It was as though Larry Ahearn had not heard him. “And does your troubled chauffeur have a similar phone, Mr. DeMarco? And if he does, did he respond to your frantic call to get Leesey out of your loft apartment? And if she wasn’t already dead, did he decide to keep her around for his own amusement? And if that was the case, has he kept you informed as to her welfare?”

Nick, his fists clenched, was almost at the door when he heard Ahearn’s final question. “Or are you protecting your college roommate Mack MacKenzie, or perhaps helping his pretty sister to protect him? You had a little tête-a-tête with her last Friday night, didn’t you?”

A fter I left Lucas Reeves, I met Elliott at Thurston Carver’s office in the MetLife Building. Instantly, I realized that I had seen Carver around court while I was clerking for Judge Huot. He was a big man with a mane of hair that I guessed to be prematurely white-I doubted that he was more than fifty-five years old.

I felt somewhat fortified by my meeting with Reeves, and told Carver the theory he had suggested to me. Mack was missing. That he called every year on Mother’s Day was public knowledge, and whoever had kidnapped Leesey Andrews was trying to throw suspicion on Mack by the phone calls he was making.

Elliott, who looked tired and deeply concerned, seized on that possibility. He told me that last night my mother was so upset when they reached his apartment she broke down, crying and sobbing, to the extent that he was desperately worried about her now. “I realized last night that Olivia has always been sure that something must have snapped in Mack’s mind to make him disappear like that,” he explained to Carver. “Now she believes that if he is guilty of these disappearances, he may be completely insane and might end up being shot when the police find him.”

“And she blames me,” I said.

“Carolyn, she has to blame someone. That won’t last. You know it won’t.”

You’ve been my rod and staff through all this. That’s what Mom had said to me last week, after Mack’s call on the morning of Mother’s Day. I still had every faith that at some point she would understand why I had tried to bring Mack’s situation to some kind of closure. In the meantime, she had Elliott to help her, and I realized how deeply grateful I was to him for being there for her now. No matter how this turned out, at that moment, sitting in the elegantly paneled office of Thurston Carver, I surrendered any jealousy I felt at the probability that Elliott would replace my father in my mother’s life.

Later that day I called Bruce Galbraith. After I had waited for what seemed an eternity, he got on the phone and grudgingly agreed to meet me in his office on Friday afternoon. “I must tell you, Carolyn,” he said, “I have neither seen nor heard from Mack since the day he disappeared. I can’t imagine what you hope to learn from me.”

I was chilled by the venom in his voice but did not give him the answer that was on the tip of my tongue. I want to know why you hate Mack so much.

On Friday afternoon I was ushered into Galbraith’s office. It was on the sixty-third floor of his building on the Avenue of the Americas and offered sweeping views of the city. The only comparable view I can think of is from the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center.

My memory of Bruce was blurry. Dad and Mom had kept me away from the search for Mack when they were going back and forth to his apartment after he disappeared. I had a vague memory that Bruce had sandy hair and rimless glasses.

His greeting was cordial enough, and he chose to sit, not in what I think would be his usual chair, but in one of the two matching leather chairs on either side of his desk. He began by offering sympathy for the way the tabloids were tying Mack to the disappearance of Leesey Andrews. “I can only imagine what that is doing to your mother,” he said. Then he added, after a pause, “And of course to you.”

“Bruce,” I said, “you can understand how desperate I am not only to find Mack, but whether I find him or not, to clear his name of any connection with the women who disappeared.”

“I absolutely understand that,” he said. “But the point is that Mack, Nick, and I merely shared an apartment. Mack and Nick were tight. They hung out together, they dated together. Nick was at your house for dinner a fair amount. He’s a much better person to ask about Mack than I am. You might as well be talking to the rest of the graduating class at Columbia, for all I can tell you.”

“What about Barbara?” I asked. “She came to dinner once. I thought she was Nick’s girlfriend, but he told me she had a crush on Mack, then she married you after Mack disappeared. Have you ever talked with her about Mack? Would she have any idea what was in his mind before he vanished?”

“Barbara and I have of course talked about Mack with all this recent publicity. She is as bewildered as I am at the idea that he could be involved in any crime. She said that certainly isn’t the person she knew.”

His voice was calm, but I saw a deep flush creep up from his neck to his cheeks. He does hate Mack, I thought. Is it jealousy? And how far would that jealousy have carried him? He was so buttoned up, so contained, an ordinary-looking man, who, judging from his success, was an extraordinarily gifted real estate tycoon. An image of Mack, with his stunning good looks, his wonderful sense of humor, his ever-present charm flooded my mind.

I remembered having heard that Mack beat Galbraith out by a fraction to be in the top ten of the graduating class. That must have been a massive blow to Galbraith’s ego, I thought. And after Mack disappeared, Barbara, the girl Nick said had been crazy about Mack, married Galbraith, maybe as her ticket to medical school…

“I met Barbara at my house years ago,” I said. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk with her.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Galbraith said flatly. “Her father is very ill. He lives on Martha’s Vineyard. She flew up there with the children to be with him in his final weeks.” He stood up, and I got the message the meeting was over. He walked me to the reception room, and I reached out to shake his hand. I didn’t miss the way he rubbed his palm on his trouser leg before he reluctantly accepted mine. His was still sweaty and damp. A plain man in an expensive suit, his eyes shuttered.

I remembered that Nick had called him “the Lone Stranger.”

I f there was one person Lil Kramer disliked more than Howard Altman, it was Steve Hockney, Derek Olsen’s nephew. That was why when he arrived unannounced on Friday morning, Lil felt thoroughly rattled. Howie’s advice to her and Gus-that it would be unwise to rush to Pennsylvania as if they had something to hide-they had originally welcomed with gratitude. But she was totally aware of Olsen’s shifting alliances between his nephew Steve and his assistant, Howie, and seeing Steve alone terrified her.

Howie is on the outs with Olsen, she thought, and Steve is going to take over. She was glad Gus had gone upstairs to change the filters in some of the air conditioners. He was in a foul mood after cleaning the staircase between the second and third floors. One of the college kids had spilled beer there during the night.

“They must have been dragging up a keg,” he had grumbled minutes before Hockney arrived. “Spilled beer all over the whole flight. Wouldn’t have killed them to have mopped it up themselves.”

It’s a good thing Gus noticed it before Hockney got here, she thought. He’ll probably make a big show of checking out the halls and the staircases trying to find something wrong. A sudden feeling of fatigue overcame her. Maybe, after all, it would be nice not to be busy all the time. Trying to sound civil, she invited Hockney in and asked if he’d like a cup of tea. He flashed her a broad smile as he strode past her.