A fter I left the Kramers’, I drove straight into the garage at Sutton Place, passed the flashing cameras, went upstairs, and threw some things in a bag. Wearing the biggest dark glasses I could find, to cover my face, I went back down in the elevator to the garage, this time taking my mother’s car to fool them. Then, hoping to God I wouldn’t cause an accident, I barreled out onto the street and made a quick turn onto Fifty-seventh Street. I drove up First Avenue as far as Ninety-sixth Street, trying to make sure that I wasn’t being followed. I didn’t want anyone to have any idea of where I might be going.

Of course, I couldn’t be sure, but certainly there was no media van in sight when I turned right on Ninety-sixth and got on the FDR Drive north. The Drive, of course, was named to honor President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. That made me think of Elliott. The chilling thought came to me that if Mack was guilty of all these crimes and was caught, there would be months of publicity and a trial or trials. Elliott had lots of gold-plated clients. I know he’s in love with Mom, but would he want to be associated with that kind of publicity? If he were married to Mom, would he want to see her picture in the tabloids during a trial?

Right now, he was her protector, but would that last? If Dad were alive now and Mack ended up in that scenario, I know Dad would be there for him, rock solid and moving heaven and earth to build an insanity defense for him. I thought of Elliott’s too often repeated anecdote about FDR-that he chose a Republican to be his hostess when Eleanor was away because there was no Democrat in Hyde Park who was his social equal. I wonder what FDR, or Elliott, would think about having the mother of a convicted serial killer around? The way things were going, I could almost hear Elliott giving a “let’s just be friends” speech to Mom.

As I reached the ever miserable Cross Bronx traffic, I tried to stop thinking and concentrate on my driving. With traffic slowing to a crawl, I called ahead and managed to get a reservation on the last ferry to the Vineyard from Falmouth. Then I made a reservation at the Vineyard Hotel in Chappaquiddick. And then I turned off my cell phone. I didn’t want to speak to or hear from anyone.

It was nearly nine thirty when I arrived on the island and checked into the hotel. Exhausted but still restless, I went down to the bar and had a hamburger and two glasses of red wine. Then, against all sound medical advice, I took one of the sleeping pills I had found in Mom’s night table and went to bed.

I slept for twelve hours straight.

A t 4:30 P.M. Nick DeMarco was in his midtown office when his phone rang. It was Captain Larry Ahearn with a crisp request that he come to his office immediately. Swallowing over the absolute dryness in his mouth and throat, Nick agreed. As soon as he hung up, he dialed his attorney, Paul Murphy.

“I’ll start right down,” Murphy told him. “I’ll meet you in the lobby there.”

“I can do better than that,” Nick said. “I was planning to leave in fifteen minutes anyway, which means Benny is probably outside right now circling the block. I’ll call you when I’m in the car. We’ll swing by and get you.”

At five past five, Benny at the wheel, they were driving south on Park Avenue. “The way I see it, it’s their way of rattling you,” Murphy told him. “The only, and I repeat only, circumstantial evidence they can lay at your door are two facts: One, you invited Leesey over to talk with you in the club, and two, you have a black Mercedes SUV, which makes you one of thousands of owners of a black Mercedes SUV.”

He shot a look at DeMarco. “Of course, you could have saved me from being surprised last time we were there.”

Murphy had dropped his voice almost to a whisper, but Nick still nudged him with his elbow. He knew Murphy was referring to the fact that Benny’s second wife had taken out a restraining order against him. He also knew that Benny had superb hearing and missed nothing.

The traffic was so unbearably slow that Murphy decided to phone Ahearn’s office. “Just to let you know that we’re in the usual five o’clock rush and can’t do a thing about it.”

Ahearn’s response was simple. “Just get here. We’re not going anywhere. Is DeMarco’s chauffeur, Benny Seppini, driving the car you’re in?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Bring him up, too.”

It was ten minutes of six when Nick DeMarco, Paul Murphy, and Benny Seppini walked through the squad room to Larry Ahearn’s private office. They all noticed the frigid stares from the detectives in the squad room as they hurried through it.

Inside Ahearn’s office, the atmosphere was even colder. Ahearn was again flanked by Detectives Barrott and Gaylor. There were three chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down,” Ahearn said curtly.

Benny Seppini looked at DeMarco. “Mr. DeMarco, I don’t think it’s my place…”

“Cut the servant routine. You know you call him Nick,” Ahearn interrupted. “And sit down now.”

Seppini waited until DeMarco and Murphy had taken their places, then lowered himself into his chair. “I’ve known Mr. DeMarco for many years,” he said. “He’s an important man, and when I’m not alone with him, I call him Mr. DeMarco.”

“That’s touching,” Ahearn said sarcastically. “Now let’s all listen to this.” He pressed the play button on a recorder, and Leesey Andrews’s voice pleading to her father for help filled the room.

There was a moment of intense silence following the recording, then Paul Murphy asked, “What was the point of playing that recording for us?”

“I’m happy to tell you,” Ahearn assured him. “I thought it might remind your client of the fact that as of yesterday, Leesey Andrews was probably still alive. We thought it might stir his better self to tell us where we can find her.”

DeMarco sprang up from the chair. “I have no more idea than you do of where that poor girl is, and I’d give anything I have to save her life if I could.”

“I’m sure you would,” Barrott replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You thought she was pretty cute, didn’t you? In fact, you slipped her your personal card with the address of your cozy loft apartment.”

He held up the card, cleared his throat, and read, “‘Leesey, I can open some doors for you in show business and I’d be glad to do it. Call me. -Nick.’”

He slapped the card down on the table. “You gave it to her that night, didn’t you?”

“You don’t have to answer that, Nick,” Murphy warned.

Nick shook his head. “There’s no reason not to answer it. Those few minutes she was at my table, I told her she was a beautiful dancer, which she certainly was. She confided that she’d love to take a year off after college, just to see if she could make it on the stage. I do know a lot of celebrities. So I gave her the card. So what?” He met Ahearn’s suspicious gaze.

“You seem to have forgotten to mention it to us,” Ahearn stated, scorn in every syllable he uttered.

“I’ve been here three times,” Nick said, clearly agitated now. “Every time you come at me as if I had something to do with her disappearance. I know you can find some way to have my liquor license suspended at the Woodshed, even if you have to create a violation-”

“Stop it, Nick,” Murphy ordered.

“I won’t stop it. I had nothing to do with her disappearance. The last time I was here, you suggested I’m way overextended. You’re absolutely right. If you shut down the Woodshed, I’ll be thrown into bankruptcy. I’ve made some lousy decisions, I don’t deny that, but hurting or abducting a kid like Leesey Andrews isn’t one of them.”

“You gave her your card,” Bob Gaylor said.

“Yes, I did.”

“When did you expect her to phone you at your loft?”

“My loft?”