An excellent chef, he always cooked himself a good dinner, watched a movie while he had a couple of glasses of wine and ate from a tray table, then turned off the television set and went directly to his bedroom computer.

Howard loved this apartment, which came with his job. He loved his job, especially now that he was in charge of all Olsen’s buildings. I earned it, he told himself, defensively. I got it because I proved myself. I can fix anything that’s broken. I can put up a wall to make two rooms out of one. I can replace old wiring and build cabinets. I can paint and wallpaper and scrape floors. That’s why Olsen kept promoting me. But what happens if he leaves everything to Steve?

The question persisted in his mind. For once, he could not focus on the movie in his DVD player. How could he get Olsen to sour on his nephew?

And then the answer came to him. He had a master key to all the apartments in the building where Steve Hockney lived. He’d put a security camera in Steve’s apartment. I’ve seen him when he’s high, and I’ve always suspected that he deals in drugs, Howard thought. If I can prove it, that would finish him with his uncle.

Blood is thicker than water. Maybe.

Pleased at finding a possible solution to the impending problem, he turned off the television and went down the hall to his bedroom. He smiled at the familiar whooshing sound he heard as he turned on his computer.

He realized how much he was looking forward to connecting with his friend Singh in Mumbai tonight.

I had barely slept Friday night, and the six A.M. call Saturday morning from Detective Barrott finished any hope I had of drifting off again for at least a few more hours.

Why is Barrott so interested in what happened to Mack’s SUV? I asked myself, as I replaced the receiver and got out of bed. As usual, I had left the windows of my bedroom open, and padded across the room to close them. The sun had already risen over the East River and it held the promise of a beautiful day. The breeze was cool, but I could see that this time the weather forecasters were right-it would be sunny and pleasant, about seventy degrees by noon. In short, a perfect morning in late May, which meant that right now there was undoubtedly an exodus from the city by people who hadn’t already left for their summer place last night. The residents of Sutton Place who didn’t have a second home in the Hamptons almost inevitably had one on the Cape, or Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, or somewhere.

Dad had never wanted to be anchored to one vacation home, but before Mack disappeared we always went away in August. My favorite was the year I was fifteen, when Dad rented a villa in Tuscany, about half an hour from Florence. It was a magical month, all the more so because it was the last time we were all together.

My mind snapped back to the present. Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?

Our garage is relatively small. It only accommodates the automobiles of the residents of the building, with about ten extra spaces for visitors. Dad had just bought the SUV for Mack a week before he disappeared. Mack had parked it in a garage on the West Side, near his apartment. When he’d been missing two weeks, Dad took the spare key and brought the SUV back here. I remember Mack had obviously driven it in bad weather, because it had some mud splatters on the side and on the driver’s mat. Dad paid a guy in our garage to clean it, and he did a great job-so great that nothing was recovered when the cops decided to check the car for prints.

When it was stolen, Dad had been sure that one of the garage attendants had spotted it and planned to steal it. He always thought that the guy who had been tied up was in on the scheme, but there was no proof, and he quit soon after that.

Why did Barrott call me about Mack’s SUV?

It was a question that kept repeating itself in my mind as I made coffee and scrambled an egg. The newspapers were at the door, and I glanced through them as I ate. The tabloids were still milking the Leesey Andrews disappearance and speculating about Mack’s involvement. Aaron Klein’s accusation that Mack had killed his mother to recover his tapes was still a hot story. Now, on page three, there was Mack’s yearbook picture, but it had been enhanced to show how he might look today. Trying not to cry, I studied it. Mack’s face was a little fuller, his hairline slightly higher, his smile ambiguous. I wondered if Elliott had these same newspapers delivered, and if so, had Mom seen them?

Knowing her, she would have insisted on seeing them. I thought of what Elliott had told me at Thurston Carver’s office-that Mom had always been convinced some kind of mental breakdown had caused Mack to disappear. Now I wondered if she could be right, and if so, was it possible that Mack had stolen his own automobile? The prospect was so incredible to me that I realized I was shaking my head. “No, no, no,” I said aloud.

But I spoke to him two weeks ago, I admitted to myself. He left that message for Uncle Dev. The only rational explanation for Mack’s behavior may be that he is irrational. Mother is afraid that if he is responsible for Leesey Andrews’s disappearance and is tracked down by the cops, he may be shot if he resists arrest. Is that reasonable, or possible? I wondered.

Neither Mom nor Dad nor I saw any hint of a change in Mack’s behavior before he disappeared, but maybe someone else did. How about Mrs. Kramer? I asked myself. Between cleaning and doing the laundry, she was in his apartment regularly. She acted so nervous when I met her. Did she perceive me as a threat? Maybe if I could get her alone, without her husband around, I could get her to open up to me, I thought.

Bruce Galbraith hates Mack. What happened between them to cause that? Nick suggested that Barbara was crazy about Mack. Is Bruce simply jealous, or did something happen that still makes him angry after ten years?

That train of thought made me speculate on Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith’s trip to Martha’s Vineyard to see her ailing father. I wondered how long she planned to stay there. I remembered that Bruce had responded heatedly when I told him I’d like to talk to her. The thought occurred to me that he might have gotten her out of town to prevent my seeing her or the police from looking her up. Her name is in Mack’s file as a close friend, I reminded myself.

I put my few dishes in the dishwasher, went into Dad’s office, and turned on the computer to see if I could get her father’s address and phone number on Martha’s Vineyard. There were several Hanover couples, “Judy and Syd,” “Frank and Natalie,” and one Richard Hanover listed in the Vineyard. I knew Barbara’s mother had died just around the time she graduated, so taking a chance, I dialed Richard Hanover’s number.

A man answered on the first ring. It was an older voice but certainly cheerful enough. I had planned what I would say. “This is Cluny Flowers in New York. I want to verify the address of Richard Hanover. Is it eleven Maiden Path?”

“That’s right, but who’s sending me flowers? I’m not sick, dead, or having a birthday.” He sounded fit and healthy.

“Oh, I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake,” I said quickly. “The arrangement is for a Mrs. Judy Hanover.”

“No problem. Next time they might be for me. Have a good day.”

When I disconnected, my first reaction was to be ashamed of myself. I had turned into an outright liar. My second thought was that Dr. Barbara Hanover Galbraith had left New York not because her father had suffered a heart attack, but because she did not want to be around to be questioned about Mack.

I knew what I was going to do. I showered, dressed, and began to throw a few things in a bag. I had to confront Barbara face-to-face. If Mom was right, and Mack had snapped ten years ago, had she witnessed behavior that might have suggested mental illness? I realized that I was becoming frantic to frame a defense for Mack if he was really out there, alive, unstable, and committing crimes.