absolutely impossible.”
Barrott curtly assured me that it was true and did I think it was my brother trying to reach me?
“When I answered it, someone hung up. I thought it had to be a wrong number. Can’t you tell that I didn’t speak to anyone?” I asked him angrily.
“We know that. We also know that this is an unlisted phone in your home, Ms. MacKenzie. Make no mistake. If your brother is the one who has Leesey’s phone, and if he tries again to contact you and you do not help us find him, you could become an accessory to a very serious crime.”
I didn’t answer him. I simply broke off the connection.
Sometime between four and seven A.M. on Thursday morning, I decided to phone Lucas Reeves and ask to meet with him as soon as possible. I needed help from someone I could trust to be thorough and impartial. I had already seen, from studying his file on Mack, that he had done a good job interviewing seemingly every possible person who had been close to my brother. The opinion he had given Dad was very clear. “There is nothing in your son’s background that would suggest he was experiencing a problem that would cause him to flee. I would not rule out the possibility of a mental illness that he had successfully concealed from everyone.”
Elliott and I were meeting at noon at the office of Thurston Carver, the criminal defense lawyer whom Elliott had found to represent us. At nine A.M., I phoned Reeves. He was not in yet, but his secretary promised he would call me back as soon as he arrived. It was obvious that she recognized my name. A half hour later, he returned the call. As briefly as possible, I explained what had happened. “Is there any chance you could see me this morning?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my voice.
His voice was deep and resonant as he answered. “I’ll rearrange my schedule. Where is your meeting with the lawyer?”
“On Park and Forty-fifth” I said, “the MetLife Building.”
“My phone number is the same, but I moved my office two years ago. I’m on Park Avenue and Thirty-ninth Street, just a few blocks down from MetLife. Can you be here at ten thirty?”
Yes, I could. I was already showered and dressed. The unpredictable weather had served up another blustery day. Looking out the window at people wearing jackets and keeping their hands in their pockets, I changed from the light suit I had planned to wear to a velour running suit, which made me look less like a lawyer and more like somebody’s sister. I won’t say that it flattered me. It was dark gray, and when I looked in the mirror I could see that it brought out the circles under my eyes and the unusual paleness of my skin. I don’t usually bother with much makeup during the day, but I took the time to use foundation, a touch of eye shadow, blush, mascara, and lip gloss. All tarted up in defense of my brother, I thought, then hated the bitterness in my thinking.
If only I had not gone to see Detective Barrott. If only I had not found the tape in Mack’s suitcase. Useless thoughts.
I could feel the beginning of a headache, and even though I wasn’t hungry, I went down to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and toasted an English muffin. I carried it to the breakfast alcove and sat at the table, gazing at the spectacular view of the East River. Thanks to the strong breeze, the current was visibly swift, and I found myself identifying with it. I was being carried by a current I could not fight, and I had to let it take me along until it either overwhelmed or released me.
I had been glad that Mom was in Greece for those few days and I had the apartment to myself. But that was when she was supposed to be somewhere else. It was incredible to me that she was in New York and not staying in her own home, but when I left the apartment, I understood why. The media trucks were there in full force, and reporters rushed to me looking for a statement. This is what happened to her last night, I thought.
I had phoned down to the doorman to hail a cab for me, and he had one waiting. Ignoring the microphones, I jumped into it and said, “Start driving.” I didn’t want anyone to overhear my destination. Twenty minutes later, I was in the reception room of Lucas Reeves’s office. Promptly at ten thirty, he escorted a tense-looking couple, whom I guessed to be other clients, to the outer door, looked around, and came over to me. “Ms. MacKenzie, come right in.”
I only remember meeting him once, when he came to Sutton Place ten years ago, so either he remembered my face or, since I was the only one in the waiting room, he assumed I was Carolyn MacKenzie.
Lucas Reeves was even shorter than I remembered. I don’t think he was more than five feet four with shoes on. He had a thick head of wiry salt-and-pepper hair that had clearly been dyed to give the illusion of natural graying. His face was creased with small lines around the mouth which suggested to me that he almost certainly had been a serious smoker. His deep, pleasant voice was incongruous coming from such a small man, but it matched the warmth in his eyes and his hearty handshake.
I followed him into his private office. Instead of going to his desk, he led me to a seating area with two chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. “I don’t know about you, Ms. MacKenzie,” he began, as he waved me to one of the chairs, “but for me it’s time for midmorning coffee. How about you? Or, like my British friends, would you prefer a cup of tea?”
“Black coffee would be perfect,” I said.
“That’s two of us.”
The receptionist opened the door and poked her head in. “What’ll it be, Mr. Reeves?”
“Two black. Thanks, Marge.” Turning to me, he said, “In this day and age of political correctness, I started to make the coffee myself in our little kitchen. My assistant, my secretary, my receptionist, and my accountant bodily threw me out. They said my coffee would peel the paint from a wall.”
I was so grateful for his attempt to put me at ease that I felt quick tears rush to my eyes. He pretended not to notice. I had offered to bring Mack’s file with me, but he had said he had a duplicate of it. His was on the coffee table. He pointed to it. “Bring me up to date, Carolyn.” His eyes never left my face as I explained how, because of me, Mack had become a suspect in both the Leesey Andrews and Esther Klein cases.
“And now they think Mack has Leesey’s cell phone. Sure, we have a private number, but it’s been the same one since I was a child. Hundreds of people know it.” I bit my lip. It was quivering so much I could not go on. The thought flashed through my mind that the reason Mom wanted to stay in the apartment all these years was to be sure she’d never miss a call from Mack.
Listening to me, Reeves’s expression had become increasingly troubled. “I am afraid your brother is a very convenient suspect, Carolyn. I will be honest. I could see no reason why a twenty-one-year-old man with his background would choose to disappear. Quite frankly, in the last few days, with all the media attention on him, I have been studying his file and doing some follow-up, purely for my own satisfaction. Your father paid me generously, and I could give him absolutely no help in solving your brother’s disappearance.”
He looked past me. “Ah, here is the coffee I did not prepare.” He waited until the cups were on the table and we were alone again before he continued. “Now I am looking at it from the viewpoint of the police. The night the first girl disappeared, your brother was at that club, The Scene. But so were his two roommates, other Columbia students, and about fifteen more patrons. It was a small club, but there were also, of course, a bartender, some waiters, and a small musical group. That list, as complete as I could make it, is there in your brother’s file. Since the police now believe your brother may be involved in that first disappearance, let us think like them. With technology, it is increasingly easy to follow people’s lives. I am proud to say that this agency has a technical system second to none. We will begin to update our knowledge of everyone we know to have been in that club ten years ago when all of this started.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Excellent. Strength without bitterness. Admirable qualities, don’t you agree?”
I wondered if that was an admonition. Had he sensed my growing bitterness toward Mack, and even, I admitted to myself, to my mother?
He didn’t wait for an answer. “You said you felt that the superintendents, the Kramers, might have something to hide?”
“I don’t know whether they have something to hide,” I said. “I do know that they seemed terribly nervous, almost as if they were being accused of knowing something about Mack’s disappearance.”
“I interviewed them ten years ago. I’ll have my staff check to see if there was anything out of the ordinary in their lives that might be of use for us to know. Now tell me about Nicholas DeMarco. Trust me with any slight nuance that you may have received from him, either positive or negative.”
I wanted to be objective. “Nick is obviously ten years older now.” I said. “He’s more mature, of course. At age sixteen, I had a crush on him, so I don’t know that I could possibly have judged him honestly. He was handsome, he was fun, looking back I think he was flirting with me, and I was young enough to think that I was special to him.
