“My second very selfish reason is that a great deal of money has been spent buying the property on which the Woodshed is situated, renovating the premises, furnishing and staffing it. I wanted to create a safe, fun place for young people and not-so-young people to enjoy. If Leesey’s disappearance is traced to an encounter she had in my club, the media will hound us, and within six months our doors will be closed. I want you to investigate our employees, our customers, and me. But I can promise you that you’re wasting your time if you think I had anything to do with that girl’s disappearance.”

“Mr. DeMarco, you are one of the many people we are and will be interviewing,” Ahearn said calmly. “Did you file a flight plan at Teterboro?”

“Of course. If you check the records, the flying time down yesterday morning was excellent. Today, because of the nearby storms, it was somewhat slower.”

“One last question, Mr. DeMarco. How did you get back and forth to the airport?”

“In my car, I drove myself.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“I usually drive a Mercedes convertible unless for some reason I’m carrying a lot of baggage. Actually my golf clubs were in my SUV, so that was what I drove back and forth to the airport yesterday and today.”

Nicholas DeMarco did not need to catch the glance the two detectives exchanged to know that he had become a person of interest in the disappearance of Leesey Andrews. I can understand why, he thought. I was talking to her a few hours before she disappeared. No one can verify that she didn’t meet me later at the apartment. I took off early the next morning in a private plane. I can’t blame them for being suspicious-that’s their job.

With a brief smile, he offered his hand to both men and told them that he was going to make public immediately his offer to match the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to Leesey’s whereabouts.

“And I can assure you, we’ll be working 24/7 to find her, or if something has happened to her, find the person who did it,” Ahearn said, in a tone of voice that Nicholas DeMarco correctly interpreted as a warning.

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?