Dr. David Andrews nodded, then his face crumbled. Gregg embraced him. “Dad, I know. I know. Now, come on, and leave the phone here. If it rings, we’ll answer it.”
He was cheered to see his father eat half the serving of scrambled eggs and bacon Annie put before him. Gregg was nibbling on a slice of toast and drinking his second cup of coffee when the phone rang. His father bolted up and raced from the table, but he didn’t reach the phone before the message began.
It was Leesey, unmistakably. “Daddy, Daddy,” she wailed, “help me. Please, Daddy, he says he’s going to kill me.”
The message ended as Leesey began to sob.
Dr. David Andrews lunged for the phone and grabbed it, but by then he heard only a dial tone. His knees buckled, and Gregg was in time to ease him into his recliner before he collapsed.
Gregg was checking his father’s pulse when the phone rang again. It was Larry Ahearn.
“Gregg, that was Leesey, wasn’t it?”
Gregg pressed the speaker button so that his father could hear. “Absolutely, Larry. You know that.”
“Gregg, she’s still alive, and we’re going to find her. I swear that to you.”
Dr. David Andrews grabbed the receiver. His voice hoarse, he shouted, “You’ve got to find her, Larry. You heard her! Whoever has her is going to kill her! For God’s sake, find her for me before it’s too late!”
48
Exhaustion was forgotten as Larry Ahearn played the tape of Leesey’s cry for help to the squad. “The call came in at eleven thirty, exactly one hour ago,” he said. “It was made from mid-Manhattan. Of course, there is always a possibility that the abductor made a tape of her voice and played it in a different location.”
“And if that’s the case, he may already have killed her,” Barrott said, quietly.
“We’re going to go forward under the assumption that she’s still alive,” Ahearn snapped. “There’s no question that whoever has her is on a short leash. He wants attention. I’ve talked to our profiler, Dr. Lowe. He thinks that this guy is loving the headlines and the way the story is being covered by Greta Van Susteren and Nancy Grace. He’s probably also anticipating the uproar when we release the fact that Leesey called her father again and left that message.”
Too restless to sit any longer, he stood and tapped his fingers on his desk. “I don’t want to even think this, but it has to be considered. In another five days, maybe seven, the fact that Leesey phoned will stay big news, but without new information, it won’t be the headline anymore.”
Every detective from the squad room was crowded tightly into Ahearn’s office for the briefing. The expressions on their faces became increasingly grave as they followed the thought Ahearn was voicing. “Leesey went to that club on Monday night and disappeared. Her message promising to call again on Mother’s Day came the following Sunday, six days later. After a one-week interval, this new call has come in. It’s Dr. Lowe’s opinion that our guy may not wait another week to give us a new headline.”
“MacKenzie’s the one doing this,” Roy Barrott said emphatically. “You should have seen his mother yesterday when I went to her boyfriend’s apartment.”
“Her boyfriend?” Ahearn exclaimed.
“Elliott Wallace, the big investment banker. Aaron Klein, the drama teacher’s son, worked for him for fourteen years. Klein told me they became really close when his mother was murdered. Wallace was still so distraught about MacKenzie’s disappearance the year before that it gave them a common bond. Mack MacKenzie’s father was in Vietnam with Wallace, and they became lifelong friends. It’s Klein’s opinion that Wallace has always been in love with Olivia MacKenzie.”
“Is she living with him?” Ahearn asked.
“I wouldn’t call it that. With all the media around Sutton Place, she went home with him. Having said that, Klein wouldn’t be surprised if she married Wallace eventually. He sure was quick to stash her away in a private psychiatric residence so she can’t keep telling us her son is crazy.”
“Is there any possibility she’s in touch with her son?”
Barrott shrugged. “I’d say if Mack has contact with anyone in his family, it’s more likely with the sister.”
“All right.” Ahearn turned to address the group. “I still say that DeMarco may be the one behind all this. I want a tail on him 24/7. I want one on Carolyn MacKenzie, too. We’ll apply for a wiretap for any and all phones that aren’t already tapped: MacKenzie in her Thompson Street apartment, in Sutton Place, and on her cell phone; DeMarco, wherever he works or hangs his hat.”
“Larry, I’d like to make another suggestion,” Bob Gaylor said. “Zach Winters may be a wino, but I think he saw something that night. He curls up in doorways. The fact that the band members and waiters from the Woodshed didn’t see him on the street doesn’t prove anything, and I’d swear he was holding back on us when he was here.”
“Go talk to him again,” Ahearn said. “He lives in that shelter on Mott Street, doesn’t he?”
“Sometimes, but when the weather’s good, he puts his stuff in a laundry cart and sleeps outside.”
Ahearn nodded. “All right. We’re cooperating with the FBI, but I want all of you to keep something in mind. I’ve known Leesey since she was six years old. I want her back, and I want us to be the ones who find her!”
49
On Sunday morning, using the service entrance to duck the media, I went for a long, long walk along the river. I felt whiplashed after Elliott’s phone call about Mom, and sick with my doubts about Nick—and, let’s face it, about Mack.
The day had fulfilled its promise—warm with a light breeze. The current of the East River, often so strong, seemed as mellow as the sunshine. The boaters were out, not too many of them, adding to the scenery. I love New York. God help me, I even love that blaring, intrusive Pepsi-Cola sign on the Long Island City side of the river.
By the end of a three-hour walk, I was physically and mentally exhausted. When I got back to Sutton Place, I stripped, showered, and got into bed. I slept all afternoon, and woke up at six o’clock feeling at least somewhat clearheaded and a bit more able to cope. I dressed casually, in a blue and white pinstriped shirt and white jeans. I didn’t care if Nick showed up in a jacket and tie. I wanted no suggestion of little Carolyn dressing up for a date.
Nick arrived promptly at seven o’clock. He was wearing a sport shirt and chinos. I had intended to steer him straight out the door, but his first words were, “Carolyn, I really need to talk with you, and it might be better if we do it here.”
I followed him into the library. “Library” sounds impressive. It really isn’t that pretentious. It’s just a room with bookshelves and comfortable armchairs and a paneled area that opens to disclose a built-in bar. Nick went straight to it, poured himself a scotch on the rocks, and, without asking, a glass of white wine with a couple of ice cubes for me.
“This is what you had last week. I read somewhere that the Duchess of Windsor put ice in her champagne,” he said, as he handed me the glass.
“And I read that the Duke of Windsor liked his whiskey neat,” I told him.
“Married to her, I shouldn’t wonder.” He gave a brief smile. “Joking, of course. I have no idea what she was like.”
I sat on the edge of the couch. He chose one of the armchairs and swiveled it around. “I remember loving these chairs,” he said. “I promised myself that if I ever got rich I’d have at least one of them.”
“And?” I asked.
“Never had time to think about it. When I started to make money and bought an apartment, I got an interior decorator. She was into the Western look. When I saw it all finished, I felt like Roy Rogers.”
I had been studying him, and I realized that the gray around his temples was even more pronounced than I had thought. There were fresh pouches under his eyes, and the concerned expression I had observed last week had now become one of deep worry. He had flown to Florida yesterday because his father had a heart attack. I as
ked Nick how he was doing.
“Pretty good. It really was a mild attack. They are releasing him in a couple of days.”
Then Nick looked straight at me. “Carolyn, do you think Mack is alive? And if you do, is he capable of what the cops think he’s doing?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to be honest, to say that at this point, I simply didn’t know, but I caught myself in time. “What on earth makes you ask that? Of course not.” I hoped that I sounded as indignant as I wanted to sound.
“Carolyn, don’t look at me like that. Can’t you understand that Mack was my best friend? I never could figure out why he chose to disappear. Now I wonder if something was going on in his head that nobody realized at the time.”
“Are you worried about Mack or about yourself, Nick?” I asked.
“I won’t answer that. Carolyn, the one thing I beg of you, plead with you, is that if he is in contact with you, or if he does call you, don’t think you’re doing him a favor by shielding him. Did you hear the message Leesey Andrews left for her father this morning?” He looked at me expectantly.
For a moment I was too shaken to speak, then managed to say that I hadn’t turned on the radio or television all day. But when Nick told me, all I could think of was Barrott’s theory that Mack stole his own car. It’s crazy, but it reminded me of the day I was five or six years old and Mack suddenly had a terrible nosebleed. Daddy was home, and he grabbed one of the monogrammed towels from a rack in the bathroom to stem the flow. We had an elderly housekeeper at that time who adored Mack. She was so upset that she tried to yank the towel out of Dad’s hand. “That one’s for show,” she shrieked, “it’s for show!”
Daddy always got a kick out of telling that story, but he always added, “Poor Mrs. Anderson was so worried about Mack, but to her the fancy towels just weren’t disposable. I told her the towels have our name on them, and Mack can ruin them if he likes!”
I could imagine Mack stealing his own car, but not Mack holding Leesey hostage and torturing her father. I looked at Nick. “I don’t know what to think about Mack,” I said. “I swear to you and to anyone who will listen that other than those Mother’s Day calls, I have not heard from Mack or seen him in ten years.”
Nick nodded, and my guess is that he believed me. Then he asked, “Do you think that I am responsible for Leesey’s disappearance? That I have her hidden somewhere?”
I examined my heart and my soul before I answered. “No, I don’t,” I said. “But both of you have been dragged into this, Mack because I went to the police, you because she disappeared from your club. If it’s neither one of you, then who is responsible?”
“Carolyn, I don’t know where to begin to look for the answer to that.”
We talked for more than an hour. I told him I was going to try to see Lil Kramer alone, because she was afraid to say anything in front of her husband. We went round and round about the fact that, just before he vanished, Mack had been upset with Mrs. Kramer but hadn’t told Nick why. I told Nick how Bruce Galbraith had been so hostile about Mack when I saw him last week, and that I thought Barbara had rushed to visit her father in Martha’s Vineyard just to avoid being questioned.
“I’m going to drive up there tomorrow or Tuesday,” I said. “Mother doesn’t want to see me, and Elliott will take care of her.”
Nick asked me if I thought that Mom would marry Elliott.
“I think so,” I said. “Quite honestly, I hope so. They’re very good together. Mom certainly loved Dad, but he delighted in being a bit of a rebel. Elliott is actually more of a soul mate, which of course is a little hard for me to swallow. They’re both perfectionists, and I think they’ll be very happy together.” Then I added words I’d never thought I’d say. “That’s why Mack was always her favorite. He did everything right. I’m too impulsive for Mom’s taste. Witness going to the police and opening up this whole mess.”
I was appalled that I had confided that to Nick. I think he was about to come over to me, maybe put his arms around me, but he must have known that wasn’t what I wanted. Instead, he said, his tone light, “See if you can guess this one: ‘She sprang full-fledged from her father’s brow.’ ”
“The goddess Minerva,” I said. “Sister Catherine, sixth grade. Man, how she loved teaching mythology.” I stood up. “You did ask me to have dinner, you know. How about Neary’s? I want a sliced-steak sandwich and french fries.”
Nick hesitated. “Carolyn, I have to warn you. There are cameras outside. My car’s near the door. We can make a run for it. I don’t think they’ll follow us.”
That was the way it turned out. The camera lights flashed the moment we exited the building. Someone tried to shove a microphone in my face. “Ms. MacKenzie, do you think your brother . . .” Nick grabbed my hand, and we ran for his car. He drove up York Avenue until Seventy-second Street, then turned and doubled back. “I think we should be okay now,” he said.
I didn’t agree or disagree. My one consolation was that Mom was in a safe place where the media couldn’t get at her.
Neary’s is an Irish pub on Fifty-seventh Street, a block away from Sutton Place. It’s like a second home for many of us in the neighborhood. The atmosphere is warm, the food is good, and the odds are that on any given night, you’ll know half the diners.
If I needed moral support, and God knows I did, Jimmy Neary provided it. When he saw me he crossed the room instantly. “Carolyn, it’s a disgrace what they’re insinuating about Mack,” he told me, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. “That boy was a saint. You wait and see, the truth will come out.”
He turned, and recognized Nick. “Hey, kid. Remember when you and Mack came in, you bet me that your father’s pasta was a match for my corned beef?”
“We never put it to the test,” Nick said. “And now my dad is in Florida, retired.”
“Retired? How does he like it?” Jimmy asked.
“He hates it.”
“So would I. Tell him to come back, and we’ll finally get the answer.”
Jimmy ushered us to one of the corner tables in the back. That was where Nick told me more about the visit to Florida. “I begged my mother to keep the New York papers away from Pop,” he said. “I don’t know what it will do to him if he finds out I’ve been designated a ‘person of interest’ in Leesey’s disappearance.”
Over sliced-steak sandwiches, by unspoken mutual consent, we drifted into neutral territory. Nick talked about opening his first restaurant and how well it did. He hinted that these last five years, he’d moved too fast. “I think I read Donald Trump’s success story once too often,” he admitted. “I got the idea that skating on thin ice was fun. I’ve banked an awful lot on the Woodshed. It’s the right spot at the right time. But if the State Liquor Authority wants to shut it down, they’ll find a way. And if that happens, I’m in big trouble.”
We talked cautiously about Barbara Hanover. “I remember thinking how beautiful she was,” I told him.
“She is and was, but Carolyn, there’s something else about Barbara, a kind of calculated ‘What’s best for Barbara?’ agenda. It’s hard to explain. But after we all graduated and I went for my MBA, Mack was gone, and as for Bruce, I didn’t care if I ever saw him again.”
We both had a cappuccino, then Nick drove me back to Sutton Place. There was just one television van halfway down the block. He rushed me into the building and to the elevator. As the operator held the door open, Nick said, “Carolyn, I didn’t do it and neither did Mack. Hang on to that thought.”
He skipped the social kiss and was gone. I went upstairs. The message light was blinking. It was Detective Barrott. “Ms. MacKenzie. At eighty forty P.M. tonight, you received another call from Leesey Andrews’s cell phone. Your brother didn’t leave a message.”
50
Lucas Reeves had not taken the weekend off. He had spent it in his office, working with his technicians. Charles MacKenzie Sr. had hired him nearly ten years ago to find his missing son, and the fact that he had never b
een able to uncover even the slightest hint of what happened to Mack had given Reeves a sense of failure that was never far from his consciousness.
Now he considered it even more urgent that he find the answer, not only to learn what had happened to Mack, but to find the real killer and perhaps save Leesey Andrews’s life.
On Monday morning, Lucas was back in his office on Park Avenue South at eight o’clock. His three permanent investigators had been told to get in early. By eight thirty they were seated around his desk. “I have a hunch, and some of my hunches have worked in the past,” he began, “so I’m going to act on it. I am going to assume that Mack is innocent of these crimes, and I am going to assume that someone who knew him at least reasonably well is responsible. By that, I mean knew him well enough to hear about the Mother’s Day calls, and to have his family’s unlisted phone number.”
Reeves looked from one investigator to another. “We are going to start by concentrating on the people around Mack. By that I mean his two roommates, Nick DeMarco and Bruce Galbraith. We are going to dig up everything we can learn about the superintendent couple, Lil and Gus Kramer. From there we will concentrate on Mack’s other friends from Columbia who were with him in the nightclub the evening that first girl disappeared. Over the weekend, our techs have gathered all the newspaper accounts and media clips that were headlines when each of those other three girls vanished. We have enhanced the faces of everyone caught in those pictures, whether he or she was identifiable or not. Study those faces. Memorize them.”
Lucas had come in so early that he had made his own coffee. He took a sip, grimaced, and continued. “The media is camped outside Sutton Place. One of you must be in the vicinity at all times. Have your cell phone out, and be using it as a camera. Somebody also has to be on the street when the Woodshed opens tonight, taking pictures not only of guests entering and leaving, but of people hanging around in the streets. There are a couple of other clubs opening in SoHo this week. Be there with the paparazzi.”