Where Are You Now?

20

J ackie Reynolds has been my closest friend since the first grade, when we attended the Academy of the Sacred Heart together as six-year-olds. She’s one of the smartest people I know, as well as a gifted athlete. Jackie can hit a golf ball so hard that it would make Tiger Woods blink. The September after we graduated from Columbia, we drove to Duke together. While I was studying law, she was working for a doctorate in psychology.

She has that unmistakable look of the born athlete, tall and firm-bodied, with long chestnut hair that, as often as not, is held together at the nape of her neck with a rubber band. Her extraordinary brown eyes are her dominant feature. They exude warmth and sympathy and make people want to confide in her. I always tell her that she should give cut rates to her patients. “You don’t have to drag their problems out of them, Jackie. They walk through your door and spill their guts.”

We talk frequently on the phone and get together every few weeks. It used to be even more often, but now Jackie is getting pretty serious about the guy she’s been dating for the past year. Ted Sawyer is a lieutenant in the fire department and a genuinely top-drawer person. He intends to be fire commissioner of New York someday, then run for mayor, and I’d bet my bottom dollar that he’ll do both.

Jackie has always been worried about how little interest I’ve shown in dating. She correctly attributed my lack of interest to the fact that I’ve felt emotionally burned out. Tonight, if the subject came up, I intended to reassure her that I am now actively working to put all that inertia behind me.

We met at Il Mulino, our favorite pasta place in the Village. Over linguine with clam sauce and a glass of pinot grigio, I told her about Mack’s phone call and the note he left in the collection basket.

“‘Uncle Devon, tell Carolyn she must not look for me,’” Jackie repeated. “I’m sorry, Carolyn, but if Mack did write that note, it suggests to me that he may be in some kind of trouble,” she said quietly. “If he weren’t under stress and just wanted to be left alone, I think he would have written, ‘Please don’t look for me,’ or simply, ‘Carolyn, leave me alone.’”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The more I look at the note and think about it, the more I sense desperation.”

I told Jackie about going to see Detective Barrott. “He practically showed me the door,” I said. “He wasn’t interested in the note. He gave me the impression that if Mack wanted to be left alone, I should respect his wishes. So I started my own investigation by meeting with the superintendents of Mack’s apartment building.”

She listened to my description of the meeting, interrupting only to query me about Mrs. Kramer. “You say she seemed nervous when you talked to her?”

“She was nervous, and she kept looking over to her husband for approval, as if she wanted to make sure she had given the right answers. Then they both changed their story in midstream about the last time they saw Mack and what he was wearing.”

“Memory is notoriously inaccurate, especially after ten years,” Jackie said slowly. “If I were you, I’d try to see Mrs. Kramer when her husband isn’t around.”

I made a mental note, then told her about my second conversation with Detective Barrott. Jackie hadn’t realized that my studio is right next door to the building where Leesey Andrews lived. I told her about Detective Barrott meeting me there and that I felt there was something behind his wanting to stay in touch with me.

The expression in Jackie’s eyes changed. I could read deepening concern in them. “I’ll bet Detective Barrott wishes he had taken that note from you,” she said vehemently. “I’ll bet he’ll get around to asking you for it soon.”

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

“Carolyn, have you forgotten about the missing persons cases that were in the news just before Mack disappeared. That a bunch of Columbia guys, including Mack, were in the bar in SoHo where that first girl who disappeared had been hanging out? That was just a few weeks before Mack himself vanished.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “But why would that be relevant now?”

“Because you’ve handed the D.A.’s office a possible suspect. Mack doesn’t want you to find him, which, as I just suggested, could mean that he may be in some kind of trouble. Or it could mean that he is the trouble. He called your mother on Sunday and left the note in the collection basket later in the morning. Suppose Mack decided to check out where you now live, maybe to warn you away again. Your address at the apartment is listed in the phone book. Suppose he came by early Tuesday morning and spotted Leesey Andrews on the street walking home. I’ll bet that’s the way your Detective Barrott is adding things up.”

“Jackie, are you crazy?” I began, but the words died in my throat. I was desperately afraid that she had analyzed Barrott’s thinking process correctly. In his eyes, and because of me, my missing brother may have become a person of interest in the disappearance of Leesey Andrews, and perhaps of the young woman who vanished ten years ago, only weeks before he did.

Then, in utter dismay, I remembered that not one but three young women had vanished in these ten years before Leesey Andrews failed to return home.

In his wildest dreams, could Barrott possibly be beginning to believe that if Mack is alive he may have become a serial killer?