Mary Clark - Where Are You Now?

“Gregg, that was Leesey, wasn’t it?”

Gregg pressed the speaker button so that his father could hear. “Absolutely, Larry. You know that.”

“Gregg, she’s still alive, and we’re going to find her. I swear that to you.”

Dr. David Andrews grabbed the receiver. His voice hoarse, he shouted, “You’ve got to find her, Larry. You heard her! Whoever has her is going to kill her! For God’s sake, find her for me before it’s too late!”

E xhaustion was forgotten as Larry Ahearn played the tape of Leesey’s cry for help to the squad. “The call came in at eleven thirty, exactly one hour ago,” he said. “It was made from mid-Manhattan. Of course, there is always a possibility that the abductor made a tape of her voice and played it in a different location.”

“And if that’s the case, he may already have killed her,” Barrott said, quietly.

“We’re going to go forward under the assumption that she’s still alive,” Ahearn snapped. “There’s no question that whoever has her is on a short leash. He wants attention. I’ve talked to our profiler, Dr. Lowe. He thinks that this guy is loving the headlines and the way the story is being covered by Greta Van Susteren and Nancy Grace. He’s probably also anticipating the uproar when we release the fact that Leesey called her father again and left that message.”

Too restless to sit any longer, he stood and tapped his fingers on his desk. “I don’t want to even think this, but it has to be considered. In another five days, maybe seven, the fact that Leesey phoned will stay big news, but without new information, it won’t be the headline anymore.”

Every detective from the squad room was crowded tightly into Ahearn’s office for the briefing. The expressions on their faces became increasingly grave as they followed the thought Ahearn was voicing. “Leesey went to that club on Monday night and disappeared. Her message promising to call again on Mother’s Day came the following Sunday, six days later. After a one-week interval, this new call has come in. It’s Dr. Lowe’s opinion that our guy may not wait another week to give us a new headline.”

“MacKenzie’s the one doing this,” Roy Barrott said emphatically. “You should have seen his mother yesterday when I went to her boyfriend’s apartment.”

“Her boyfriend?” Ahearn exclaimed.

“Elliott Wallace, the big investment banker. Aaron Klein, the drama teacher’s son, worked for him for fourteen years. Klein told me they became really close when his mother was murdered. Wallace was still so distraught about MacKenzie’s disappearance the year before that it gave them a common bond. Mack MacKenzie’s father was in Vietnam with Wallace, and they became lifelong friends. It’s Klein’s opinion that Wallace has always been in love with Olivia MacKenzie.”

“Is she living with him?” Ahearn asked.

“I wouldn’t call it that. With all the media around Sutton Place, she went home with him. Having said that, Klein wouldn’t be surprised if she married Wallace eventually. He sure was quick to stash her away in a private psychiatric residence so she can’t keep telling us her son is crazy.”

“Is there any possibility she’s in touch with her son?”

Barrott shrugged. “I’d say if Mack has contact with anyone in his family, it’s more likely with the sister.”

“All right.” Ahearn turned to address the group. “I still say that DeMarco may be the one behind all this. I want a tail on him 24/7. I want one on Carolyn MacKenzie, too. We’ll apply for a wiretap for any and all phones that aren’t already tapped: MacKenzie in her Thompson Street apartment, in Sutton Place, and on her cell phone; DeMarco, wherever he works or hangs his hat.”

“Larry, I’d like to make another suggestion,” Bob Gaylor said. “Zach Winters may be a wino, but I think he saw something that night. He curls up in doorways. The fact that the band members and waiters from the Woodshed didn’t see him on the street doesn’t prove anything, and I’d swear he was holding back on us when he was here.”

“Go talk to him again,” Ahearn said. “He lives in that shelter on Mott Street, doesn’t he?”

“Sometimes, but when the weather’s good, he puts his stuff in a laundry cart and sleeps outside.”

Ahearn nodded. “All right. We’re cooperating with the FBI, but I want all of you to keep something in mind. I’ve known Leesey since she was six years old. I want her back, and I want us to be the ones who find her!”

O n Sunday morning, using the service entrance to duck the media, I went for a long, long walk along the river. I felt whiplashed after Elliott’s phone call about Mom, and sick with my doubts about Nick-and, let’s face it, about Mack.

The day had fulfilled its promise-warm with a light breeze. The current of the East River, often so strong, seemed as mellow as the sunshine. The boaters were out, not too many of them, adding to the scenery. I love New York. God help me, I even love that blaring, intrusive Pepsi-Cola sign on the Long Island City side of the river.

By the end of a three-hour walk, I was physically and mentally exhausted. When I got back to Sutton Place, I stripped, showered, and got into bed. I slept all afternoon, and woke up at six o’clock feeling at least somewhat clearheaded and a bit more able to cope. I dressed casually, in a blue and white pinstriped shirt and white jeans. I didn’t care if Nick showed up in a jacket and tie. I wanted no suggestion of little Carolyn dressing up for a date.

Nick arrived promptly at seven o’clock. He was wearing a sport shirt and chinos. I had intended to steer him straight out the door, but his first words were, “Carolyn, I really need to talk with you, and it might be better if we do it here.”

I followed him into the library. “Library” sounds impressive. It really isn’t that pretentious. It’s just a room with bookshelves and comfortable armchairs and a paneled area that opens to disclose a built-in bar. Nick went straight to it, poured himself a scotch on the rocks, and, without asking, a glass of white wine with a couple of ice cubes for me.

“This is what you had last week. I read somewhere that the Duchess of Windsor put ice in her champagne,” he said, as he handed me the glass.

“And I read that the Duke of Windsor liked his whiskey neat,” I told him.

“Married to her, I shouldn’t wonder.” He gave a brief smile. “Joking, of course. I have no idea what she was like.”

I sat on the edge of the couch. He chose one of the armchairs and swiveled it around. “I remember loving these chairs,” he said. “I promised myself that if I ever got rich I’d have at least one of them.”

“And?” I asked.

“Never had time to think about it. When I started to make money and bought an apartment, I got an interior decorator. She was into the Western look. When I saw it all finished, I felt like Roy Rogers.”

I had been studying him, and I realized that the gray around his temples was even more pronounced than I had thought. There were fresh pouches under his eyes, and the concerned expression I had observed last week had now become one of deep worry. He had flown to Florida yesterday because his father had a heart attack. I asked Nick how he was doing.

“Pretty good. It really was a mild attack. They are releasing him in a couple of days.”

Then Nick looked straight at me. “Carolyn, do you think Mack is alive? And if you do, is he capable of what the cops think he’s doing?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to be honest, to say that at this point, I simply didn’t know, but I caught myself in time. “What on earth makes you ask that? Of course not.” I hoped that I sounded as indignant as I wanted to sound.