Where Are You Now?

by Mary Higgins Clark

  That meant I had to make an appointment with Klein outside the office and ask him to keep whatever conversation we had confidential, then trust him not to go blabbing to Elliott.

  I went back to Dad’s office, flicked on the light, and went over Mack’s file again. I knew Lucas Reeves, the private investigator, had interviewed Mack’s drama teacher, as well as other members of the Columbia University faculty. I had read his comments the other day and knew they weren’t helpful, but now I was looking specifically for what he had written about Esther Klein.

  It was very short. “Ms. Klein expressed her sorrow and shock over Mack’s disappearance. She was unaware of any specific problem he may have been having.”

  An innocuous statement, I thought, remembering the dictionary definition of the word “innocuous”: “Pallid; uninspiring; without power to interest or excite.”

  The few words she and Mack had exchanged on the tape suggested they had had a warm relationship. Had Esther Klein been deliberately evasive when she was talking to Reeves? And if so, why?

  It was a question that made me toss and turn in bed that night. Monday morning couldn’t come fast enough for me. I took the chance that Aaron Klein was one of those executives who gets to his desk early, and at twenty of nine phoned Wallace and Madison and asked for him.

  His secretary had the usual question: “What is this in reference to?” and seemed miffed when I said it was personal, but when she gave Aaron Klein my name, he took my call immediately.

  As briefly as I could, I explained to him that I did not want to upset Elliott or my mother by continuing to search for my brother, but that I had come across a tape of Mack and Aaron’s mother, and could I possibly meet him outside the office to play it for him?

  His response was warm and understanding. “Elliott told me that your brother phoned on Mother’s Day last week and left a note saying that you were not to search for him.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Which is why I want to keep this between us. But the tape that I found may suggest that Mack was having a problem. I don’t know how much your mother may have talked to you about him.”

  “She was very fond of Mack,” Klein said swiftly. “I do understand why you don’t want to involve Elliott and your mother. I’ve always been so sorry about your brother. Listen, I’m leaving early today. My boys are in a school play this evening and I don’t intend to miss it by being caught in traffic. I have all the tapes my mother made with her private students in a box in the attic. I’m sure any she made with your brother are there. Would you want to drive up to my house at about five o’clock this evening? I’ll give them all to you.”

  Of course I promptly agreed. I called down to the garage and told the attendant I’d be picking up my mother’s car. I knew it would be hurtful to hear Mack’s voice over and over again, but at least if I could be reasonably sure that the tape I found in the suitcase was one of many in that vein, it would end the gnawing fear that he disappeared because he had a terrible problem he could not share with us.

  Satisfied that I had made the connection, I made a fresh pot of coffee and turned on the morning news, then listened with a sinking heart to the latest report on the Leesey Andrews case. Someone had tipped a reporter at the Post that she had phoned her father Saturday and had promised to call again on Mother’s Day.

  ON MOTHER’S DAY!

  My cell phone rang. Every instinct told me that it was Detective Barrott. I did not answer, and a moment later when I checked my messages, I heard his voice. “Ms. MacKenzie, I’d like to see you again as soon as possible. My number is . . .”

  I disconnected, my heart racing. I had his number, and I had no intention of calling him back until after I saw Aaron Klein.

  * * *

  At five o’clock that evening, when I arrived at the Klein home in Darien, I walked into a firestorm. After I rang the bell, the door was opened by an attractive woman in her late thirties who introduced herself as Aaron’s wife, Jenny. The strained expression on her face told me that something was terribly wrong.

  She brought me into the den. Aaron Klein was on his knees on the rug, surrounded by overturned boxes. Stacks of tapes had been separated in individual piles. There must have been three hundred of them at least.

  Aaron’s face was deathly pale. When he saw me, he got up slowly. He looked past me to his wife. “Jenny, they are absolutely not here, not one of them.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense, Aaron,” she protested. “Why would—?”

  He interrupted her and looked at me, his expression hostile. “I have never been satisfied that my mother was the victim of a random crime,” he said flatly. “At the time, it didn’t seem as if anything had been taken from her apartment, but that isn’t true. There is not a single tape of your brother’s lessons with her here, and I know there were at least twenty of them, and I know they were there after he disappeared. The only person who would want them would be your brother.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, sinking into the nearest chair.

  “I now believe my mother was killed because someone had to get something from her apartment. The person who killed her took her house key. At the time, I couldn’t find anything missing. But there was something taken—the box that contained all the tapes she had made of your brother.”

  “But your mother was attacked nearly a year after Mack disappeared,” I said. “Why would he want them? What use would they be to him?” Then, suddenly outraged, I demanded, “What are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating,” Aaron Klein snapped at me. “I am telling you that I now believe that your missing brother may have been responsible for my mother’s death! There may have been something incriminating in those tapes.” He pointed out the window. “There is a girl from Greenwich who has been missing all week. I don’t know her, but if the newscast I heard coming up here in the car is accurate, she called her father and promised to call again next Mother’s Day. Isn’t that the day of choice for your brother to call? No wonder he warned you not to try to find him.”

  I stood up. “My brother is not a killer. He is not a predator. When the truth is known, Mack will not be responsible for whatever happened to your mother and Leesey Andrews.”

  I walked out, got into the car, and began to drive home. I guess I was in such a state of shock that I was on some kind of mental autopilot, because my next clear memory is of pulling up in front of our building on Sutton Place—and seeing Detective Barrott waiting for me in the lobby.

  30

  Oh, come on, Poppa. You’re not really mad at me. You know I love you.” Steve Hockney’s tone was wheedling as he sat across the table from his elderly uncle, Derek Olsen. He had collected Olsen at his apartment and taken him by cab to Shun Lee West on Sixty-fifth Street for dinner. “We’re having the best Chinese food in New York. So we’re celebrating your birthday a few weeks late. Maybe we’ll celebrate it all year.”

  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 hearin
g 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.

  31

  Detective 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.

  32

  Nick 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.