Where Are You Now? (27 page)

A cordial smile on his face, Wallace urged Olsen to take a chair. “I know you won't refuse a cup of tea, Derek.”

“Last time, it tasted like dishwater. Tell your secretary I want four lumps of sugar and heavy cream, Elliott.”

“Of course.”

Olsen barely waited for Elliott to instruct his secretary before he said with a satisfied smile, “You and your advice. Remember you said I should get rid of those three broken-down town houses that have been closed for years?”

Elliott Wallace knew what was coming. “Derek, you've been paying taxes and insurance on those dumps for years. Of course real estate has gone up, but if you wish I will show you that if you had sold them and bought the stocks I recommended, you'd be ahead.”

“No, I wouldn't! I knew that someday they'd tear down those buildings on the corner of 104th Street and developers would want my place.”

“The developers seem to have managed without it. They already broke ground for those condominium apartments.”

“The same firm came back to me. I close on the sale this afternoon.”

“Congratulations,” Wallace said sincerely. “But I do hope you remember that I've made you quite a lot of money investing on your behalf.”

“Except for that hedge fund.”

“Except for the hedge fund, I agree, but that was quite a while ago.”

Olsen's tea and Elliott's coffee arrived. “This is good,” Olsen said, after taking a wary sip. “The way I like it. Now let's talk. I want to sell everything. I want to establish a trust fund. You can run it. I want it to be used for parks in New York, parks with lots of trees. This city has too many big buildings.”

“That's very generous of you. Are you planning to leave anything to your nephew or anyone else?”

“I'll leave Steve fifty thousand dollars. Let him get a new set of drums or a guitar. He can't look at me over a dinner plate without trying to figure how much longer I'll
last. I heard from a couple of my building supers that he announced he'll be taking over Howie's job as my overall manager. He buys me a fountain pen and takes me to dinner, and because I show good feelings to him, he thinks he can take over my business. Him and his gigs. Every time he stops getting jobs at those club dumps, he invents a new name for himself and his loser band, finds the latest kind of weird outfit, and hires a broken-down PR agent. If it wasn't for his mother, my sister, God rest her, I'd have given him the bum's rush years ago.”

“I know he's been a disappointment to you, Derek.” Elliott tried to maintain his compassionate expression.

“Disappointment! Hah! By the way, I want to leave Howie Altman fifty thousand dollars, too.”

“I'm sure he'll appreciate it. Does he know your plans?”

“No. He's been getting pushy, too. I can tell he has the nerve to think he's entitled to a big inheritance from me. Don't misunderstand. He's done a good job, and I thank you for recommending him when that other guy didn't work out.”

Elliott nodded, acknowledging the thanks. “One of my other clients was selling a building and mentioned his availability.”

“Well, he'll soon be available again. But he's not blood, and he doesn't understand that when you have good workers like the Kramers, you don't squeeze them out of an extra bedroom or two.”

“George Rodenburg is still your lawyer, isn't he?”

“Of course. Why would I change?”

“What I meant was that I'll talk to him about setting up the foundation. You say you're closing on the 104th Street property this afternoon. Do you want me there?”

“Rodenburg will handle it. The offer's been on the table for years. It's only the dollars that are different.”

Olsen got up to go. “I was born on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. It was a nice neighborhood then. I have pictures of my sister and me sitting on the steps of one of those little apartment buildings, the kind I own now. I drove up there last week. It's pretty bad. There's a corner lot near where we lived. It's a mess, weeds and beer cans and garbage. While I'm still alive, I want to see it become a park.” A beatific smile crossed his face as he turned to the door. “Good-bye, Elliott.”

Elliott Wallace walked his client through the reception room, down the corridor to the elevator, returned to his private office, and for the first time in his adult life, went to the bar refrigerator and, at eleven
A.M.
, poured himself a straight scotch.

L
ate on Monday morning, I drove up to Mack's old apartment building. I pushed the Kramers' button on the intercom, and was rewarded after a moment by a hesitant greeting. I knew I had to talk fast. “Mrs. Kramer, this is Carolyn MacKenzie. I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, no. My husband is out this morning.”

“I want to talk to
you,
not to him, Mrs. Kramer. Please let me come in for just a few minutes.”

“Gus won't like it. I can't . . .”

“Mrs. Kramer, you must be reading the newspapers. Surely you know that the police think my brother may be responsible for that girl's disappearance. I need to talk with you.”

For a moment I thought she had hung up, but then I heard a click as the door to the lobby unlocked. I went in, crossed the lobby, and rang her bell. She opened it a crack as though to reassure herself that I didn't have an army of people ready to storm the apartment, then opened it just wide enough for me to enter.

The room that had so reminded me of my paternal
grandmother's living room in Jackson Heights was in the process of being stripped and dismantled. There were large cartons stacked in the corner. The curtains and draperies had been taken down from the windows. There were no pictures on the wall, and the side tables were bare of the lamps and bric-a-brac I'd seen on my last visit.

“We're moving to our cottage in Pennsylvania,” Lil Kramer said. “Gus and I are more than ready to retire.”

She's running away, I thought, as I studied her. Even though the room was cool, she had tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. Her gray hair was pulled away from her face and anchored firmly behind her ears. Her complexion was the same dull gray as her hair. I am sure she was unaware that her hands were massaging each other in a fretful, nervous pattern.

Uninvited, I sat on the nearest chair. I realized there was absolutely no use in not coming directly to the point. “Mrs. Kramer, you knew my brother. Do
you
think he's a killer?”

She rubbed her lips together. “I don't know what he is.” Then she burst out, “He told lies about me. I was so nice to him. I really liked him. I took such good care of his clothes and his room. And then he accused me.”

“Accused you of what?”

“Never mind. It wasn't true, but I couldn't believe my ears.”

“When did that happen?”

“A few days before he disappeared. And then he ridiculed me.”

Neither one of us had heard the outside door open.
“Shut your mouth, Lil,” Gus Kramer ordered as he strode across the room. He turned to face me. “And you get out of here. Your brother had the nerve to treat my wife the way he did, and now look at what he's done to those young girls.”

Furious, I stood up. “Mr. Kramer, I don't know what you're talking about. I can't believe Mack mistreated your wife in any way, shape, or form, and I would stake my own life that he is not responsible for any crime.”

“Keep on believing that, and let me tell you what I'm talking about. My wife is going to have a nervous breakdown worrying that when they catch your killer brother, he'll turn on her and accuse her with his dirty lies.”

“Don't call him a killer,” I said. “Don't you
dare
call him a killer.”

Gus's face flooded with rage. “I'll call him what I want to call him, but I'll give you this. He's a killer who goes to church. Lil saw him the day he left the note in the collection basket, didn't you, Lil?”

“I didn't have my glasses with me, but I'm still sure.” Lil Kramer began to cry. “I recognized him. He saw me looking at him. I mean, he had on a raincoat and dark glasses, but it was Mack in that church.”

“Just for your information, the cops were here an hour ago, and we told them that,” Gus Kramer shouted at me. “Now get out of here and leave my wife alone.”

O
n Saturday evening, after he was sure Steve had left for one of his gigs, Howard Altman had let himself into Steve's apartment. Carefully and skillfully, he had placed hidden cameras in the living room and bedroom. The video would be beamed directly into his computer.

Why didn't I think of this sooner? he asked himself, as he set up the surveillance. Thanks, Steve, for making it so easy for me. Steve had left lights on in both rooms, as well as in the bathroom. Derek pays the gas and electric bill for him, Howard thought resentfully. He charges me for mine!

And Steve was a slob. His bed wasn't made. A couple of those stupid costumes he wore to some of his gigs were piled on a chair. The hairpieces and wigs he used when he was acting out some of his characters were tossed in a cardboard box on the floor. Howard tried on one of them, a wig with long dark-brown hair. He stared at himself in the mirror, then ripped it off. He looked like a woman in it, and that made him think of that teacher who had once lived in this apartment and had been murdered.

I don't know how Steve Hockney can live in a place that belonged to someone who was murdered, he thought. I have to get out of here.

On Monday morning, Howard went to pick up Mr. Olsen for one of their scheduled visits to the properties, but he wasn't there. The super in that building told him that Olsen had already been picked up by a car service.

Deeply uneasy, Howard went to their usual first stop, the building where the Kramers were the supers. He was about to unlock the lobby door when it was flung open and a pretty young woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, ran past him.

Carolyn MacKenzie! he thought. What's
she
doing here? He turned and raced after her, catching her a half block away as, remote in hand, she opened the lock on her car door. “Ms. MacKenzie, I'm Howard Altman. We met a couple of weeks ago when you were talking to the Kramers.” He spoke in a hurry, slightly out of breath.

He watched as she impatiently brushed away the tears that were still spilling from her eyes. “I'm afraid I really can't talk right now,” she said.

“Look, I've been seeing your picture in the papers and reading all that stuff about your brother. That was before I worked for Mr. Olsen, but I wish I could help you somehow.”

“Thank you. I wish you could, too.”

“If the Kramers have upset you in any way, I'll take care of them,” he promised.

She did not answer, but gave his arm a push to oblige him to get out of the way of the driver's door. Howard
stepped back, and with a quick movement, she had opened the door, closed it, and started the car. She did not look at him again as she backed up a few feet, turned the wheel, pulled out of the parking space, and was gone.

His face grim, Howard Altman headed straight for the Kramers' apartment. They did not answer the insistent ringing of their doorbell. He tried to open the door with his key, but the security lock was on. “Gus and Lil, I have to talk to you,” he shouted.

“Go to hell,” Gus Kramer shouted from the other side of the door. “We're out of here today. You can have this job and this apartment and everything that goes with it. And just so you know, Howie, you'd better watch your back. If Steve has anything to do with it, you'll be looking for a place to live yourself. Now get lost.”

Standing there in the hallway, there was nothing Howard could do except leave. Was Steve making the rounds with Olsen? he wondered. Why else would Olsen have ordered a car service this morning?

There was one way he could find out for sure if Steve was around. Howard went back to his apartment and turned on his computer. Scanning the videocam footage, he noted Steve had been in and out of his apartment all day yesterday, but he was always alone. Now there was no one in his living room. So maybe he
was
out with Olsen, Howard thought, but then the bedroom camera showed Steve sitting in his underwear on the edge of the bed, trying on one after another of his wigs. The last one he selected was the one with the long brown hair. The camera caught him smiling at his image and blowing a
kiss at the mirror. Then Steve turned and looked straight into the lens.