Mary Clark - Where Are You Now?

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.

He wanted to know how she had made out on the visit to her mother. He knew how hurt she had been by her mother’s refusal to see her.

At least her cell phone was on. It was ringing. It had been turned off Monday afternoon and all day Tuesday. A gnawing sense that something was wrong made Nick decide to stop at Sutton Place, and make sure that she was home.

The morning concierge had just come on duty. “I don’t think she’s back yet,” he said, when Nick asked for Carolyn. “I understand she had an emergency message at about three A.M. and went rushing out. Whoever handed the note to her doorman said it was a matter of life or death. I hope everything is all right.”

Everything isn’t all right, Nick thought frantically. He began to dial the now familiar number of Detective Barrott.

T hank you for seeing us, Mr. Wallace,” Barrott said politely.

“That’s all right. Is there any news of Mack?” Elliott asked.

“No, I’m afraid there isn’t but we do have a few matters you can help us clear up.”

“Of course.” He gestured for the detectives to take a seat.

“You know Howard Altman?”

“Yes, I do. He is the employee of my client Derek Olsen.”

“Didn’t you actually recommend Altman to Mr. Olsen ten years ago?”

“I believe I did.”

“How did you happen to know Mr. Altman?”

“I’m not really sure. As I recall, a former client had sold some real estate and was looking to place him.” Elliott’s expression was blank.

“Who was that client?”

“I’m not even sure I can remember. I dealt with him only briefly. But it was one of those coincidences. Olsen had been in and mentioned he was having a terrible time getting good help, and I passed Altman’s name along to him.”

“I see. We’d certainly appreciate having that client’s name, and I’m sure you’d want to find him. Altman may be a suspect in the abduction of Leesey Andrews, which of course would clear the name of Mack MacKenzie.”

“Anything that would clear Mack’s name would be priceless to me,” Elliott told Barrott, his voice shaking with emotion.

Barrott studied him, taking in the beautifully tailored suit, the crisp white shirt, the handsome blue and red tie. He watched as Wallace took off his glasses, polished them, then put them back on. What is it about this guy that I’m seeing, he asked himself. It’s the eyes and the forehead. They looked familiar. Then he wondered: Is it possible? My God, he resembles Altman. He signaled to Gaylor to take over the questioning.

“Mr. Wallace, isn’t it a fact that you are the executor of Mack MacKenzie’s estate?”

“I am the executor of all the MacKenzie family trusts.”

“The sole executor?”

“Yes.”

“What are the terms of Mack’s trust?”

“It was set up by his grandfather. He was not to receive income from it until he reached the age of forty.”

“In the meantime, of course, it continues to grow.”

“Certainly. It has been carefully invested.”

“What would happen if Mack died?”

“The trust would go to his children, and if he had none, to his sister, Carolyn.”

“Could Mack have asked for an advance from his trust for what you as executor deemed to be a responsible reason?”

“It would have to be extremely responsible. His grandfather wanted no playboy heirs.”

“How about the fact that he was about to get married; that his future wife was pregnant with his child; that he no longer wanted his parents to pay his way; that he would put himself through college and would want to pay for his wife to go to medical school? Would all that be good and sufficient reason to dip into the trust?”