Where Are You Now? (23 page)

O
n Saturday morning he was overcome with one of his periodic episodes of remorse. He felt terrible about what he had done. I didn't think I'd ever kill anyone again, he thought. I was scared. After the first one, I tried to be good. But then it happened again twice. I still tried to stop. But I couldn't. But then
he
made me do it again—and again. And after that I couldn't stop.

Sometimes I feel like telling him. But that would be crazy, and I'm not crazy.

I have an idea that I'm thinking about. It would be dangerous, but then, it's always been dangerous. I know someday I'll be caught. But I won't let them send me to prison. I'll go my own way and take whoever's around with me.

I haven't touched the phone since Wednesday night. I'll make the next phone call on Sunday.

It's such a good idea.

And after that, I'll find someone else.

It isn't time to stop yet.

E
arly Saturday morning, Gregg Andrews called Larry Ahearn's cell phone, the words tumbling from his mouth, to report that someone had seen Leesey get into a black Mercedes SUV the night she disappeared. “And she knew the driver,” Gregg insisted, his voice hoarse with fatigue and strain. “He called out her name, and she jumped right in.”

In the eleven or twelve days since Leesey had been reported missing, Ahearn had not slept more than four hours a night. When his phone rang, he was at home in a heavy sleep from exhaustion. Now, fighting to awaken, he looked at the clock. “Gregg, it's 4:30 in the morning. Where
are
you?”

“I'm on my way to my apartment. I have Zach Winters, a street person, with me. He's drunk. I'll let him sleep it off at my apartment, then I'll bring him in to talk to you. I'm convinced he doesn't know any more than what I told you, but it's our first solid lead. How about that nightclub owner, the one who invited Leesey to sit at his table? What does he drive?”

Nick DeMarco was driving an SUV that night, Ahearn thought. He told us he used that vehicle because he was carrying his golf clubs. I'm not sure if he said what color it is. Now, fully awake, he sat up, slid out of bed, and walked out into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him. “DeMarco has at least three different sets of wheels,” he said carefully. “Let's find out if his SUV is a black Mercedes. I think I remember that it is. Gregg, we'll also have to check on this witness. You said his name was Zach Winters?”

“That's right.”

“We'll look him up, too. If you're bringing him to your apartment, be careful. He sounds like a wino.”

“He is. But I don't care. Maybe he'll remember something more about Leesey when he wakes up.
Oh, God!
”

“Gregg, what is it?”

“Larry, I'm falling asleep. I almost hit a cab that cut in front of me. I'll see you around ten o'clock in your office.”

A click told Ahearn that Gregg Andrews had disconnected his cell phone.

The door from the bedroom opened. Larry's wife, Sheila, still tying the sash on her robe, said matter-of-factly, “I'll make coffee while you shower.”

*   *   *

An hour later, Larry was in his office with Barrott and Gaylor. “It sounds fishy to me,” Barrott said flatly.

Gaylor nodded. “My guess is that if this guy, what's-his-name, Zach Winters, was on the Woodshed block that night, he was probably too drunk to see, never mind hear
what was said. I'll bet anything he's just trying to get the reward.”

“That's the way I read it,” Ahearn agreed. “But let's start checking him out. Gregg said he'd bring him in here around ten o'clock.”

Gaylor was consulting his notes. “When DeMarco was here the first time, he talked about having his SUV in the loft garage because he was going to transport his golf clubs to the plane the next morning.” He looked at Barrott and Ahearn. “His SUV
is
a black Mercedes,” he said crisply.

“So maybe after he left the club, he went to his loft, picked it up, and decided to go back and try to connect with Leesey.” Ahearn's lips were a tight, narrow line. “I think it's about time we put the heat on DeMarco and let the media know that he's a ‘person of interest' in Leesey's disappearance.”

Barrott was opening the MacKenzie file. “Listen to this, Larry. The first time the father came here after the son had been reported missing, the guys took notes of what he said. ‘No reason for Mack to take off. He's on top of the world. Graduated in the top ten of his class. Duke Law School. Bought him a Mercedes SUV as graduation present. You never saw a kid so thrilled. Only a couple of hundred miles on it when he disappeared.' ”

“So what?” Ahearn snapped.

“He left it in the garage when he disappeared.”

“Did you ask what color it was?”

“It was black. I'm just wondering if it's
still
Mack's favorite vehicle.”

“What happened to the one the father bought him?”

“I don't know. Maybe the sister can tell us.”

“Give her a call,” Ahearn commanded.

“It's not even six o'clock,” Gaylor pointed out.

“We're up, aren't we?” Barrott said.

“Hold on.” Ahearn held up his hand. “Roy, did you ask Carolyn MacKenzie to give you the note her brother left in the collection basket?”

“She handed it to me the day she came to see me two weeks ago,” Barrott said somewhat defensively. “I gave it back to her. It was a scrap of paper in block printing with ten words on it. I thought it was useless to try to do anything with it. We don't have her brother's fingerprints on file. Her uncle the priest, at least one usher at the church, MacKenzie herself, and her mother had handled it.”

“It probably is useless, but I want a subpoena issued for it, and for that tape she didn't give you the other night as well. Now call Carolyn and ask what happened to her brother's car. My guess is that after a year or two, they sold it.”

Barrott admitted to himself that there was some satisfaction at waking Carolyn so early. Her refusal to play the tape or give it to him on Monday evening had convinced him that beyond any doubt she was protecting her brother. He was pleased when she answered on the first ring, suggesting to him that she had not been sleeping well. Neither have the rest of us, he thought. He spoke to her briefly. From the startled look on his face, Ahearn and Gaylor knew he had stumbled onto an interesting development.

When he disconnected, Barrott said, “She'll check
with her lawyer. If he agrees, she will turn over the tape and the note. You may have heard me assure her that he will agree.”

“What about her brother's SUV?”

“You're not going to believe this. It was stolen out of the Sutton Place garage in the family's apartment building about eight months after Mack took off.”

“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.”

H
oward 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.