Where Are You Now?

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “No,” Ahearn said emphatically. “Not for one minute. Knowing Leesey as well as I do, even if she disappeared on her own, something is terribly wrong. We’re staying on this 24/7 until we find her.”

  “Thank God for that.” There’s something else I need to ask them, Gregg thought. Oh, I know. “How about the media? Are you going to tell them that she’s contacted us?”

  “We don’t want anyone to know,” Larry said, shaking his head. “That was the first thing I told your father when we spoke to him.”

  “You told me the same thing, but I thought you meant you wanted to be sure it wasn’t a crank call, or someone just imitating Leesey’s voice.”

  “Gregg, we don’t want a hint of this to get out,” Larry Ahearn said urgently. “Awful as this is, it’s good to know that as of a few hours ago Leesey was alive.”

  “I guess I agree. But where is she if she’s alive? What may be happening to her? The other young women who disappeared after being at one of those clubs in SoHo were never found.”

  “But neither did any of them call a member of the family, Gregg,” Ahearn reminded him.

  “Dr. Andrews, there’s something else . . .” Barrott began.

  “Make it Gregg, please.” A hint of a smile crossed Gregg Andrews’s lips. “After I got my M.D., if anyone called me at home and asked for Dr. Andrews, it took Leesey months before she didn’t automatically hand the phone to my father.”

  Barrott smiled briefly. “That’s the way it is in my house. If my son gets great marks or some kind of achievement award, his sister thinks it was a mistake. All right, Gregg,” he continued, “the last time you saw your sister was a week ago on Mother’s Day. Was there anything unusual about that day?”

  “That’s what absolutely bewilders me,” Gregg told him. “My mother’s been dead only two years, so naturally it’s a pretty low-key day for us. The three of us went to church together, visited her grave, then had dinner at the club. Leesey had planned to drive back to the city with me but at the last minute decided to stay overnight with Dad and take the train home in the morning.”

  “Before your mother died, was Mother’s Day in any way symbolic for all of you, other than the usual sentiment that’s attached to it?”

  “No, not at all. We celebrated it together, but it wasn’t a big deal. When my grandparents were alive, they were with us. There was nothing extraordinary at all about it.” Gregg caught the way the two detectives glanced at each other and then the way Larry Ahearn nodded to Roy Barrott. “There’s something you haven’t told me,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Gregg, do you know Carolyn MacKenzie?” Ahearn asked.

  Now his temples were beginning to pound. Gregg searched his memory, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Who is she?”

  “She’s a lawyer,” Ahearn volunteered. “Twenty-six years old. Her studio is on Thompson Street in the building next door to where your sister lives.”

  “Does she know Leesey?” Gregg asked quickly. “Does she have any idea where she might be?”

  “No. She doesn’t know her, but maybe you remember a case ten years ago, when a college student walked out of his apartment and disappeared? His name was Charles MacKenzie Jr. Everyone called him Mack.”

  “I remember that case. They never found him, did they?”

  “No,” Ahearn said. “But he calls his mother every year on Mother’s Day.”

  “On Mother’s Day!” Gregg jumped up. “He’s been gone ten years and calls his mother on Mother’s Day. Are you suggesting that Leesey might be planning to follow a crazy pattern like that?”

  “Gregg, we’re not suggesting anything,” Ahearn said, soothingly. “Leesey was eleven years old when Mack MacKenzie disappeared, so there’s no reason to think that she might have known him. But we thought it’s possible you or your father might know the family. My guess is that you travel in some of the same circles.”

  “Whatever that means.” He looked perplexed. “Did Mack MacKenzie call his mother last Sunday?”

  “Yes, he did.” Ahearn decided not to immediately share the fact that Mack had left a message in the collection basket. “We don’t know what that guy is doing or why he had to go underground. It certainly isn’t widespread knowledge that he still phones his family on that one day. It makes us wonder if at some point Leesey might have met him, maybe at one of those clubs in SoHo, and, if she decided to disappear on her own, as he seems to have done, whether she’ll stay in touch the same way.”

  “What do you know about MacKenzie, Larry? I mean if he disappeared voluntarily, was he in some kind of trouble?” Gregg looked pointedly at Larry, searching for answers.

  “We couldn’t find anything that added up. He had everything going for him and just walked out of his life.”

  “The same thing could be said about Leesey,” Gregg snapped. “Are you starting to think that if she’s come across this guy, the next time we’ll hear from her is Mother’s Day next year?” He looked from one to the other of them. “Wait a minute, do you think that this Mack guy might be a weirdo and has something to do with Leesey’s disappearance?”

  Larry looked across the table at his college roommate. It’s not just his father who aged this week, he thought. Gregg looks ten years older than he did when we played golf last month. “Gregg, we are exploring everyone and every situation that may give us a lead to follow. Most of them will be dead ends. Now do me a favor and take my advice. Go home, get a decent dinner, and go to bed early. Take some comfort in the fact that we know Leesey was alive this morning. You’ve got a lot of patients who depend on your skill to give them a new lease on life. You can’t fail them, and you will if you don’t eat and sleep properly.”

  Not unlike the advice I gave Dad, Gregg thought. I will go home. I will get a couple of hours sleep and eat something. But tonight I’m going to walk back and forth between that SoHo club and Thompson Street. Leesey was alive this morning. But that doesn’t mean that if she’s with some kind of nut, she’ll stay alive.

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’re absolutely right, Larry,” he said.

  With a brief wave, he started to leave, but spun around when Ahearn’s cell phone rang. Ahearn grabbed it from his pocket and raised it to his ear. “What’s up?”

  Gregg saw the angry frown before he heard Larry’s muttered profanity. For the second time that day, he despairingly thought that Leesey’s body had been found.

  Ahearn looked at him. “Someone called the New York Post a few minutes ago and said that Leesey Andrews left a message for her father today and said she’d call again on Mother’s Day. The Post wants confirmation.” Spitting out the words, he shouted, “Absolutely no comment!” and slammed down the phone.

  “Did Leesey make the call?” Gregg demanded.

  “The reporter who took it couldn’t be sure. Said it was a muffled whisper. There was no caller ID.”

  “That means that the call wasn’t made from Leesey’s phone,” Gregg said. “She has caller ID.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Gregg, I’m going to be brutally honest. Either Leesey had some kind of breakdown and wants publicity, or she’s in the hands of a dangerous, game-playing nut.”

  “Who only calls home on Mother’s Day,” Roy Barrott said quietly.

  “Or who has a loft apartment near the Woodshed and a longtime chauffeur who would do anything for him,” Ahearn said bitterly.

  28

  Howard Altman gave careful thought about how he would approach the Kramers to persuade them to stay on as superintendents. Olsen is right, he admitted. The guy I got him to fire last year in the Ninety-eighth Street apartment house was saving us a lot of money. I just didn’t get it. Olsen doesn’t want to do major repairs there. The property next door is for sale, and when it goes, he’s sure they’ll make a big offer for his building, too. The old super was keeping things together with chewing gum and kite string. The new one has a list of all the repairs that are needed and keeps telling Olsen it’s cr
iminal negligence not to do them immediately.

  I should have kept my mouth shut, he thought, but I never could see why the Kramers needed a three-bedroom apartment—the other two bedrooms are never used.

  Every so often, when Howard stopped by the Kramers’, he asked for permission to use the bathroom. That gave him a chance to look into the spare bedrooms. Never once in the nearly ten years since he had started working for Derek Olsen had he noticed any change in the placement of the teddy bears on the pillows of the beds. He knew they never used those rooms, but he told himself that what he should have realized was that Lil Kramer took a certain lowbrow pride in her big apartment.

  And I know all about lowbrow! he thought ruefully. When I was a kid and Pop bought his first brand-new car, the cheapest one on the lot, you would have thought he’d won the lottery. We had to show it off to all the relatives just because Pop hoped they’d be drooling with envy.

  I should start a blog and write about my own messed-up family, Howard told himself. I can’t let the Kramers retire. Maybe Olsen would get over it if I got some good new people in fast. On the other hand, it would be just like him to fire me and give my job to that sicko nephew of his. In thirty days, Olsen would probably be on his knees begging me to come back, but that’s a chance I can’t take. So what approach do I take with the Kramers?

  Howard Altman considered possible solutions over the weekend. Then, satisfied with the plan he had come up with, at quarter of ten on Monday morning he stepped into the West End Avenue building where the Kramers lived.

  He had definitely decided that pleading with them to stay, offering them a raise, and assuring them that the large apartment would always be their home was exactly the wrong way to go. If Gus Kramer thought that by quitting he could get me fired, he’d do it even if he doesn’t really want to retire now.

  When he turned the key in the outside door and went into the lobby, he found Gus Kramer polishing the already gleaming brass mailboxes.

  Gus looked up. “I guess I won’t be doing this much longer,” he said. “Hope the next guy you get is half as good as I’ve been for nearly twenty years.”

  “Gus, is Lil around?” Howard said, almost whispering. “I need to speak to both of you. I’m worried about you two.”

  Seeing the look of outright fear in Kramer’s face, he knew he was on the right track.

  “She’s in the apartment sorting stuff out,” Gus said. Without bothering to wipe the final cloud of polish from the mailboxes, he turned and walked across the lobby to his apartment. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and walked in, leaving Howard to grab it before it slammed in his face.

  “I’ll get Lil,” Gus said abruptly.

  It was obvious to Howard that Kramer wanted a chance to talk to his wife and possibly warn her before she saw him. She’s in one of the two bedrooms down the hall, he thought. That’s where she must be sorting things out. She’s finally found a use for that extra space.

  It was almost five minutes before the Kramers joined him in the living room. Lil Kramer was visibly agitated. She was rubbing her lips together in a compulsive manner, and when Howard extended his hand to her, she rubbed her own hand on her skirt before she reluctantly responded to the greeting.

  As he had expected, her palm was wringing wet.

  Do the one-two punch right now, Howard thought. Send them reeling. “I’m going to talk straight from the shoulder,” he said. “I wasn’t here when the MacKenzie kid disappeared, but I was here the other day when his sister showed up. Lil, you were as nervous then as you are now. It was clear to me as an observer that you were afraid to talk to her. That tells me that you know something about why or how that boy disappeared, or that maybe you had something to do with it.”

  He watched as Lil Kramer threw a terrified look at her husband and Gus Kramer’s cheekbones darkened to an ugly purple-red shade. I’m right, he thought. They’re scared to death. Emboldened, he added, “The sister isn’t finished with you. Next time she might bring a private investigator or the cops with her. If you think you’ll get away from her by rushing to Pennsylvania, you’re both crazy. If you’re gone when she comes back, she’ll ask questions. She’ll find out you quit abruptly. Lil, how many people have you told over the years that you don’t intend to budge from New York until you’re at least ninety?”

  Now Lil Kramer was biting back tears.

  Howard softened his tone. “Lil, Gus, think about it. If you leave now, Carolyn MacKenzie and the cops will be sure you have something to hide. I don’t know what it is, but you’re my friends, and I want to help you. Let me tell Mr. Olsen that you’ve reconsidered and don’t want to leave. The next time Carolyn MacKenzie calls to make an appointment, let me know, and I’ll be here. I’ll tell her in no uncertain terms that the management doesn’t welcome her bothering the employees. What’s more, I’ll remind her that there are stiff penalties for stalking.”

  He saw the relief on their faces and knew he had convinced them to stay. And I didn’t have to give them a raise or promise to leave them in this apartment, he thought exultantly.

  But as he accepted Lil’s groveling gratitude and Gus’s terse expression of thanks, he was burning to find out why they were so afraid, and what, if anything, they knew about the reason for Mack MacKenzie’s disappearance ten years ago.

  29

  Sunday morning I went to the last Mass at St. Francis de Sales. I got there early, slipped into the last pew, and after that tried to study the faces of the arriving congregation. Needless to say, I didn’t spot anyone who even vaguely resembled Mack. Uncle Dev always delivers a thoughtful homily, frequently laced with Irish humor. Today, I didn’t hear a word of it.

  When the Mass was over, I stopped in at the rectory for a quick cup of coffee. Smiling and waving me into his office, Devon said he was meeting friends in Westchester for a round of golf, but they could wait. He poured coffee into two thick white mugs and handed one to me as we sat down.

  I hadn’t yet told him that I had gone to see the Kramers, and when I did I was surprised to learn that he remembered them clearly. “After we knew that Mack was missing, I went over with your dad to that apartment on West End,” he said. “I remember the wife was all upset at the thought that something might have happened to Mack.”

  “Do you remember anything about Gus Kramer’s reaction?” I asked.

  When Uncle Dev gets a thoughtful frown on his face, his resemblance to my father is almost startling. Sometimes that gives me comfort. Other times it hurts. Today, for some reason, was one of the days it hurt.

  “You know, Carolyn,” he said, “that Kramer is an odd duck. I think he was more upset by the possibility of media attention than he was concerned about Mack.”

  Ten years later that was exactly my reaction to Kramer, but knowing Devon had to be on his way soon, I didn’t take the time to talk that over with him. Instead, I took out the recorder I had found in Mack’s suitcase and explained how I had discovered it. Then I played the tape for him. I watched my uncle’s sad smile at the sound of Mack’s voice speaking to the teacher, then his bewildered frown when Mack began to recite, “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries.”

  After I turned off the recorder, my uncle said, his voice husky, “I’m glad your mother wasn’t around when you came across that tape, Carolyn. I don’t think I’d ever play it for her.”

  “I don’t intend to let her hear it. But, Devon, I’m trying to figure out its significance, if any. Did Mack ever talk to you about taking private lessons with a drama teacher at Columbia?”

  “I remember that in an offhand way he did. You know when Mack was about thirteen and his voice was changing, he went through a period where it was really high-pitched. He got unmercifully teased about it at school.”

  “I don’t remember Mack having a high-pitched voice,” I protested, then paused to search my memory. When Mack was thirteen I was eight years old.
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br />   “Of course, his voice deepened, but Mack was a more sensitive kid than most people realized. He didn’t show his feelings when he was hurt, but years later, he admitted to me how miserable he had been during that period.” Uncle Dev tapped the side of his mug, remembering. “Maybe some residual of that pain got him involved in the voice lessons. On the other hand, Mack wanted to become a trial lawyer and a good one. He told me that a good trial lawyer must also be a good actor. Maybe that could account for both the lessons and the passage he recited on that tape.”

  Obviously, we could come to no conclusion. Whether Mack had chosen that dark passage because of his own state of mind, or was simply reciting a prepared text, could only be a guessing game. Nor could we possibly know why he either stopped recording, or erased the rest of the session with the drama teacher.

  At 12:30, Uncle Devon gave me a warm hug and went off to his golf game. I went back to Sutton Place and was glad to go there because I no longer felt at home in my West Village apartment. The fact that I lived next door to where Leesey Andrews lived was terribly troubling to me. If it were not for that fact, I thought, I am sure that Detective Barrott would not be trying to connect Mack to her disappearance.

  I wanted to talk to Aaron Klein, the son of Mack’s drama teacher. It would be easy enough to contact him. Aaron had been working at Wallace and Madison for nearly twenty years and was now Uncle Elliott’s chosen successor. I remembered that a year after Mack disappeared, his mother was the victim of a robbery and was murdered, and that Mom and Dad went with Uncle Elliott to visit him when he was sitting shiva.

  The problem was I didn’t want Uncle Elliott to be involved in our meeting. As far as Elliott was concerned, he believed that Mom and I were planning to accept Mack’s request, which, in so many words, was “Leave me alone.” If Elliott knew I was contacting Aaron Klein because of Mack, as sure as day follows night he would feel it his duty to discuss it with Mom.