Where Are You Now? (35 page)

It read, “Carolyn I am sending this by messenger because your phone may be wiretapped. Mack just called me. He wants to see both of us. He's waiting on the corner of 104th Street and Riverside Drive. Meet us there. Elliott.”

T
here he is,” Barrott exclaimed, “on the street in front of the Woodshed the night Leesey disappeared. If you look from the angle the security camera caught him, he could see DeMarco's table. And there he is again, in the same frame as DeMarco, watching Leesey when she was posing for her roommate.”

Accompanied by the security guard, who had been given permission to admit them, they were in Lucas Reeves's office. They had studied hundreds of pictures in the wall montages, until they could pinpoint the face they were seeking.

“Here's another one that looks like him, but the hair is shorter,” Gaylor said, a note of excitement detectable in his voice.

It was half past ten. Knowing they had a long night ahead, they hurried back to the office to begin to process information on one more potential suspect.

L
ucas Reeves did not sleep well on Wednesday night. “Love or money” was the phrase that ran through his head in a singsong way. At six
A.M.
, as he was waking up, the question that had been eluding him popped into his head. Who would be interested in having a person who is dead seem to be alive?

Love or money.

Money, of course. It was beginning to fall into place like pieces of a puzzle. So absurdly simple if he was right. Lucas, a notoriously early riser, never minded waking up someone when he needed the answer to a question. This time, fortunately, his advisor, a prominent estate lawyer, was also an early riser.

“Can an inheritance trust be broken, or is it always sacrosanct?” Lucas asked him abruptly.

“They're not easily broken by any means, but if there's a good and valid reason for dipping into it, the executor will usually be amenable.”

“That's what I thought. I won't disturb you any further. Thank you, my friend.”

“Any time, Lucas. But not before seven next time, okay? I get up early, but my wife likes to sleep.”

I
pulled on slacks, slipped my feet into sandals, grabbed a long raincoat to cover my pajama top, and ran for the elevator, shoving Elliott's note into my shoulder bag as I rushed down the hall. In my hurry to get to Mack before he changed his mind about seeing me, I forgot that the garage closed at three
A.M.
Manuel reminded me of that when I asked for the garage level.

I did the only thing I could do—got outside, into the street, and looked frantically around to flag down a cab. There was none on Sutton Place, but when I turned up Fifty-seventh Street I saw one of those gypsy town cars coming. I must have seemed a wild sight to him as I waved both arms to catch his eye, but he did stop. I got in, and he made a U-turn to go west.

When we got to the corner of 104th and Riverside Drive, there was no one there. I paid the cabby and climbed out onto the quiet street. Then I noticed a van parked down the block, and even though the lights were off, I had a hunch that Elliott and Mack might be in it. I walked closer to get a better look and made a pretense of
reaching for a key, as though I were going to the nearest apartment building. Across the street, I could see a large construction site next to a boarded-up old town house on the corner.

Then a man stepped out of the darkened doorway of the next building. For a moment I thought it was Elliott, but then I could see that he was a much younger person, someone whose face was familiar. I recognized him as being the representative of the owner of Mack's apartment building. I had met him that first time I stopped at the Kramers', and he had spoken to me on Monday after I left their apartment in tears.

What on earth was he doing here now, I asked myself, and where was Elliott?

“Ms. MacKenzie,” he said hurriedly. “I don't know if you remember me. I'm Howard Altman.”

“I remember you. Where is Mr. Wallace?”

“He's with some guy I found camping out in that place. Mr. Olsen owns it. Every once in a while I check on it, even though it's closed.” He was nodding toward the boarded-up corner building. “The guy I found gave me fifty bucks to call Mr. Wallace for him, then Mr. Wallace promised me another fifty bucks if I'd write a message for you and deliver it.”

“They're inside that building? What does the other man look like?”

“He's about thirty, I guess. He started crying when Mr. Wallace came in. They both did.”

Mack was in there, trying to hide in that crumbling ruin. I followed Howard Altman across the street and
along the construction fence to the back door of the house. He opened it and gestured me to enter, but as I looked into the darkened interior I panicked and stepped back. I knew something wasn't right. “Ask Mr. Wallace to come out,” I told Howard.

His answer was to grab me and pull me inside the house. I was so stunned I didn't resist. He yanked the door closed behind him, and before I could scream or fight to free myself, he shoved me down a flight of stairs. Somewhere on the way down, I cracked my head and lost consciousness. I don't know how long it was before I opened my eyes. It was pitch dark. The air I was breathing was unbearably foul. My face felt caked with blood. My head was splitting and there was something wrong with my right leg. It was bent under me and throbbing with pain.

Then I felt something move beside me, and a whispery voice moaned, “Water, please, water.”

I tried to move but could not. I knew my leg had to be broken. I did the only thing I could think to do. I moistened a finger in my mouth, then groped in the dark until I could find the parched lips of Leesey Andrews.

W
ith his ever-increasing arthritis, Derek Olsen often woke up during the night, throbbing pain in his hips and knees. On Wednesday night, when his aching joints woke him up, he could not go back to sleep again. The call from the police about his nephew Steve meant, of course, that he was in some kind of trouble again. So much for the fifty thousand I was going to leave him, Olsen thought. He can go whistle for it!

The one bright spot was that in a few hours he was going to have the fun of watching the wrecking ball smash that decrepit old town house into smithereens. Every chip that flies in the air represents money I made on the deal, he thought with satisfaction. I wouldn't put it past Doug Twining to operate the rig himself. That's how mad he is at having to pay me so much.

The pleasurable thought comforted him to the point that sometime before dawn he fell into the deep sleep that normally lasted till eight
A.M.
But on Thursday morning, his phone rang at six. It was Detective Barrott wanting to know where Howard Altman was. He hadn't returned to his apartment all night.

“Am I his babysitter?” Olsen demanded querulously. “You wake me up to ask me where he is? How do I know? I don't socialize with him. He works for me.”

“What kind of car does Howard drive?” Barrott asked.

“When he drives me, he drives my SUV. I don't think he has a car of his own. I don't care.”

“Does he ever take your SUV in the evening?”

“Not that I know of. He better not. It's a Mercedes.”

“What color is it?”

“Black. At my age do you think I want a red one?”

“Mr. Olsen, we really need to talk about Howard,” Barrott said. “What do you know about his personal life?”

“I know nothing. I want to know nothing. He's been working for me nearly ten years. He's done a good enough job.”

“Did you check his references when you hired him?”

“He was recommended by an impeccable source, my financial advisor Elliott Wallace.”

“Thank you, Mr. Olsen. Have a good day.”

“You ruined most of it for me. I'll be tired all day.” Derek Olsen slammed down the receiver. But not all of it, he thought as he envisioned the wrecking ball striking a bull's-eye on his piggy bank.

At the other end of the phone, Barrott, unable to conceal his exultation, said, “Elliott Wallace recommended him for the job.”

“It ties in with Lucas Reeves's theory,” Ahearn agreed. “But we have to go easy. Wallace is a big shot on Wall Street.”

“Yes, but he wouldn't be the first executor who dipped
into his client's funds, if that's the way it plays,” Barrott said. “Any result on the fingerprints?”

“Not yet. We can't be sure the ones we lifted from the outer door of Howard's apartment are absolutely his, but we're running them anyway. I'd swear that guy has a prior record,” Gaylor said.

Barrott checked his watch. “The security guard at Wallace's building said he normally gets in at eight thirty. We'll be waiting for him.”

O
nce again, Carolyn was not answering her cell phone. Nick phoned her at eight o'clock on Thursday morning with the idea of taking her out for breakfast. He wanted to see her. I
need
to see her, he thought. On the late news, he had watched the clip of her on television, passionately defending Mack.