Mary Clark - Where Are You Now?

D erek Olsen was far from being only the irascible, petulant old man that his nephew Steve and his buildings manager, Howie, thought him to be. He was in fact a shrewd investor who had watched his real estate holdings in strategically chosen apartment buildings turn into a personal fortune worth many millions of dollars. Now he had come to the conclusion that the time was right to begin liquidating his assets.

On Friday morning he called Wallace and Madison and brusquely demanded to be put through to Elliott Wallace. Elliott’s secretary, long used to Olsen’s behavior, did not bother to tell him that Mr. Wallace was on his way to an urgent meeting. Instead, she asked him to hold, and rushed down the corridor to catch Elliot at the elevator. “It’s Olsen,” she said.

With an exasperated sigh, Elliott retraced his steps to his office and picked up the phone. “Derek, how are you?” he asked, his tone hearty.

“I’m all right. Your so-called nephew’s in a lot of trouble, “I see.”

“As you well know, Mack has been missing for ten years. It is absurd that the police are trying to connect him to any crime. What can I do for you?”

“He caused me a lot of trouble by disappearing when he was living in one of my apartments. Anyhow, that’s not why I called. My birthday was last month. I’m eighty-three years old. It’s time to sell everything.”

“I’ve been suggesting that for the past five years.”

“If I had sold five years ago, I wouldn’t get the price I’ll get now. I’m coming in to talk to you. Monday morning, ten o’clock, okay for you?”

“Monday at ten would be fine,” Elliott said, cordially. When he was sure Olsen had hung up, he slammed the phone down into the cradle. “I’ll have to reschedule the entire day,” he snapped to his secretary as he hurried back to the elevator.

She watched him go with sympathetic eyes. The meeting that had been scheduled was to decide who would assume Aaron Klein’s responsibilities in the firm. After staying home for four days, Klein had phoned in his resignation, saying that it was impossible for him to work side by side with someone who was the champion of his mother’s killer.

G regg Andrews had set out a pattern for himself, and he stuck to it. After he left the hospital, he went straight home, grabbed something to eat, and went straight to bed. His alarm was set for one A.M. By two A.M., he was nursing a beer at the bar of the Woodshed and stayed there until closing time. Then, sitting in his car down the street, he watched to see the pattern of how the waiters, bartenders, and band members exited the building, checking to see that they all left within a few minutes of one another, and that no one came out alone, as they’d all claimed about the night Leesey disappeared.

For the last three nights, he had then walked the mile distance between the club and Leesey’s apartment, stopping to talk to anyone he saw on the street and asking if by any chance they had been around at the time Leesey vanished and perhaps had seen her. The answer was always negative. The fourth and fifth nights, he drove back and forth covering other streets, just in case she might not have taken the most direct route.

On Saturday morning, at 3:30, after watching the employees lock the door of the Woodshed, he was about to start driving around the neighborhood when there was a rap at the window. A man with streaks of dirt on his face and unkempt hair was staring in at him. Sure it was a request for money, Gregg rolled the car window down only a few inches.

“You’re the brother,” the man said, his voice hoarse, his alcohol-laden breath sour. Instinctively, Gregg pulled his head back. “Yes, I am.”

“I saw her. Will you promise I get the reward?”

“If you can help me find my sister, yes.”

“Take my name down.”

Gregg reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pad.

“It’s Zach Winters. I live at the shelter on Mott Street.”

“You think you saw my sister?”

“I saw her the night she disappeared.”

“Why didn’t you come forward at once?”

“Nobody believes people like me. I tell them I saw her, next thing they’ll be saying I did something to her. That’s what happens.” Winters put a grimy hand on the car to steady himself.

“If whatever you tell me helps us find my sister, I will personally hand the reward to you. What do you know?”

“She was the last customer out. She started to walk that way.” He pointed. “Then a big SUV pulled up and stopped.”

Gregg felt his insides twist. “Was she forced into it?”

“No way. I heard the driver call, ‘Hey, Leesey,’ and she jumped right in the SUV herself.”

“Could you tell what kind it was?”

“Sure. It was a black Mercedes.”

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.”