Where Are You Now? (18 page)

Steve saw that he was getting the reaction he wanted. The anger was disappearing from his uncle's eyes and an unwilling smile was hovering around his lips. I've got to be more careful, Hockney warned himself. Forgetting his birthday was the stupidest thing I've done in a long time.

“You're lucky I don't throw you out of your apartment and make you support yourself for a change,” Olsen muttered, but without rancor. It always surprised him, the swift rush of emotion he felt when he was with his dead sister's handsome son. It's because he looks so much like Irma, Olsen reminded himself—the same dark hair and big brown eyes, the same wonderful smile. Flesh of my
flesh, he thought, as he took a bite of steamed dumplings Steve had ordered for him. It was delicious. “These are good,” he said. “You take me to nice places all the time. I must be giving you too much money.”

“No you're not, Poppa. I've been doing a lot of gigs downtown. My big break is just around the corner. You're going to be so proud of me. Think about it. My band is going to be the next Rolling Stones.”

“I've been hearing that since you were twenty. How old are you now? Forty-two?”

Hockney smiled. “Thirty-six and you know it.”

Olsen laughed. “I know I know it. But listen to me: I still think you should take over running the apartments. Howie gets on my nerves sometimes. He irritates people. I would have fired him today, except that the Kramers changed their minds about leaving, thank God.”

“The Kramers? They'll never leave New York! Their daughter made them buy that place in Pennsylvania, and I'll tell you why. She doesn't want her parents to be superintendents. Hurts her image with her dreary, stuck-up friends.”

“Well, Howie talked them into staying, but you should think about getting a lot more involved in the business.”

Oh, please! Steve Hockney thought. Then he suppressed the feeling of irritation. Be careful, he warned himself again, be very careful. I'm his only living relative, but with his moods he could leave everything to charity, or even give a big cut to Howie. This week he's mad at him. Next week he'll be telling me that nobody runs his business like Howie, that he's like a son to him.

He took a couple of bites, then said, “Well, Poppa, I've been thinking that I should be more of a help to you. Look at all you do for me. Maybe the next time you make the rounds of the buildings, I should go along with you and Howie. I'd really like to do that.”

“You really would?” Derek Olsen's tone was sharp, his eyes focused on his nephew's face. Then, satisfied with what he saw, he said, “You mean it. I can tell.”

“Of course I mean it. Why do I call you ‘Poppa'? You took over being my father when I was two years old, after all.”

“I warned your mother not to marry that man. He was a no-good. Dishonest, conniving. When you were in your teens, I was afraid you'd end up just like him. Thank God you straightened yourself out. With some help from me.”

Steve Hockney smiled appreciatively, then reached into his pocket and took out a small box. He put it on the table and slid it across to his uncle. “Happy Birthday, Poppa.”

Ignoring the last steamed dumpling, Olsen quickly untied the ribbon, tore the birthday wrapping paper, and opened the box. It was a Montblanc pen with his initials engraved on the gold clip. A pleased smile brightened his face. “How did you know I lost my good pen?” he asked.

“The last time I saw you, you were using a cheap giveaway. It wasn't that hard to make the deduction.”

The waiter arrived with a platter of mandarin duck. For the rest of the dinner, Steve Hockney carefully directed the conversation to reminiscences of his late mother, and how she had always said that her big brother
was the smartest, nicest man she'd ever known. “When Mom was sick, she told me that all she ever wanted me to do was to be just like you.”

He was rewarded with the sight of sentimental tears filling his uncle's eyes.

When dinner was over, Hockney hailed a cab and deposited his uncle at home, not leaving him until he was inside his apartment. “Double-lock the door,” he cautioned, with a final affectionate hug. As soon as the click confirmed that Olsen had followed instructions, he rushed downstairs, and with rapid steps hurried to his own apartment, ten blocks away.

Inside, he ripped off his jacket and slacks and shirt and tie, and changed into dungarees and a sweatshirt. Time to check out SoHo, he told himself. God, I thought I'd go nuts sitting with that old man for so long.

His ground-floor apartment had a private entrance. When he went out, he looked around, and, as he often did, thought of the previous resident, the drama teacher who had been murdered on the street, only a block away.

That other place I had was the pits, he thought. But after the teacher's death, Poppa was glad to let me have this. I convinced him that people are superstitious. He agreed with me that it was better not to rent it while her death was still in the news. That was nine years ago. By now, who remembered?

I'm never going to leave it, he swore to himself. It suits my purposes exactly, and there are no damn security cameras to keep track of me.

D
etective Barrott had one good reason for tracking me down. He wanted the note that Mack had left in the collection basket. I had left it in Mack's file in my father's office. I invited Barrott to come upstairs with me, and he followed me into the apartment.

I was deliberately rude, leaving him standing in the foyer while I went for the note. It was still wrapped in the plastic sandwich bag. I took it out and studied it. Ten words in block letters. “UNCLE DEVON, TELL CAROLYN SHE MUST NOT LOOK FOR ME.”

How could I be sure that Mack had printed those words?

The paper appeared to be unevenly cut from a larger sheet. When I offered it to Barrott last Monday, he hadn't been interested. He'd said that it had probably been handled by at least one usher, my uncle, my mother, and myself. I don't remember if I told him I had shown it to Elliott as well. Was there any chance that Mack's fingerprints were still on it?

I put it back in the plastic and brought it out to Barrott.
He was speaking on his cell phone. When he saw me coming down the hall, he ended the conversation. I had hoped that he would simply take the note and leave, but instead he said, “Ms. MacKenzie, I need to talk with you.”

Let me stay calm, I prayed, as I led him into the living room. My knees suddenly felt weak, and I sat in the big Queen Anne wing chair that had been Dad's favorite spot in this room. I glanced up at the portrait of him my mother had had painted, still hanging over the mantelpiece. The wing chair faced the fireplace, and Dad used to joke that when he sat in it, he did nothing but admire himself. “My God, Liv, cast your eyes on that grand-looking devil,” he would say. “How much extra did you pay the painter to make me look that good?”

Sitting in Dad's chair somehow gave me courage. Detective Barrott sat on the edge of the couch and looked at me, without a hint of warmth. “Ms. MacKenzie, I've just been told that Aaron Klein, of Darien, Connecticut, has called our office and told us he believes your brother is the person who murdered his mother nine years ago. He said that he always felt that whoever killed her wanted something in her apartment. He now is convinced it was the tapes with your brother's voice. He said you told him you were bringing up a tape to play for him. Do you have that tape?”

I felt as if he had dashed freezing water in my face. I knew how that tape would sound to him. He and everyone else in the District Attorney's office would decide that Mack had been in big trouble and had confided in Esther Klein. I grasped the arms of the wing chair. “My father
was a lawyer as I am,” I told Barrott, “and before I say another word or give you anything, I am going to consult a lawyer.”

“Ms. MacKenzie, I want to tell you something,” Barrott said. “As of Saturday morning, Leesey Andrews was still alive. There is nothing more important than finding her, if it isn't already too late. You must have heard the news reports that she phoned her father two days ago and told him she'd call again next Mother's Day. You must surely agree that it defies belief that it's just a coincidence she is following—or being
forced
to follow—your brother's modus operandi.”

“It wasn't a secret that Mack phones on Mother's Day,” I protested. “Other people knew about it. A year after Mack disappeared, a reporter wrote an article about him and mentioned it. All that's on the Internet, for anyone who wants to look it up.”

“It isn't on the Internet that after your brother's drama teacher was murdered, all the tapes of his voice were stolen from her apartment,” Barrott shot back. He gave me a stern look. “Ms. MacKenzie, if there is something on the tape you are holding that might in any way help us to find your brother, your sense of decency ought to compel you to give it to me now.”

“I won't give you the tape,” I said. “But I
will
swear to you that there is nothing on it that would give you any idea of where Mack might be. I'll go further. The tape is less than a minute long. Mack says a few words to his drama teacher and then starts to recite a passage from Shakespeare. That is it.”

I think Barrott believed me. He nodded. “If you do hear from him,” he said, “or if something occurs to you that might help us find him, I hope you will keep in mind that Leesey Andrews's life is far more important than trying to protect your brother.”

When Barrott left, I did the one thing I knew I had to do immediately—call Aaron Klein's boss, Elliott Wallace, my father's best friend, my surrogate uncle, my mother's suitor, and tell him that by violating our agreement to accept Mack's wishes, I had made my brother a suspect in both a murder and a kidnapping.

N
ick DeMarco had spent an uneasy weekend. He did not want to admit to himself how unsettling it had been to see Carolyn again. “Pizza and Pasta” had been his code name for himself when he used to have dinner at the MacKenzie home on Sutton Place.

I had zero social graces, he remembered. I was always watching to see what fork they used, how they placed their napkins on their laps. Pop tucked his under his chin. Even hearing Mr. MacKenzie joke about his own working-class background didn't do it for me. I thought he was just being a nice guy trying to help an awkward idiot feel welcome.

And that crush I had on Barbara? When I look back, it was just one more way in which I was jealous of Mack.

It wasn't about her at all.

It was about Carolyn.

I always felt comfortable with her. She was always funny and sharp. I enjoyed being with her the other night.

Mack's family was my snobby ideal. I loved my own
mom and dad, but I wished Dad didn't wear suspenders. I wished Mom didn't give a bear hug to all the regular customers. What's that saying? Something like “Our children begin by loving us; as they grow up they judge us; sometimes they forgive us.”

It should be the other way around. “Parents start out by loving us, as we grow up they judge us. Sometimes they forgive us.” But not often.

I hadn't wanted Pop to have a storefront anymore. I didn't know what I was doing to him when I put him in charge of my new restaurant. He was miserable. Mom missed being in the kitchen, too. Their high-class son wouldn't let them be who they are.

Nick DeMarco, the big success, voted bachelor of the month, the guy the girls chased, he thought, with an edge of bitterness. Nick DeMarco, the big risk-taker. And now maybe it's Nick DeMarco, the fool who took one chance too many.

Leesey Andrews.

Did anyone hear me offer to help her get a start in show business? It wasn't on the camera when I gave her the card with my address, but did anyone happen to see me slide it over to her?