Thank God, my room was available. I didn’t think there was any way I could have waited at the ferry and then driven home in my present frame of mind. Driven home to what? I asked myself bitterly. The media at my heels. Barrott’s insinuating calls. An absent mother who wanted no part of me. A “friend,” Nick, who was probably using me to help clear his own name.
I went upstairs. The room was cold. I had left a window open that the housekeeper hadn’t closed. I closed it now and turned up the thermostat, then I looked in the mirror. I looked gaunt and weary. My hair, which I’d left loose, seemed limp on my shoulders.
I grabbed the courtesy bathrobe from the closet, went into the bathroom, and began to run the tub. Three minutes later, I was feeling the warmth of the bathwater begin to permeate the chill in my body. When I dressed, I put on the running suit that, thankfully, I had brought with me. It felt good to be wearing it, zipped high at the neck, only my face and head showing. I twisted my hair back and pinned it, then applied a little makeup to hide the stress I saw in my eyes and expression.
Celebrities in dark glasses at night have always amused me. I often wondered how they managed to read the menu in a restaurant. This evening, I put on the glasses I had worn while I was driving up yesterday. They covered half my face and made me feel shielded.
I picked up my shoulder bag and went downstairs to the restaurant, then was dismayed to see that except for a large middle table with a reservation sign on it, there didn’t seem to be anything available. But the maitre d’ took pity on me. “There is a small table in a corner, near the kitchen door,” he said. “I don’t like to assign it, but if you don’t mind . . .”
“It will be fine,” I told him.
I had been settled there long enough to order a glass of wine and review the menu when they came into the dining room. Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith, her father, the four girls. And one other person. A boy about nine or ten years old, a boy with sandy hair, whose face I recognized as clearly as I would my own if I looked in the mirror.
I stared at him. The wide-set eyes, the high forehead, the cowlick, the straight nose. He was smiling. Mack’s smile. I was looking at Mack’s face. My God, I was looking at Mack’s son!
I suddenly felt light-headed as the realization hit me. Barbara had lied. She didn’t have the abortion. She never went into any pediatric nursery and longed for the child she had destroyed. She had borne that child, and was raising him as Bruce Galbraith’s son.
How much of the rest of her story was true? I asked myself.
I had to get out of there. I stood up and walked through the kitchen, ignoring the stares of the workers. I crossed into the lobby, stumbled upstairs, packed my bag, checked out, and caught the last ferry from the Vineyard. At two A.M. I got back to Sutton Place.
For once, there was no media truck on the block.
But Detective Barrott was standing in the garage. Obviously, he must have known that I was on the way home, and I realized I must have been followed. I was dizzy with exhaustion. “What do you want?” I almost screamed.
“Carolyn, Dr. Andrews received another message from Leesey an hour ago. Her exact words were, ‘Daddy, Mack said that he’s going to kill me now. He doesn’t want to take care of me anymore. Good-bye, Daddy. I love you, Daddy.’ ”
Barrott’s voice echoed through the garage as he shouted, “And then she screamed, ‘No, please don’t . . .’ He was strangling her. He was strangling her, Carolyn. We couldn’t save her. Where is your brother, Carolyn? I know you know. Where is that stinking killer? You’ve got to tell us. Where is he now?”
61
At three o’clock on Wednesday morning, as he was driving around SoHo looking for a vulnerable target, his cell phone rang.
“Where are you?” a tense voice asked.
“Cruising in SoHo. Nothing special.” This was his favorite neighborhood. Lots of drunken young women stumbling home at this hour.
“Those streets are alive with cops. You wouldn’t try to pull anything stupid, would you?”
“Stupid, no. Exciting, yes,” he said, his eyes still scanning. “I need one more. I can’t help it.”
“Get home and go to bed. I have someone else for you, and she’ll make the biggest headlines of all.”
“Do I know her?”
“You know her.”
“Who is she?”
He listened as he heard the name. “Oh, that’s really good,” he exclaimed. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite uncle?”
62
The horror of the recording of Leesey’s final good-bye to her father had shaken even the hardened detective squad to the core. Catching the serial killer before he could strike again had become a burning need for each of them. Over and over, the full squad reviewed every fact that had come to light during the investigation.
On Wednesday morning, they were crowded into Ahearn’s office again.
Gaylor was reporting his findings. Benny Seppini’s story had checked out. He was seeing Anna Ryan, the separated wife of Walter Ryan, a police sergeant who was known for his heavy drinking and volatile temper. Anna Ryan confirmed that she had been speaking to Benny Monday night two weeks ago and expressed to him her fear of her husband. When told that Benny claimed he had been parked in his car outside her apartment building, she had smiled and said, “That’s just what Benny would do.”
“That doesn’t mean Benny didn’t get an emergency phone call from DeMarco that night,” Ahearn pointed out. “But we’ll never prove that.”
Ahearn began reading from his notes. In the several days since he had been followed by plainclothes detectives, Nick DeMarco had done nothing unusual. His wiretapped phone conversations had been mostly business-oriented. Several from a real estate agent confirmed that his Park Avenue apartment was for sale. In fact, an offer had been made that he said he would consider. He had tried to phone Carolyn MacKenzie half a dozen times, but she had obviously turned off her cell phone. “We know she was on her way to Martha’s Vineyard,” Ahearn said. “DeMarco didn’t know, and he was getting pretty worried about her.”
Ahearn looked up to make sure he still had everyone’s attention. “Carolyn went to see her brother’s ex-girlfriend, Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith, but she didn’t stay long. The husband wasn’t up there. Then, when the family came into the hotel where Carolyn was staying, she bolted and drove home. Carolyn didn’t get any calls in the hotel. She hasn’t used her cell phone from the time she left town Monday, after she saw the Kramers, till now.
“She was crying when she left the Kramers’ Monday morning. We have a picture of her leaving the building. Then a guy followed her to her car. This is a shot of him with her.” Ahearn put down his notes and handed photos to Barrott. “We checked him out. His name is Howard Altman. He works for Derek Olsen, who owns a bunch of small apartment buildings, including the one Mack lived in. Altman didn’t start the job until a couple of months after MacKenzie disappeared.”
The pictures were passed around and put back on Ahearn’s desk. “Our guys went back to see the Kramers Monday afternoon.” Ahearn’s voice was increasingly weary. In his head, he could not stop hearing Leesey’s cry, “No, please don’t . . .” He cleared his throat. “Gus Kramer said he told Carolyn that his wife saw Mack at that Mass when he left the note in the collection basket and that he was a killer and she should leave them alone. Carolyn started crying and ran out.”
“The first time we saw her,” Gaylor said, “Mrs. Kramer didn’t tell us that she saw Mack in church the morning he left the note, because she didn’t have her distance eyeglasses with her so she couldn’t be sure it was him. Then Monday afternoon she said that now she’s convinced it was Mack. Do we believe her?”
“I don’t believe anything the Kramers tell us,” Ahearn said flatly, “but I don’t think Gus Kramer is a serial killer.” He looked at Barrott. “Brief them on what Carolyn MacKenzie told you when you met her in the garage this morning.”
The dark circles under Roy Barro
tt’s eyes had given way to deep pouches. “We had it out in the garage. She swore that her brother is innocent, that just because Leesey used his name doesn’t mean she wasn’t made to say it. She said she’s going to comb every statement we make or have made and read every word that’s been published, and if she finds anything that says her brother is a killer, she will sue until the cows come home.” He paused, rubbing his forehead. “She told me she was a lawyer and a damn good one, and she was out to prove it to me. She said that if her brother was guilty, she’d be the first to turn him in before he ends up in a shootout, and then she’d work like hell to create an insanity defense for him.”
“Do you believe her?” Chip Dailey, one of the newest detectives, asked.
Barrott shrugged. “I believe she believes he’s innocent, yeah. I also now believe she’s not in touch with the brother. If he’s the one who called her mother’s apartment using Leesey’s cell phone, it’s just another one of his games.”
Ahearn’s phone rang. When he answered, his expression changed, then he said, “Be sure there’s no possibility of a mistake.” When he broke the connection, he said, “Lil Kramer spent two years in prison when she was twenty-four years old. She was working for an elderly woman. When the woman died, a lot of her jewelry was missing. Lil was convicted of stealing it.”
“Did she admit it?” Barrott asked.
“Never. Doesn’t matter. She was convicted at trial. I want her and Gus Kramer brought down here now.” He looked around the room. “All right. You all know your assignments.” His eye fell on Barrott, who was almost asleep on his feet. “Roy, go home and sleep. You’re truly convinced that Carolyn isn’t in touch with her brother?”
“Yes.”
“Then forget tailing her. We know we don’t have enough to detain the Kramers, but once they leave here I want both of them followed.”
As the squad turned to file out, Ahearn said something that he had not been sure he was going to share. “I’ve listened to that recording at least one hundred times. This may sound crazy, but we’re dealing with a lunatic. You hear Leesey scream and then a gasping, gurgling sound, but then he disconnected her cell phone. We didn’t actually hear her die.”
“You seriously think she’s still alive?” Gaylor asked incredulously.
“I think the guy we’re dealing with would not be above that kind of game, yes.”
63
After my shouting match with Detective Barrott, I went upstairs to find concerned messages from both Nick and Elliott on the machine. “Where are you, Carolyn? Please give me a call. I’m worried about you.” That was from Nick. His final message had been left at midnight. “Carolyn, your cell phone isn’t turned on. When you get home, please call me, no matter what time it is.”
Elliott had left three messages, the latest at 11:30 P.M. “Carolyn, your cell phone is off. Please call me. I’m so concerned about you. I saw your mother this evening, and I feel that she is much stronger emotionally, but I feel as if in my concern for her, I may have been failing you. You know how dear you are to me. Call me as soon as you get this message.”
Listening to all the messages, the concern in both their voices, felt like stumbling into a warm room after an ice storm. I loved them both, but I was hardly going to call either one of them at 3:30 in the morning. I had rushed out of the restaurant in Martha’s Vineyard without having dinner, and now I realized I was starving. I went into the kitchen and had a glass of milk and half a peanut butter sandwich. I hadn’t eaten peanut butter in ages, but somehow at that moment I craved it. Then I got undressed and fell into bed. I was so wired that I didn’t think I would sleep, but the minute I closed my eyes I was gone.
Gone into a maze of mournful dreams and weeping shadows and something else. What was it? What face was I trying to see that was eluding me, taunting me? It wasn’t Mack. When I dreamt about him, I saw a boy of ten, with a cowlick and sandy hair and wide-set eyes. Mack’s son. My nephew. I woke up around eight o’clock, put on a robe, and, still half groggy, went down to the kitchen.
In the morning light, the kitchen seemed reassuringly familiar. Whenever Mom went on a trip, she let our longtime housekeeper have a mini-vacation; Sue would come in only once a week to keep the apartment fresh. All the little signs showed me that she had been in yesterday while I was at the Vineyard. There was fresh milk in the fridge, and the mail that I had dumped on a counter in the kitchen was neatly stacked. I was just grateful that she’d been here the one day I was away. I couldn’t have endured having her commiserate with me about Mack.
I didn’t have the faintest desire for anything to eat. But my head was clear, and I had some decisions to make. I tried to think them through over three cups of coffee.
Detective Barrott. I honestly thought I convinced him that I was not protecting Mack, but on the other hand, I had not told him about something that might have had everything to do with Mack’s disappearance . . .
Barbara had told me that Bruce’s anger at Mack was because of Mack’s treatment of her. But maybe there was a lot more to it than that. Bruce had always been desperately in love with Barbara. He obviously married her on her terms—“Be my baby’s father and send me to medical school.” Did he have anything to do with forcing Mack to run away? Did he threaten him? And if so, with what?
That simply didn’t make sense to me.
Mack’s child. I had to protect him. Barbara didn’t know I had seen him. He was growing up as the son of a pediatric surgeon and a wealthy real estate entrepreneur. He had two little sisters. I could never shatter his world, and if I tried to cast suspicion on Bruce, and Barrott began digging into the relationship between Barbara and Mack before Mack disappeared, that could happen.
I needed someone to talk to, someone whom I could trust implicitly. Nick? No. The lawyer we’d hired, Thurston Carver? No. And then the answer came, and it was so simple I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner: Lucas Reeves! He had been in on the investigation since the beginning. He had interviewed Nick and Barbara and Bruce and the Kramers. I called his office. It was only 8:30, but he was already there. He told me to come over as soon as I could make it. He said that he and his staff were working on nothing but finding Leesey’s abductor.
“Even if it’s Mack?” I said.
“Of course, even if it’s Mack, but I absolutely do not believe the answer lies with him.”
I showered, then turned on the television and watched as I dressed. The police had released to the media the fact that another call had been received from Leesey. “The contents have not been revealed, but a police source confirmed that there is a high probability that she is now dead,” the CNN anchor said.
As I pulled on jeans and a long-sleeve cotton sweater, I thought that at least, by not releasing the exact contents of the conversation, Mack’s name had been kept out of it.
I like jewelry, and I always wear earrings and something around my neck. Today I chose a thin gold chain with a pearl that Daddy had given to me, and then I fished in the drawer for the earrings that Mack had presented to me on my sixteenth birthday. They were a gold sunburst design with a tiny diamond in the center. I felt close to both Daddy and Mack as I fastened them.
It was about a mile from Sutton Place to Reeves’s office, but I decided to walk. After so much time in the car in the last few days, I needed the exercise. The question was how I could avoid the media. I did it by going down to the garage and waiting for a few minutes until a resident of the building came along. Then I begged a ride. He was a distinguished-looking older man. I had never met him. “Could I just hide on the floor of your backseat until we’re a couple of blocks away?” I pleaded.
He looked at me sympathetically. “Ms. MacKenzie, I certainly understand why you want to get away without the media, but I’m afraid I’m not the one who should help you. I’m a federal judge.”
I almost laughed in disbelief. But then the judge signaled to someone who had just gotten off the elevator. “Hi, David,” he said. “This yo
ung lady needs help, and I know you’ll provide it.” Feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment, I thanked them both.
David whoever-he-was dropped me off at Park and Fifty-seventh. I walked the rest of the way, my thoughts as scattered as the scraps of paper that the breeze was picking up and depositing near the curb. The month of May was almost over. O Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May. We used to sing that every May at the Academy of the Sacred Heart, and one year, when I was about seven, I got to crown the statue of the Virgin.
Fast-forward to the scene today—me kneeling on the floor of the car to avoid microphones and cameras!
When I got to Lucas Reeves’s office, the sight of that small, strong-featured man with the resonant voice helped me to focus again. He pumped my hand vigorously, as if he understood I needed human contact. “Come inside, Carolyn,” he said. “I’ve got quite a setup in here.” He led me into a large conference room. The walls were covered with pictures in which faces had been enlarged. Some of them were inside shots, others had obviously been taken outside. “These start when the first young woman disappeared ten years ago,” Reeves explained. “We’ve culled them from newspaper pictures, television clips, security cameras. They were taken in and around the clubs where the four young women disappeared. I have invited the detective squad of the District Attorney’s office to come here and inspect them to see if, just maybe, one face will trigger a connection that has been missed so far. Why don’t you look at them?”
I walked around the room, stopping when I saw the faces of Mack and Nick and some of their friends at that first club. They looked so young, I thought. Then I walked around all four walls, from one collage to the next, and then to the next, my eyes searching and searching. At one point, I stopped. That looks like—, I thought, then almost laughed out loud. How stupid. I couldn’t even see the man’s face, just his eyes and forehead.