“What about her brother’s SUV?
“You’re not going to believe this. It was stolen out of the Sutton Place garage in the family’s apartment building about eight months after Mack took off.”
“Stolen!” Gaylor exclaimed.
“Were other vehicles taken?” Ahearn asked quickly.
“No. That was the only one. It’s not a large facility. One kid was on duty, asleep in the booth after midnight. Next thing he knew, he had a bag over his head, tape over his mouth, and was handcuffed to the chair. By the time he was found, that SUV was gone.”
The three men looked at one another. “If Mack stole his own wheels, it’s entirely possible he’s still driving it,” Gaylor suggested. “My father-in-law has had his Mercedes for twenty years.”
“And if he’s still driving it, and if the wino’s story checks out, there’s an equally good chance that Leesey may have driven off with MacKenzie, not DeMarco,” Larry Ahearn said somberly. “All right, let’s get those subpoenas. Maybe that tape MacKenzie made with the drama teacher will give us something to work with.”
45
H oward Altman was well aware of his boss’s shifting loyalties, but his first hint that something was seriously wrong occurred when Mr. Olsen did not go out to brunch with him on Saturday morning. He had noticed Olsen using the new Montblanc pen and correctly guessed that it was probably a present from Steve Hockney, Olsen’s nephew.
Steve is schmoozing the old man, Howard thought bitterly. It would be just like Olsen to leave everything to him. The first thing Steve would do is fire me. Then he’d sell all the apartment houses and pocket the cash.
The building he lived in on Ninety-fourth Street was one of the smallest Olsen owned. It was four stories high, with only two apartments on each floor. Most of the tenants had been there for years. His apartment was the only one on the lobby floor. Sparsely furnished and immaculately neat, the living room was dominated by his sixty-inch television set. Most of Howard’s evenings were split evenly by his two favorite activities, watching movies on television and visiting on the Internet with buddies from all over the world. He found them infinitely more interesting than the people he met in his daily life.
An excellent chef, he always cooked himself a good dinner, watched a movie while he had a couple of glasses of wine and ate from a tray table, then turned off the television set and went directly to his bedroom computer.
Howard loved this apartment, which came with his job. He loved his job, especially now that he was in charge of all Olsen’s buildings. I earned it, he told himself, defensively. I got it because I proved myself. I can fix anything that’s broken. I can put up a wall to make two rooms out of one. I can replace old wiring and build cabinets. I can paint and wallpaper and scrape floors. That’s why Olsen kept promoting me. But what happens if he leaves everything to Steve?
The question persisted in his mind. For once, he could not focus on the movie in his DVD player. How could he get Olsen to sour on his nephew?
And then the answer came to him. He had a master key to all the apartments in the building where Steve Hockney lived. He’d put a security camera in Steve’s apartment. I’ve seen him when he’s high, and I’ve always suspected that he deals in drugs, Howard thought. If I can prove it, that would finish him with his uncle.
Blood is thicker than water. Maybe.
Pleased at finding a possible solution to the impending problem, he turned off the television and went down the hall to his bedroom. He smiled at the familiar whooshing sound he heard as he turned on his computer.
He realized how much he was looking forward to connecting with his friend Singh in Mumbai tonight.
46
I had barely slept Friday night, and the six A.M. call Saturday morning from Detective Barrott finished any hope I had of drifting off again for at least a few more hours.
Why is Barrott so interested in what happened to Mack’s SUV? I asked myself, as I replaced the receiver and got out of bed. As usual, I had left the windows of my bedroom open, and padded across the room to close them. The sun had already risen over the East River and it held the promise of a beautiful day. The breeze was cool, but I could see that this time the weather forecasters were right-it would be sunny and pleasant, about seventy degrees by noon. In short, a perfect morning in late May, which meant that right now there was undoubtedly an exodus from the city by people who hadn’t already left for their summer place last night. The residents of Sutton Place who didn’t have a second home in the Hamptons almost inevitably had one on the Cape, or Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, or somewhere.
Dad had never wanted to be anchored to one vacation home, but before Mack disappeared we always went away in August. My favorite was the year I was fifteen, when Dad rented a villa in Tuscany, about half an hour from Florence. It was a magical month, all the more so because it was the last time we were all together.
My mind snapped back to the present. Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?
Our garage is relatively small. It only accommodates the automobiles of the residents of the building, with about ten extra spaces for visitors. Dad had just bought the SUV for Mack a week before he disappeared. Mack had parked it in a garage on the West Side, near his apartment. When he’d been missing two weeks, Dad took the spare key and brought the SUV back here. I remember Mack had obviously driven it in bad weather, because it had some mud splatters on the side and on the driver’s mat. Dad paid a guy in our garage to clean it, and he did a great job-so great that nothing was recovered when the cops decided to check the car for prints.
When it was stolen, Dad had been sure that one of the garage attendants had spotted it and planned to steal it. He always thought that the guy who had been tied up was in on the scheme, but there was no proof, and he quit soon after that.
Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?
It was a question that kept repeating itself in my mind as I made coffee and scrambled an egg. The newspapers were at the door, and I glanced through them as I ate. The tabloids were still milking the Leesey Andrews disappearance and speculating about Mack’s involvement. Aaron Klein’s accusation that Mack had killed his mother to recover his tapes was still a hot story. Now, on page three, there was Mack’s yearbook picture, but it had been enhanced to show how he might look today. Trying not to cry, I studied it. Mack’s face was a little fuller, his hairline slightly higher, his smile ambiguous. I wondered if Elliott had these same newspapers delivered, and if so, had Mom seen them?
Knowing her, she would have insisted on seeing them. I thought of what Elliott had told me at Thurston Carver’s office-that Mom had always been convinced some kind of mental breakdown had caused Mack to disappear. Now I wondered if she could be right, and if so, was it possible that Mack had stolen his own automobile? The prospect was so incredible to me that I realized I was shaking my head. “No, no, no,” I said aloud.
But I spoke to him two weeks ago, I admitted to myself. He left that message for Uncle Dev. The only rational explanation for Mack’s behavior may be that he is irrational. Mother is afraid that if he is responsible for Leesey Andrews’s disappearance and is tracked down by the cops, he may be shot if he resists arrest. Is that reasonable, or possible? I wondered.
Neither Mom nor Dad nor I saw any hint of a change in Mack’s behavior before he disappeared, but maybe someone else did. How about Mrs. Kramer? I asked myself. Between cleaning and doing the laundry, she was in his apartment regularly. She acted so nervous when I met her. Did she perceive me as a threat? Maybe if I could get her alone, without her husband around, I could get her to open up to me, I thought.
Bruce Galbraith hates Mack. What happened between them to cause that? Nick suggested that Barbara was crazy about Mack. Is Bruce simply jealous, or did something happen that still makes him angry after ten years?
