow them to stop by and see him. “I??
?m better off if I don’t feel obliged to keep up a conversation,” he told them.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Gregg took Zach Winters down to Larry Ahearn’s office, but as he sat in while Ahearn interrogated Zach, he saw his story about seeing Leesey get into the black Mercedes SUV begin to unravel. Zach had said that he hung around on that block for about half an hour, but the employees of the Woodshed, who left only a few minutes after Leesey, all swore they hadn’t seen him on the street. He admitted that he was a chronic drunk who had once been thrown out of the Woodshed when he came in and tried to panhandle the customers. He admitted that he was angry at Nick DeMarco, the owner, for having him thrown out, and that he knew Nick owned a black Mercedes SUV.

  After the lengthy interrogation, Gregg drove Zach back to where he had found him. Exhausted, Gregg went straight to his apartment and fell asleep until nine o’clock Sunday morning. Then, feeling clearheaded and focused again, he showered, dressed, and drove to Greenwich.

  The change in his father in the one week since he had last seen him was shocking. His father’s housekeeper, Annie Potters, who never came in on Sunday, was there. “He won’t eat,” she whispered to Gregg. “It’s eleven o’clock and he hasn’t touched a morsel since yesterday.”

  “Would you fix some breakfast for both of us, Annie?” Gregg asked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After greeting him, his father had immediately returned to his recliner in the living room, the portable phone within reach. Gregg went back into the living room and sat on the chair nearest the recliner. “Dad, I’ve been walking the streets at night looking for Leesey. I can’t do it anymore, and you can’t do this anymore! We’re not helping Leesey, and we’re destroying ourselves. I’ve been down to the District Attorney’s office. There is absolutely nothing Larry Ahearn and his people aren’t already doing to find Leesey. I want you to come in and eat something, then we’re going out for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.” He got up, and bent down to hug his father. “You know I’m right.”