Roy Barrott stood perfectly still, then traced his index finger over Carolyn MacKenzie’s name.

The unerring instinct that made him such a superb detective was telling him that somehow, someway there was a connection between the two cases.

A fter I left the apartment building where Mack had lived, I went back to Sutton Place. In the day and a half since Mom had made the decision to go on the cruise, she had been energized, as if after living so long in limbo, she was trying to make up for lost time. She told me she was planning to go through closets and pull out clothing to give away, and then this evening she would be meeting Elliott and some other friends for dinner.

I wondered why she would bother to clean out closets just before she went on vacation, but that became evident. Over a quick lunch, a sandwich and a cup of tea in the breakfast room, she told me that she was listing the apartment with a broker and that as soon as she came back she was going to look for something smaller. “You’re never going to move back in,” she said, “I know that. I will have call forwarding, just in case Mack decides to phone next Mother’s Day, but on the other hand, if I miss his call, so be it. I just may not hang around and wait for it.”

I looked at her, astonished. When she said she was going to clean out closets, I was thinking that she meant her own. But now, without asking, I was sure that it was the closets in Mack’s room that were going to be emptied.

“What are you going to do with Mack’s things?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“I’ll have Dev send someone to get them and deliver them to a place where they’ll be put to good use.” Mom looked at me for approval and, finding something missing in my expression, said quickly, “Carolyn, you’re the one telling me to move on. The fact remains that even if Mack walked through the door today, and even if his clothes still fit him, they’d probably be out of style.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” I told her. “I think it’s a good idea, but I also think that it’s the last thing in the world you should be worrying about two days before you’re getting on a plane to fly to Greece. Look, Mom, do yourself a favor. Let me go through Mack’s clothes and sort them out.” Even as I spoke, it occurred to me that it was possible that ten years ago, no one had ever carefully explored the pockets of slacks and jackets that Mack had left in this apartment. Lucas Reeves had indicated in his case report that nothing of importance was found in the clothing Mack had left behind in his student apartment.

Without much hesitation, even with relief, Mom agreed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Carolyn,” she said. “You’ve been my rod and staff through all this. But I know you. You only stopped working two weeks ago, and I can tell you’re restless. What will you do while I’m gone?”

She had inadvertently furnished me with a response that was at least partly honest. “We know someone will snap up this place in a heartbeat,” I said. “I never intended to stay in the studio indefinitely. I’m going to look around for a bigger place myself. You’ll let me have my pick of any furniture you don’t take with you, right?”

“Of course. Let Elliott know. A decent one-bedroom is an expenditure he’ll certainly approve.” Elliott was the trustee of the money my grandfather had left me.

Mom took the last gulp of tea and stood up. “I’d better rush. Helene will have a fit if I’m late for my hair appointment. For the kind of money she charges, she could stand to possess a little more humility.” She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, then added, “If you find an apartment you like, make sure it has a doorman. I never have been comfortable with you living in a place where you have to let yourself in. I’ve been checking the news. There’s no sign of that girl who lived next door to you who disappeared. God help her family.”

I was glad Mom had the salon appointment. Now that I was determined to find Mack, I had the sense that I must not lose a minute in my search for him. Geographically, he had been so close to us when he left that note on Sunday. The meeting with the Kramers had left me desperately uneasy. Memories do fade, but when I spoke to them, they had contradicted each other about what Mack was wearing and exactly where they had seen him last. Also, Lil Kramer had been absolutely shocked when I told her he had been at the Mass. Why? Was Mack a threat to them? What did they know that scared them so much?

I had taken the report of Investigator Reeves from the file drawer in Dad’s desk. Now I wanted to get the addresses of Mack’s former roommates, Bruce Galbraith and Nicholas DeMarco. Nick had kept in touch with Dad regularly, in the beginning. Naturally, as time passed he heard from him less and less frequently. The last time I saw him was when he attended Dad’s memorial Mass, but that day is a complete blur to me.

Dad’s study isn’t large, but as he used to say, it was big enough for what he needed. His big desk dominated the paneled room. To my mother’s horror, the faded nine-by-twelve carpet that had been in his mother’s living room was on the floor. “Reminds me of where I came from, Liv,” he would say after one of her periodic efforts to get rid of it. A worn leather chair with a hassock was his favorite spot in the morning. He always got up very early, made himself coffee, and settled in that chair with the morning papers before showering and getting dressed to go to the office.

Bookcases covered the wall opposite the windows. Scattered on them were framed pictures of the four of us from those happy days when we had been together. Dad had a presence that showed through even in casual pictures: the determined jaw, softened by the wide smile, the keen intelligence in his eyes. He had done everything possible to trace Mack and would still be trying if he were alive. I’m sure of that.

I opened the top drawer of his desk and took out his phone book. On a slip of paper I wrote down Bruce Galbraith’s phone number. I remembered he had gone into the family real estate business in Manhattan. I copied both his home and business numbers.

Nick DeMarco, the son of immigrant parents who owned a small storefront restaurant in Queens, had been a scholarship student at Columbia. I remembered that after he got his MBA from Harvard, he went into the restaurant business and, I understand, has been very successful. Both his home and business phone numbers and addresses were in Manhattan.

I sat at Dad’s desk and picked up the receiver. I decided to call Bruce first. There was a reason for that. When I was sixteen, I had a fierce crush on Nick. He and Mack were particularly close friends, and Mack regularly brought him home for dinner. I lived for those dinners. But then one night he and Mack brought a girl with them. Barbara Hanover was a senior at Columbia and lived in the same student apartment building, and it was immediately clear to me that Nick was crazy about her.

Even though I was absolutely crushed, I thought I had kept up a good front that evening, but Mack could read me like a book. Before he, Nick, and Barbara left, he pulled me aside, and said, “Carolyn, I know you have big eyes for Nick. Forget it. He’s got a different girlfriend every week. Stick to guys your own age.”

My angry denial only caused Mack to smile. “You’ll get over it,” were his parting words to me that night. That was about six months before he disappeared, and it was the last time I stayed home when Nick was coming. I was embarrassed and didn’t want to be there. The fact that it was obvious to Mack that I had a crush on Nick made me sure it had been obvious to everyone else. I was grateful neither of my parents ever referred to it.

I got through to Bruce’s secretary at Galbraith Real Estate and was told that he was on a business trip until next Monday. Did I care to leave a message? I gave the secretary my name and phone number, hesitated, then added, “It’s about Mack. We just heard from him again.”