He certainly is good-looking, she thought, and he knows it. He always was full of himself, and when he was around twenty, Olsen had to bail him out of a few problems. He almost went to jail. Now there was a certain insolent glitter in his eyes. He declined the tea but settled on the couch, his arm over the back, his legs crossed.

“Lil,” he began. “My uncle turned eighty-three last month.”

“I know it,” she said. “We sent him a card.”

“You’re better than I am.” Steve smiled again. “But I feel it’s time that I took over a lot of the management of his affairs. You know him. He won’t show that he’s feeling his age, but I can see that he is. I also know that Howie Altman is getting on his nerves a lot lately.”

“We get along with him,” Lil said carefully.

“He’s been bullying you about giving up this apartment, hasn’t he?”

“I think that’s over.”

“He’s a bully. I know my uncle would listen to you if you made him aware just how nasty Howie has been and can be to you both.”

“Why would I cause trouble when it’s none of my business what Mr. Olsen thinks of Howie?”

“It’s because I want your help, Lil. You seem to forget that I was here in the building when Mack MacKenzie all but accused you of stealing his watch. That was only a few days before he disappeared.”

White-lipped, Lil stammered, “He found that watch. He apologized.”

“Did anyone hear him apologize?”

“I don’t know. I mean, no, I don’t think so.”

Hockney unfolded himself from the couch. “Lil, you’re lying about the apology. I can tell. But don’t worry. I never told anyone about Mack’s watch and I never will. We don’t like Howie, do we Lil? By the way, I’ll tell Uncle Derek that this building is the jewel in his crown, thanks to the way you and Gus keep it.”

D erek Olsen was far from being only the irascible, petulant old man that his nephew Steve and his buildings manager, Howie, thought him to be. He was in fact a shrewd investor who had watched his real estate holdings in strategically chosen apartment buildings turn into a personal fortune worth many millions of dollars. Now he had come to the conclusion that the time was right to begin liquidating his assets.

On Friday morning he called Wallace and Madison and brusquely demanded to be put through to Elliott Wallace. Elliott’s secretary, long used to Olsen’s behavior, did not bother to tell him that Mr. Wallace was on his way to an urgent meeting. Instead, she asked him to hold, and rushed down the corridor to catch Elliot at the elevator. “It’s Olsen,” she said.

With an exasperated sigh, Elliott retraced his steps to his office and picked up the phone. “Derek, how are you?” he asked, his tone hearty.

“I’m all right. Your so-called nephew’s in a lot of trouble, “I see.”

“As you well know, Mack has been missing for ten years. It is absurd that the police are trying to connect him to any crime. What can I do for you?”

“He caused me a lot of trouble by disappearing when he was living in one of my apartments. Anyhow, that’s not why I called. My birthday was last month. I’m eighty-three years old. It’s time to sell everything.”

“I’ve been suggesting that for the past five years.”

“If I had sold five years ago, I wouldn’t get the price I’ll get now. I’m coming in to talk to you. Monday morning, ten o’clock, okay for you?”

“Monday at ten would be fine,” Elliott said, cordially. When he was sure Olsen had hung up, he slammed the phone down into the cradle. “I’ll have to reschedule the entire day,” he snapped to his secretary as he hurried back to the elevator.

She watched him go with sympathetic eyes. The meeting that had been scheduled was to decide who would assume Aaron Klein’s responsibilities in the firm. After staying home for four days, Klein had phoned in his resignation, saying that it was impossible for him to work side by side with someone who was the champion of his mother’s killer.

G regg Andrews had set out a pattern for himself, and he stuck to it. After he left the hospital, he went straight home, grabbed something to eat, and went straight to bed. His alarm was set for one A.M. By two A.M., he was nursing a beer at the bar of the Woodshed and stayed there until closing time. Then, sitting in his car down the street, he watched to see the pattern of how the waiters, bartenders, and band members exited the building, checking to see that they all left within a few minutes of one another, and that no one came out alone, as they’d all claimed about the night Leesey disappeared.

For the last three nights, he had then walked the mile distance between the club and Leesey’s apartment, stopping to talk to anyone he saw on the street and asking if by any chance they had been around at the time Leesey vanished and perhaps had seen her. The answer was always negative. The fourth and fifth nights, he drove back and forth covering other streets, just in case she might not have taken the most direct route.

On Saturday morning, at 3:30, after watching the employees lock the door of the Woodshed, he was about to start driving around the neighborhood when there was a rap at the window. A man with streaks of dirt on his face and unkempt hair was staring in at him. Sure it was a request for money, Gregg rolled the car window down only a few inches.

“You’re the brother,” the man said, his voice hoarse, his alcohol-laden breath sour. Instinctively, Gregg pulled his head back. “Yes, I am.”

“I saw her. Will you promise I get the reward?”

“If you can help me find my sister, yes.”

“Take my name down.”

Gregg reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pad.

“It’s Zach Winters. I live at the shelter on Mott Street.”

“You think you saw my sister?”

“I saw her the night she disappeared.”

“Why didn’t you come forward at once?”

“Nobody believes people like me. I tell them I saw her, next thing they’ll be saying I did something to her. That’s what happens.” Winters put a grimy hand on the car to steady himself.

“If whatever you tell me helps us find my sister, I will personally hand the reward to you. What do you know?”

“She was the last customer out. She started to walk that way.” He pointed. “Then a big SUV pulled up and stopped.”

Gregg felt his insides twist. “Was she forced into it?”

“No way. I heard the driver call, ‘Hey, Leesey,’ and she jumped right in the SUV herself.”

“Could you tell what kind it was?”

“Sure. It was a black Mercedes.”

O n Saturday morning he was overcome with one of his periodic episodes of remorse. He felt terrible about what he had done. I didn’t think I’d ever kill anyone again, he thought. I was scared. After the first one, I tried to be good. But then it happened again twice. I still tried to stop. But I couldn’t. But then he made me do it again-and again. And after that I couldn’t stop.

Sometimes I feel like telling him. But that would be crazy, and I’m not crazy.

I have an idea that I’m thinking about. It would be dangerous, but then, it’s always been dangerous. I know someday I’ll be caught. But I won’t let them send me to prison. I’ll go my own way and take whoever’s around with me.

I haven’t touched the phone since Wednesday night. I’ll make the next phone call on Sunday.

It’s such a good idea.

And after that, I’ll find someone else.

It isn’t time to stop yet.