Where Are You Now?

15

A s I was leaving the Sutton Place apartment, my cell phone rang. The caller identified himself as Detective Barrott, and though my pulse quickened, I kept my response to him deliberately cool. He had brushed me off on Monday, so what possible reason did he have for calling me now?

“Ms. MacKenzie, as you may be aware, a young woman, Leesey Andrews, who disappeared last night, lives next door to you on Thompson Street. I am there now, interviewing the neighbors on the block. I saw your name listed on the directory in your building. I’d very much appreciate an opportunity to speak with you again. Is it possible to set up an appointment with you soon?”

Holding the phone to one ear, I signaled to the doorman to hail a cab for me. There was one nearby just discharging a passenger. As I waited for an elderly lady to get out, I told Barrott that I was on my way back to my own apartment and, depending on traffic, would be there in about twenty minutes.

“I’ll wait for you,” he said flatly, giving me no opportunity to let him know whether that was convenient for me or not.

Some days a cab ride between Sutton Place and Thompson Street takes fifteen minutes. Other days the traffic simply crawls. This was one of those crawling days. It wasn’t as though I was in any rush to see Detective Barrott-it’s just that once I’m on my way anywhere, I’m impatient to get there, another characteristic inherited from my father.

And that made me think of my father’s anxiety when Mack disappeared and the anxiety Leesey Andrews’s father must be feeling now. Last night on the eleven o’clock news, holding back tears, Dr. Andrews had held up his daughter’s picture and pleaded for assistance in finding her. I thought I could imagine what he was going through, then wondered if that was really true. Bad as it had been for us, Mack had after all seemingly walked out of his life in midafternoon. Leesey Andrews was surely more vulnerable, alone at night, and certainly no match for a strong predator.

All that was whirling through my mind as the cab made its way slowly to Thompson Street.

Barrott was sitting on the steps of the brownstone, an incongruous sight, I thought, as I paid the driver. The afternoon had turned warm again, and he had opened his jacket and loosened his tie. When he spotted me, in a fluid movement he stood up quickly, tightened the tie, and buttoned the jacket again.

We greeted each other with reserved courtesy, and I invited him inside. As I turned the key in the entrance door, I noticed a couple of vans with TV markings parked outside the building next door, the building where Leesey Andrews lived-or had lived.

My studio apartment is in the rear of the building and is the only one on the lobby floor. I took it on a year’s lease last September when I started working for Judge Huot. In these past nine months it has become, for me, a peaceful haven from Sutton Place, where my sense of loss over my father and anxiety over Mack are never totally absent.

Mom was appalled at the size of this place. “Carolyn, nine hundred square feet, you won’t be able to turn around,” she had lamented. But I have been thrilled by the womblike space. It is a cheery cocoon and I think has been greatly responsible for helping me evolve from a chronic state of inner sadness and anxiety to a surging desire, even a need, to have done with it, to get on with life. Thanks to Mom’s good taste, I grew up in a home that was beautifully decorated, but I’ve taken a certain joy in shopping for my studio at bargain sales in home furnishings departments.

My spacious bedroom on Sutton Place has a separate sitting area. On Thompson Street, I have a pullout couch, which, remarkably, has a very comfortable mattress. As Detective Barrott followed me into the apartment, I caught the way he surveyed the room, with its black enamel side tables and bright red modern lamps, small black enamel coffee table, and two armless chairs upholstered in the same stark white of the couch. He let his eyes slide over the white walls and the rug with its checkered black and white and red pattern.

The kitchen is a narrow unit off the living room. An ice cream parlor table and two padded wrought iron chairs under the window are the full extent of the dining facilities. But the window is wide, lets in a lot of light, and plants and geraniums on the sill bring the outdoors in.

Barrot took everything in, then politely refused my offer of water or coffee and sat down opposite me on one of the side chairs. He surprised me by starting with an apology. “Ms. MacKenzie,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you feel that I dismissed your concerns when you came to see me on Monday.”

I let my silence tell him that I agreed.

“I started to look over your brother’s file yesterday. I’ll admit that I didn’t get very far. The call came in about Leesey Andrews and of course that took precedence, but then I realized it would also give me another chance to talk to you. As I told you, we’re canvassing the neighborhood. Do you know Leesey Andrews?”

The question surprised me. Maybe it should not have, but I thought to myself that when he phoned and asked to meet me, if I had known her even slightly, I would have said so immediately. “No, I don’t know her,” I said.

“Did you see her picture on television?”

“Yes, I did, last night.”

“And you didn’t have any sense of ever having seen her around?” he persisted as though he wasn’t sure that I wasn’t being evasive.

“No, but of course, living next door, I may have passed her in the street. There are a number of young women students in that building.” I knew I sounded irritated and I was. Surely Barrott wasn’t suggesting that because my brother was missing I might have some kind of link to this girl’s disappearance?

Barrott’s lips tightened. “Ms. MacKenzie, I hope you realize that I’m asking you the same questions I, and other detectives, are asking everyone in this neighborhood. Because we already know each other, and because you of all people understand the agony her father and brother are going through, I’m hoping that somehow you can help us. You’re an extremely attractive young woman, and as a lawyer you’re trained to be very observant.” He leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped. “Do you ever walk around this area alone at night, let’s say after dinner or a movie, or do you ever go out very early in the morning?”

“Yes, I do.” I knew my tone had softened. “Most mornings I jog around six o’clock, and if I’m meeting friends locally in the evening, I often walk home alone.”

“Have you ever had a sense of being watched, of someone following you?”

“No, I haven’t. On the other hand, I would say I’m rarely out later than midnight, and the Village is still pretty lively at that time.”

“I understand. But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes open for us. Predators, like arsonists, sometimes enjoy watching the excitement they’ve created. Something else. There is another way you might be able to help us. Your neighbor on the second floor, Mrs. Carter, is very fond of you, isn’t she?”

“I’m very fond of her. She’s terribly arthritic and terrified of going out if the weather is bad,” I explained. “She’s had a couple of nasty falls. I check on her and pick up odds and ends from the grocery store if she needs them.” I leaned back in my chair, wondering where he was going with this.

Barrott nodded. “She told me that. In fact she was singing your praises. But you know how it is with some old people. They’re afraid of getting in trouble themselves if they talk to police. My own aunt was like that. She wouldn’t admit it when she saw a neighbor dent another neighbor’s car. ‘It’s none of my business,’ was the way she put it.” He paused thoughtfully. “I could tell that Mrs. Carter was nervous about talking to me,” he continued. “But she did tell me she enjoys sitting at the window. She claims she didn’t recognize Leesey’s picture, but I have a hunch she did. It may only be that she has noticed Leesey walking by and doesn’t want to get involved with the investigation in any way, but maybe if you have a cup of tea with her, she might open up to you.”

“I’ll do that,” I said willingly. Mrs. Carter may be old, but she doesn’t miss a trick, and she is a window sitter, I thought. She certainly has all the dirt on the neighbors who live on the three floors above her. I considered the irony that I was now investigating for Barrott, when my intention had been to have him investigate for me.

Barrott stood up. “Thank you for letting me stop in, Ms. MacKenzie. As you can understand, we’re working round the clock on this case, but when it’s resolved, I’m going to get back to reviewing your brother’s file and see if we can come up with some new avenues to follow.”

He had given me his card on Monday but probably suspected that I had torn it up, which I had. As I accepted another one from him, he said he’d keep in touch with me. I saw him out, locked the door behind him, and realized that I suddenly felt weak-kneed. Something about his manner made me suspect that Detective Roy Barrott had not been honest. To him, I was not just someone who happened to be a neighbor of a missing young woman. He was trying to create reasons to keep in contact with me.

But why?

I simply didn’t know.