I ’m not really sure what I expected when I walked into that building on West End Avenue. I remember Mack showing me the apartment after he moved out of the dorm at Columbia. He was beginning his junior year then, so I was just turning fifteen.

Because he lived in the city there was no need for our parents or me to visit him there. Instead, he dropped in at home or met us at a restaurant regularly. I know that after he vanished, my mother and father went up to talk to his roommates and other people in the building, but they never let me come with them. That first summer, they made me go back to camp even though all I wanted to do was to help look for my brother.

As it turned out, I was glad that the Kramers couldn’t meet me until now. Yesterday, my mother had me out all day with her, doing some last-minute shopping for her cruise. Then the eleven o’clock news last night carried the story of an NYU student who vanished early yesterday morning after leaving a bar in SoHo. There was a shot of her father and brother leaving her apartment building in the Village, and I realized with a jolt that it was right next door to mine. I ached for them.

No amount of money can convince Mom that living in the Village is every bit as safe as living on Sutton Place. For her, the Sutton Place apartment is a haven, a home she and my father joyfully bought when she was pregnant with me. At first it was a large six-room, one-floor apartment, but then as my father became more and more successful, he bought the apartment above us, turned the two into a duplex, and doubled its size.

Now, to me, it seems like a prison where until now my mother has been listening, always listening for the key to turn in the door and Mack to call out, “I’m home.” For me, that belief that he might return has become a frustration, a sadness that won’t ever go away. I feel so terribly selfish. I loved Mack, my big brother, my pal. But I don’t want to have my life on hold any longer. Even the decision to wait before I apply for a job in the DA’s office isn’t about the fact that being hired means no time off for awhile. It’s all about trying to find Mack and, if I fail, promising myself that then I’ll get on with my own life at last. I’ll spend most of these three weeks in Sutton Place while Mom’s away, but that’s not to feel safe-it’s just in case Mack has some way of knowing I’m beginning to talk to everyone who was ever close to him and tries to call me.

This building where Mack had lived was old, the façade that gray stone that was so popular in New York in the early twentieth century. But the sidewalk and steps were clean, the handle of the outer door polished. That door was unlocked and opened into a narrow foyer where one can either dial an apartment number and be buzzed in, or use a key to open the door to the lobby.

I had spoken to Mrs. Kramer, and I don’t really know why, but somehow I expected to hear her voice on the intercom. Instead, a man responded and directed me to their ground-floor apartment.

When I got inside, the door of 1B was already open, and a man was waiting for me who introduced himself as Gus Kramer, the superintendent. As I was going over the file this morning, I remembered what my father had said about him: “That guy is more worried that he’ll be blamed for Mack’s disappearance than he’s concerned that something happened to Mack. And his wife is worse. She had the gall to say that Mr. Olsen would be upset. As if we have to be concerned about the owner of that renovated tenement!”

It’s funny that when I was dressing for this appointment, I kept changing my mind about what to wear. I had actually laid out a lightweight pantsuit, the kind I wore to court when I was working for the judge, but somehow it seemed too businesslike. I wanted the Kramers to feel comfortable with me. As much as possible I wanted them to see me as Mack’s kid sister, to like me, to want to help. That was why I decided to wear a long-sleeve cotton sweater, jeans, and sandals. As a portent for success, I wore the chain Mack gave me on my sixteenth birthday. There were two gold charms on it, one of ice skates, the other a soccer ball, in honor of my two favorite sports.

After Gus Kramer introduced himself and invited me in, it was like stepping back in time. Despite Daddy’s success, he could never budge my grandmother from her apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens. This one had the same velour furniture, machine-made Persian carpet, and leather-top end tables as hers. The only thing that seemed out of place was the glass coffee table.

My first impression of Gus and Lil Kramer was that they were the kind of people who grow to look alike after years together. Her steel-gray hair was exactly the same shade as his. They were a little shorter than average height, with sturdy bodies. Their eyes were a matching pale blue, and there was no mistaking the wary expression in both faces as they offered me a begrudging smile.

Actually, it was the third person in the room who took over as host. “Ms. MacKenzie, I’m so pleased to meet you. I am Howard Altman, the district manager of Olsen Properties. I wasn’t here at the time of your brother’s disappearance but I know how concerned Mr. Olsen was-and has been-about it. Why don’t we all sit down and let you tell us how we can be of assistance to you.”

I could sense the resentment the Kramers had to Altman taking over, but for me it made it easier to deliver my planned speech. I sat on the edge of the nearest chair and addressed myself to him. “As you obviously have heard, my brother, Mack, disappeared ten years ago. There simply hasn’t been a trace of him since then. But he does call us every Mother’s Day as he did a few days ago. I got on the phone while he was talking to my mother and vowed to find him. Later that day he went to St. Francis, a church in this neighborhood where my uncle is the pastor, and left a note for me to warn me away. I’m so afraid Mack may be in some kind of trouble and ashamed to ask for help.”

“A note!” Lil Kramer’s exclamation silenced me. I was astonished to see the way her cheeks became flushed and the unconscious gesture with which she reached over and grasped her husband’s hand. “You mean he went to St. Francis and left a note for you?” she asked.

“Yes, at the eleven o’clock Mass. Why would that surprise you, Mrs. Kramer? I know over the years that there have been articles about my brother’s disappearance and the fact that he contacts us.”

Gus Kramer answered for his wife. “Ms. MacKenzie, my wife has always felt terrible about your brother. He was one of the nicest, politest kids we ever had here.”

“That’s what Mr. Olsen said,” Howard Altman told me. Then he smiled. “Ms. MacKenzie, let me explain. Mr. Olsen is so aware of the pitfalls that occur in this day and age with young people, even intellectually gifted young people. He was always around to greet new students. He’s up there in years now, but he’s told me about how impressed he was with your parents and your brother. And I can tell you, the Kramers have always kept a sharp eye out for heavy drinking, or worse, drug use. If your brother had encountered some kind of problem, it didn’t begin or continue under this roof.”

This from a man who didn’t know Mack, who only knew about him. The message was loud and clear. Don’t look here for your brother’s problem, lady.

“I don’t mean to suggest that anything about Mack residing here triggered his disappearance. But you can understand that it makes sense for me to start searching for him in the last place where he was seen. The brother I knew would never willingly cause my mother and father and me the grief and anxiety we have been living with for ten years.” I felt the tears that were always too close to the surface shining in my eyes as I corrected myself. “I mean the anxiety my mother and I experience constantly. I think you may already know that my father was a 9/11 victim.”