Where Are You Now?

66

A ll afternoon, either alone or in pairs, the members of the Detective Squad visited Lucas Reeves’s office and studied the photos he had prepared for their inspection. Sometimes they lingered over one or several pictures. They studied the enhanced shot of Mack MacKenzie as he might look today. Some of them held it up to compare with a headshot on the wall, but in the end they all left shrugging their shoulders in disappointment and defeat.

Roy Barrott was one of the last to arrive, at quarter of five. He had gone home and crashed for three hours. Now, freshly shaved and alert, he went painstakingly through the hundreds of stills while Lucas Reeves waited patiently in his office.

Finally, at seven fifteen, as Lucas came in to check on him, he gave up. “They’re all starting to look familiar,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’m missing something over there.” He pointed his hand to the far wall.

Lucas Reeves frowned. “Oddly, Carolyn MacKenzie paused at that area as well. I had the feeling that something interested her, but she must have dismissed the possibility. Otherwise I am sure she would have said something.”

Barrott stood in front of it again. “It’s not going to happen, at least not tonight.”

Reeves reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I have written down my cell phone number for you. If anything occurs to you and you want to come back here at any hour, call me and I will instruct the security guard to let you in immediately.”

“Good enough, and thanks.”

Barrott went back to the squad room to find renewed energy crackling through it. Ahearn, his tie pulled loose, his face haggard and weary, was pacing the floor in his office. “We may be onto something,” he said. “Steve Hockney, the nephew of the owner of the apartment building MacKenzie was living in, has a sealed juvenile record. We got a look at it, serious stuff, but nothing violent. Dealing marijuana, burglary, and theft. His uncle was able to hire good lawyers who kept him out of a couple of years in a juvenile center. According to Lil Kramer, Hockney was holding it over her head that MacKenzie was missing his watch. That was only a day or two before Mack disappeared. We’re looking for Hockney. His band has regular gigs in the SoHo-Greenwich Village locale, and he uses a lot of costume changes, even wigs and putty to alter his appearance.”

“How about the rest of what the Kramers told you?”

“We spoke to Bruce Galbraith. He’s one cold fish. He acknowledged that he did ask Lil Kramer about his school ring, but she took it wrong. He wasn’t accusing her. He claims he just asked her if she’d seen it when she was cleaning up. She hit the roof and got all upset. Knowing her background, you can understand why she might have been hypersensitive about a question like that.”

Bob Gaylor had come in while Ahearn was speaking. “Our guys just reached Hockney’s uncle, Derek Olsen, the old man who owns the buildings. He confirmed that there was a rivalry between his assistant, Howard Altman, and his nephew Steve Hockney. He said he’s sick of both of them. He’s left messages on their phones that he’s selling all the property and that the wrecking ball is hitting the 104th Street town house tomorrow morning. We didn’t let on that we’re hunting for the nephew. We told him we were confirming the Kramers’ story.”

“What did he say about them?”

“Hardworking, good people. He’d trust them with everything he had.”

“Have we got any pictures of Hockney?” Barrott asked. “I want to compare him with a face I saw in Reeves’s office just now. I feel as though I’ve missed something.”

“There’s one of his publicity pictures with his band on my desk,” Ahearn told him. “We’ve got dozens of them with our guys on the street.”

Barrott started rifling through the untidy clutter on Ahearn’s desk, then picked up a picture he found there. “This is the one,” he said aloud.

Ahearn and Gaylor stared at him. “What are you talking about?” Ahearn demanded.

“I’m talking about this guy,” he said, pointing. “Where’s that other picture of Leesey posing for her friend, the one with Nick DeMarco in the background?”

“One of the copies of it is somewhere in that pile.”

Barrott rummaged, then, with a satisfied grunt, said, “Here it is.” He held up two photos, comparing them. An instant later, he was dialing the cell phone of Lucas Reeves.