“I don’t understand,” I said, sinking into the nearest chair.

“I now believe my mother was killed because someone had to get something from her apartment. The person who killed her took her house key. At the time, I couldn’t find anything missing. But there was something taken-the box that contained all the tapes she had made of your brother.”

“But your mother was attacked nearly a year after Mack disappeared,” I said. “Why would he want them? What use would they be to him?” Then, suddenly outraged, I demanded, “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating,” Aaron Klein snapped at me. “I am telling you that I now believe that your missing brother may have been responsible for my mother’s death! There may have been something incriminating in those tapes.” He pointed out the window. “There is a girl from Greenwich who has been missing all week. I don’t know her, but if the newscast I heard coming up here in the car is accurate, she called her father and promised to call again next Mother’s Day. Isn’t that the day of choice for your brother to call? No wonder he warned you not to try to find him.”

I stood up. “My brother is not a killer. He is not a predator. When the truth is known, Mack will not be responsible for whatever happened to your mother and Leesey Andrews.”

I walked out, got into the car, and began to drive home. I guess I was in such a state of shock that I was on some kind of mental autopilot, because my next clear memory is of pulling up in front of our building on Sutton Place-and seeing Detective Barrott waiting for me in the lobby.

O h, come on, Poppa. You’re not really mad at me. You know I love you.” Steve Hockney’s tone was wheedling as he sat across the table from his elderly uncle, Derek Olsen. He had collected Olsen at his apartment and taken him by cab to Shun Lee West on Sixty-fifth Street for dinner. “We’re having the best Chinese food in New York. So we’re celebrating your birthday a few weeks late. Maybe we’ll celebrate it all year.”

Steve saw that he was getting the reaction he wanted. The anger was disappearing from his uncle’s eyes and an unwilling smile was hovering around his lips. I’ve got to be more careful, Hockney warned himself. Forgetting his birthday was the stupidest thing I’ve done in a long time.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you out of your apartment and make you support yourself for a change,” Olsen muttered, but without rancor. It always surprised him, the swift rush of emotion he felt when he was with his dead sister’s handsome son. It’s because he looks so much like Irma, Olsen reminded himself-the same dark hair and big brown eyes, the same wonderful smile. Flesh of my flesh, he thought, as he took a bite of steamed dumplings Steve had ordered for him. It was delicious. “These are good,” he said. “You take me to nice places all the time. I must be giving you too much money.”

“No you’re not, Poppa. I’ve been doing a lot of gigs downtown. My big break is just around the corner. You’re going to be so proud of me. Think about it. My band is going to be the next Rolling Stones.”

“I’ve been hearing that since you were twenty. How old are you now? Forty-two?”

Hockney smiled. “Thirty-six and you know it.”

Olsen laughed. “I know I know it. But listen to me: I still think you should take over running the apartments. Howie gets on my nerves sometimes. He irritates people. I would have fired him today, except that the Kramers changed their minds about leaving, thank God.”

“The Kramers? They’ll never leave New York! Their daughter made them buy that place in Pennsylvania, and I’ll tell you why. She doesn’t want her parents to be superintendents. Hurts her image with her dreary, stuck-up friends.”

“Well, Howie talked them into staying, but you should think about getting a lot more involved in the business.”

Oh, please! Steve Hockney thought. Then he suppressed the feeling of irritation. Be careful, he warned himself again, be very careful. I’m his only living relative, but with his moods he could leave everything to charity, or even give a big cut to Howie. This week he’s mad at him. Next week he’ll be telling me that nobody runs his business like Howie, that he’s like a son to him.

He took a couple of bites, then said, “Well, Poppa, I’ve been thinking that I should be more of a help to you. Look at all you do for me. Maybe the next time you make the rounds of the buildings, I should go along with you and Howie. I’d really like to do that.”

“You really would?” Derek Olsen’s tone was sharp, his eyes focused on his nephew’s face. Then, satisfied with what he saw, he said, “You mean it. I can tell.”

“Of course I mean it. Why do I call you ‘Poppa’? You took over being my father when I was two years old, after all.”

“I warned your mother not to marry that man. He was a no-good. Dishonest, conniving. When you were in your teens, I was afraid you’d end up just like him. Thank God you straightened yourself out. With some help from me.”

Steve Hockney smiled appreciatively, then reached into his pocket and took out a small box. He put it on the table and slid it across to his uncle. “Happy Birthday, Poppa.”

Ignoring the last steamed dumpling, Olsen quickly untied the ribbon, tore the birthday wrapping paper, and opened the box. It was a Montblanc pen with his initials engraved on the gold clip. A pleased smile brightened his face. “How did you know I lost my good pen?” he asked.

“The last time I saw you, you were using a cheap giveaway. It wasn’t that hard to make the deduction.”

The waiter arrived with a platter of mandarin duck. For the rest of the dinner, Steve Hockney carefully directed the conversation to reminiscences of his late mother, and how she had always said that her big brother was the smartest, nicest man she’d ever known. “When Mom was sick, she told me that all she ever wanted me to do was to be just like you.”

He was rewarded with the sight of sentimental tears filling his uncle’s eyes.

When dinner was over, Hockney hailed a cab and deposited his uncle at home, not leaving him until he was inside his apartment. “Double-lock the door,” he cautioned, with a final affectionate hug. As soon as the click confirmed that Olsen had followed instructions, he rushed downstairs, and with rapid steps hurried to his own apartment, ten blocks away.

Inside, he ripped off his jacket and slacks and shirt and tie, and changed into dungarees and a sweatshirt. Time to check out SoHo, he told himself. God, I thought I’d go nuts sitting with that old man for so long.

His ground-floor apartment had a private entrance. When he went out, he looked around, and, as he often did, thought of the previous resident, the drama teacher who had been murdered on the street, only a block away.

That other place I had was the pits, he thought. But after the teacher’s death, Poppa was glad to let me have this. I convinced him that people are superstitious. He agreed with me that it was better not to rent it while her death was still in the news. That was nine years ago. By now, who remembered?

I’m never going to leave it, he swore to himself. It suits my purposes exactly, and there are no damn security cameras to keep track of me.