On Saturday morning, Gregg took Zach Winters down to Larry Ahearn’s office, but as he sat in while Ahearn interrogated Zach, he saw his story about seeing Leesey get into the black Mercedes SUV begin to unravel. Zach had said that he hung around on that block for about half an hour, but the employees of the Woodshed, who left only a few minutes after Leesey, all swore they hadn’t seen him on the street. He admitted that he was a chronic drunk who had once been thrown out of the Woodshed when he came in and tried to panhandle the customers. He admitted that he was angry at Nick DeMarco, the owner, for having him thrown out, and that he knew Nick owned a black Mercedes SUV.
After the lengthy interrogation, Gregg drove Zach back to where he had found him. Exhausted, Gregg went straight to his apartment and fell asleep until nine o’clock Sunday morning. Then, feeling clearheaded and focused again, he showered, dressed, and drove to Greenwich.
The change in his father in the one week since he had last seen him was shocking. His father’s housekeeper, Annie Potters, who never came in on Sunday, was there. “He won’t eat,” she whispered to Gregg. “It’s eleven o’clock and he hasn’t touched a morsel since yesterday.”
“Would you fix some breakfast for both of us, Annie?” Gregg asked. “I’ll see what I can do.”
After greeting him, his father had immediately returned to his recliner in the living room, the portable phone within reach. Gregg went back into the living room and sat on the chair nearest the recliner. “Dad, I’ve been walking the streets at night looking for Leesey. I can’t do it anymore, and you can’t do this anymore! We’re not helping Leesey, and we’re destroying ourselves. I’ve been down to the District Attorney’s office. There is absolutely nothing Larry Ahearn and his people aren’t already doing to find Leesey. I want you to come in and eat something, then we’re going out for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.” He got up, and bent down to hug his father. “You know I’m right.”
Dr. David Andrews nodded, then his face crumbled. Gregg embraced him. “Dad, I know. I know. Now, come on, and leave the phone here. If it rings, we’ll answer it.”
He was cheered to see his father eat half the serving of scrambled eggs and bacon Annie put before him. Gregg was nibbling on a slice of toast and drinking his second cup of coffee when the phone rang. His father bolted up and raced from the table, but he didn’t reach the phone before the message began.
It was Leesey, unmistakably. “Daddy, Daddy,” she wailed, “help me. Please, Daddy, he says he’s going to kill me.”
The message ended as Leesey began to sob.
Dr. David Andrews lunged for the phone and grabbed it, but by then he heard only a dial tone. His knees buckled, and Gregg was in time to ease him into his recliner before he collapsed.
Gregg was checking his father’s pulse when the phone rang again. It was Larry Ahearn.
“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!”
48
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!”
49
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
