Where Are You Now? (10 page)

My spacious bedroom on Sutton Place has a separate sitting area. On Thompson Street, I have a pullout couch, which, remarkably, has a very comfortable mattress. As Detective Barrott followed me into the apartment, I caught the way he surveyed the room, with its black enamel side tables and bright red modern lamps, small black enamel coffee table, and two armless chairs upholstered in the same stark white of the couch. He let his eyes slide over the white walls and the rug with its checkered black and white and red pattern.

The kitchen is a narrow unit off the living room. An ice cream parlor table and two padded wrought iron chairs under the window are the full extent of the dining facilities. But the window is wide, lets in a lot of light, and plants and geraniums on the sill bring the outdoors in.

Barrot took everything in, then politely refused my offer of water or coffee and sat down opposite me on one of the side chairs. He surprised me by starting with an apology. “Ms. MacKenzie,” he said, “I'm pretty sure you feel that I dismissed your concerns when you came to see me on Monday.”

I let my silence tell him that I agreed.

“I started to look over your brother's file yesterday. I'll admit that I didn't get very far. The call came in about Leesey Andrews and of course that took precedence, but then I realized it would also give me another chance to talk to you. As I told you, we're canvassing the neighborhood. Do you know Leesey Andrews?”

The question surprised me. Maybe it should not have, but I thought to myself that when he phoned and asked to meet me, if I had known her even slightly, I would have said so immediately. “No, I don't know her,” I said.

“Did you see her picture on television?”

“Yes, I did, last night.”

“And you didn't have any sense of ever having seen her around?” he persisted as though he wasn't sure that I wasn't being evasive.

“No, but of course, living next door, I may have passed her in the street. There are a number of young women students in that building.” I knew I sounded irritated and
I was. Surely Barrott wasn't suggesting that because my brother was missing I might have some kind of link to this girl's disappearance?

Barrott's lips tightened. “Ms. MacKenzie, I hope you realize that I'm asking you the same questions I, and other detectives, are asking everyone in this neighborhood. Because we already know each other, and because you of all people understand the agony her father and brother are going through, I'm hoping that somehow you can help us. You're an extremely attractive young woman, and as a lawyer you're trained to be very observant.” He leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped. “Do you ever walk around this area alone at night, let's say after dinner or a movie, or do you ever go out very early in the morning?”

“Yes, I do.” I knew my tone had softened. “Most mornings I jog around six o'clock, and if I'm meeting friends locally in the evening, I often walk home alone.”

“Have you ever had a sense of being watched, of someone following you?”

“No, I haven't. On the other hand, I would say I'm rarely out later than midnight, and the Village is still pretty lively at that time.”

“I understand. But I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your eyes open for us. Predators, like arsonists, sometimes enjoy watching the excitement they've created. Something else. There
is
another way you might be able to help us. Your neighbor on the second floor, Mrs. Carter, is very fond of you, isn't she?”

“I'm very fond of her. She's terribly arthritic and terrified
of going out if the weather is bad,” I explained. “She's had a couple of nasty falls. I check on her and pick up odds and ends from the grocery store if she needs them.” I leaned back in my chair, wondering where he was going with this.

Barrott nodded. “She told me that. In fact she was singing your praises. But you know how it is with some old people. They're afraid of getting in trouble themselves if they talk to police. My own aunt was like that. She wouldn't admit it when she saw a neighbor dent another neighbor's car. ‘It's none of my business,' was the way she put it.” He paused thoughtfully. “I could tell that Mrs. Carter was nervous about talking to me,” he continued. “But she
did
tell me she enjoys sitting at the window. She claims she didn't recognize Leesey's picture, but I have a hunch she did. It may only be that she has noticed Leesey walking by and doesn't want to get involved with the investigation in any way, but maybe if you have a cup of tea with her, she might open up to you.”

“I'll do that,” I said willingly. Mrs. Carter may be old, but she doesn't miss a trick, and she is a window sitter, I thought. She certainly has all the dirt on the neighbors who live on the three floors above her. I considered the irony that I was now investigating for Barrott, when my intention had been to have
him
investigate for
me
.

Barrott stood up. “Thank you for letting me stop in, Ms. MacKenzie. As you can understand, we're working round the clock on this case, but when it's resolved, I'm going to get back to reviewing your brother's file and see if we can come up with some new avenues to follow.”

He had given me his card on Monday but probably suspected that I had torn it up, which I had. As I accepted another one from him, he said he'd keep in touch with me. I saw him out, locked the door behind him, and realized that I suddenly felt weak-kneed. Something about his manner made me suspect that Detective Roy Barrott had not been honest. To him, I was not just someone who happened to be a neighbor of a missing young woman. He was trying to create reasons to keep in contact with me.

But why?

I simply didn't know.

L
il Kramer had been nervous from the moment Carolyn MacKenzie phoned on Monday requesting a meeting, but on Wednesday, shortly after Carolyn left, had gone into the bedroom, laid down, closed her eyes, and begun to cry silently, tears running down her cheeks.

Lil could hear Gus saying his good-byes to Howard, then he walked into the bedroom and stood over her. At her husband's impatient demand to know what her problem was, her eyes had flown open. “My problem? I'll tell you what it is! Gus, I was in St. Francis de Sales Church at the Latin Mass last Sunday. I've been thinking about going ever since they began saying it again last year. Don't forget, my father was a Catholic and used to take me to church once in a while, back when all the Masses were in Latin.”

“You never told me you went there Sunday,” Gus snapped.

“And why would I have told you? You have no use for any religion, and I didn't need to hear you ranting that all clergymen are con men.”

Gus Kramer's expression changed. “All right, all right. You were there. Hope you said a prayer for me. So what?”

“It was so crowded. You wouldn't believe it. People were standing in the aisles. You heard what Carolyn MacKenzie just told us.
That Mack was there!
I know you won't believe me, but at Mass I had the feeling that I saw someone familiar, just for a moment. But as you know, I'm blind as a bat if I don't have my bifocals with me, and I forgot them when I changed my purse.”

“I repeat, so what?”

“Gus, don't you understand what I'm saying? Mack was there! Suppose he does decide to come back! You know,” she finished in a whisper, “you know.”

As she had expected, Gus had immediately become angry. “Damn it, Lil, that guy must have had his own reasons for pulling the disappearing act. I'm sick of seeing you wringing your hands over him. Knock it off. Stop it. You told his sister just enough to satisfy her. Now keep your mouth shut. Look at me.” Roughly he leaned over the bed and raised her chin so that she could not avert her gaze from him. “You're half-blind without your distance glasses. You're jumping to conclusions because of that note Mack supposedly left in the collection. You didn't see him there. So forget all about it.”

Lil would not have believed she had the courage to ask her husband why he was so sure. “How can you be so positive that Mack wasn't there?” she demanded in a tense whisper.

“Just trust me,” Gus said, his face darkening with anger.

It was the same rage she had seen ten years ago when
she told Gus what she had found in Mack's room while she was cleaning. It was that rage that had made her wonder despairingly all these years if Gus could have been responsible for Mack's disappearance.

In a clumsy gesture of affection, Gus ran his calloused hand over Lil's forehead, then, with a heavy sigh, said, “You know, Lil, I'm beginning to think it may be a good idea after all for us to retire to Pennsylvania. If that sister of Mack's starts dropping around here, sooner or later she's going to get you so upset, you'll say too much.”

Lil, who loved living in New York and who had dreaded moving to an idle retired life, whimpered, “I want to go right away, Gus. I'm so afraid for us.”

B
ruce Galbraith always checked in with his secretary at the end of the business day. Unlike most of the people he knew, he did not carry a BlackBerry and often turned off his cell phone. “Too many distractions for my taste,” was his explanation. “It's like watching a juggler with too many balls in the air.”

Thirty-two years old, average height, with sandy hair and rimless glasses, he joked about himself that he was so average he wouldn't even be noticed by a security camera. On the other hand, he was not so self-effacing that he did not know his own worth. He was a superb deal-closer and was considered by his colleagues to have a near-psychic ability to foresee the trends in the real estate market.

The result was that Bruce Galbraith had multiplied the value of the family real estate business to the point where his sixty-year-old father had simply turned over the reins to him. At his retirement dinner his father had said, “Bruce, my hat's off to you. You're a good son and a far better businessman than I ever was, and I was good. Now,
you keep making money for us, and I'll pursue my goal of becoming a scratch golfer.”

Bruce was in Arizona on Wednesday when he made his daily late-afternoon call to his secretary. She told him that a Carolyn MacKenzie had phoned and left a message that Mack had been in contact again and would Bruce please call her.

Carolyn MacKenzie? Mack's kid sister? These were not names he wanted to hear.

Bruce had just returned to his suite in the hotel he owned in Scottsdale. Shaking his head, he walked over to the minibar and reached into it for a cold beer. It was only four o'clock, but he had been outside in the heat most of the day and deserved it, he assured himself.

He settled in the big armchair facing the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the desert. At any other time it was his favorite view, but at this moment he was seeing only the college apartment he had shared with Mack MacKenzie and Nick DeMarco, and reviewing again what had happened there.

I don't want to see Mack's sister, he told himself. All that happened ten years ago, and even then Mack's parents knew I was never close to him. He never once asked me home to Sutton Place for dinner, although he was always taking Nick with him. It didn't even cross Mack's mind that I might enjoy going, too. To him, I was just an unobtrusive guy who happened to be sharing an apartment with him.

Nick the lady-killer; Mack, everyone's choice for the nicest guy in the world. So nice that he apologized for
beating me out by a fraction to be one of the top ten graduates of our class. I'll never forget the look on Dad's face when I told him I hadn't made it. Four generations at Columbia, and I was the first not to be in the top ten. And Barbara, God, the crush I had on her in those days. I worshipped her. . . . She never even glanced in my direction, he thought.

Bruce tilted his head and finished the beer. I'll have to call Carolyn, he decided. But I'll tell her what I told her parents. Mack and I lived together, but we never hung out together. I didn't even see him the day he disappeared. I got out before he and Nick were awake. So, leave me alone, little sister.