Where Are You Now?

I bent down and fed you…

How could I give you up?’”

Both men’s eyes glistened with tears as Detective Bob Gaylor left to search for Zach Winters.

Visions of dollar bills, stacks and stacks of them, were dancing in Zach Winters’s brain as he opened his eyes to see some guy standing over him. He had been curled up in one of his favorite spots, a construction site near the Brooklyn Bridge, where the former parking garage had been pulled down, but the new building hadn’t been started yet. The board fence had been ripped open, and now that it was warm, he and many of his friends used the site as their home base. Every ten days or two weeks the cops chased them out, but after a day or so they all came back with their gear. Like Zach, they all understood that when construction actually started, they’d be on their way again, but until then, it was a great spot to camp.

Zach had been dreaming about the fifty-thousand-dollar reward he would collect as soon as he figured out a way to collect it without getting himself into trouble, when he felt someone shaking his shoulder.

“Come on, Zach, wake up,” a man’s voice was demanding.

Zach opened his eyes slowly. A sense of familiarity seeped its way into his brain. I know this guy. He’s police. He was in that room when the brother took me to talk about seeing Leesey. Be careful, Zach warned himself. He’s the one who was so nasty that day.

Zach rolled over and slowly propped himself up on his elbows. He had covered himself with his winter jacket and now he pushed it aside. He blinked at the strong afternoon sun, then looked around quickly to make sure that his grocery cart was still there. He had slept with it flat on the ground next to him, his legs straddling the handle so that no one could reach into it without moving him first. It was safe enough, though some of the newspapers he had tucked in at the top were slipping out.

He blinked again. “Whadaya want?” he asked.

“I want to talk to you. Get up.”

“All right. All right. Take it easy.” Zach groped for the wine bottle that had been next to him when he fell asleep.

“It’s empty,” Gaylor snapped. He grabbed Zach’s arm, and yanked him up sharply. “You’ve been telling your friends that you know something about Leesey’s disappearance, something you didn’t tell us the other day. What is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Gaylor bent down, grabbed the handle of the cart, and pulled it upright. “You’ve been telling your friends you have something that might earn you the reward that’s been offered for Leesey Andrews. What is it?”

Zach made a gesture of brushing soil from his jacket. “I know my rights. Get away from me.” He reached for the handle of his cart. Gaylor refused to let go of it, and blocked his way.

The detective’s tone was angry. “Zach, why don’t you cooperate with me? I want you to unload that cart and show me everything in it. We know you couldn’t have had anything to do with Leesey’s disappearance. You’re too much of a drunk to have managed it. If you’ve got something in your stuff that helps us to find her, you’ll get your reward. I promise.”

“Yeah, sure you do.” Zach reached out and tried to grab the handle from Gaylor. The cart swayed and some of the newspapers fell out. Beneath them, a filthy man’s shirt was partially wrapped around what Gaylor instantly recognized as an expensive cosmetic case.

“Where’d you get that?” he snapped.

“None of your business.” Zach righted the cart quickly and pushed the papers back into place. “I’m out of here.” He began pushing the cart briskly toward the nearest sidewalk.

Staying in step with him, Gaylor grabbed his cell phone and dialed Ahearn. “I need a search warrant to seize the contents of Zach Winters’s cart,” he said. “He’s got an expensive silver and black cosmetic bag that I’ll bet belongs to Leesey Andrews. I’ll stick with him until you get back to me. And find out from Leesey’s roommate if she knows what kind of cosmetic bag Leesey was carrying that night.”

Forty minutes later, backed up by two squad cars, the warrant in his pocket, Gaylor was opening Leesey Andrews’s cosmetic case.

“I was scared you’d think I stole it,” Zach Winters was whining. “When she was getting in the SUV, she dropped her pocketbook. Some stuff spilled out. She picked most of it up, but when they drove off, I went over there to see if maybe a few dollars had fallen out of her bag. You know what I mean. And I saw this and I took it, and I’ll be honest with you, she had a fifty-dollar bill in it and maybe I gave myself a little reward and-”

“And why don’t you shut up?” Bob Gaylor interrupted. “If you’d given this to us, even on Saturday, it might have made a difference.”

Besides the usual cosmetics typical of a young woman’s accessories, he had taken out a personal card. It belonged to Nick DeMarco, and gave the address and phone number of his loft. On the back of the card he had written, “Leesey, I can open some doors for you in show business and I’d be glad to do it. Call me, Nick.”

56

W ith a satisfied smile, Derek Olsen signed the last of the mountain of papers that transferred the dilapidated town house he owned on 104th Street and Riverside Drive to Twining Enterprises, the multimillion-dollar real estate firm that was building an upscale luxury condominium next door. He had insisted that Douglas Twining Sr., the chairman and CEO of the company, personally attend the sale.

“I knew you’d pay what I wanted, Doug,” Olsen said. “It was a lot of baloney that you didn’t need my building.”

“I didn’t need it. I wanted it,” Twining said quietly. “I could have done without it.”

“And not have the corner? Not have the view? Maybe have me sell it to someone who put up one of those dumb sliver buildings so your fancy people look west at a brick wall? Come on.”

Twining looked at his lawyer. “Are we finished here?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Twining stood up. “Well, Derek, I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“Why not? Twelve million dollars for a fifty-by-one-hundred-foot lot with a broken-down house that I paid fifteen thousand for forty years ago? That’s inflation for you.” Olsen’s gleeful smile disappeared. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m putting this money to good use. A lot of kids in the Bronx, kids who won’t grow up in your fancy-schmancy condos and won’t go to the Hamptons for the summer, will now have some parks to play in-Derek Olsen parks. So when are you going to tear down the house?”

“The wrecking ball will be there Thursday morning. I think I’ll handle it myself. I haven’t forgotten how to do it.”

“I’ll come watch. Good-bye, Doug.” Olsen turned to his lawyer, George Rodenburg. “Okay, let’s get out of here,” he said. “You can buy me an early di