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Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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the family real estate business in Manhattan. I copied both his home and business numbers.
Nick DeMarco, the son of immigrant parents who owned a small storefront restaurant in Queens, had been a scholarship student at Columbia. I remembered that after he got his MBA from Harvard, he went into the restaurant business and, I understand, has been very successful. Both his home and business phone numbers and addresses were in Manhattan.
I sat at Dadâs desk and picked up the receiver. I decided to call Bruce first. There was a reason for that. When I was sixteen, I had a fierce crush on Nick. He and Mack were particularly close friends, and Mack regularly brought him home for dinner. I lived for those dinners. But then one night he and Mack brought a girl with them. Barbara Hanover was a senior at Columbia and lived in the same student apartment building, and it was immediately clear to me that Nick was crazy about her.
Even though I was absolutely crushed, I thought I had kept up a good front that evening, but Mack could read me like a book. Before he, Nick, and Barbara left, he pulled me aside, and said, âCarolyn, I know you have big eyes for Nick. Forget it. Heâs got a different girlfriend every week. Stick to guys your own age.â
My angry denial only caused Mack to smile. âYouâll get over it,â were his parting words to me that night. That was about six months before he disappeared, and it was the last time I stayed home when Nick was coming. I was embarrassed and didnât want to be there. The fact that it was obvious to Mack that I had a crush on Nick made me sure it had been obvious to everyone else. I was grateful neither of my parents ever referred to it.
I got through to Bruceâs secretary at Galbraith Real Estate and was told that he was on a business trip until next Monday. Did I care to leave a message? I gave the secretary my name and phone number, hesitated, then added, âItâs about Mack. We just heard from him again.â
Then I called Nick. His office is at 400 Park Avenue. Thatâs about a fifteen-minute walk from Sutton Place, I thought, as I dialed. When I asked for him, his secretary picked up and crisply told me that if I was from the media, any statement would be coming from Mr. DeMarcoâs lawyer.
âIâm not from the media,â I said. âNick was a friend of my brotherâs at Columbia. Iâm sorry, I didnât realize he was having legal troubles.â
Maybe the sympathy in my voice and the use of his first name was the reason his secretary was so frank. âMr. DeMarco is the owner of the Woodshed, the place where a young woman was last seen before she disappeared the other night,â she explained. âIf you give me your telephone number, Iâll have him return your call.â
13
A aron Klein had been working for Wallace and Madison for fourteen years. He had started there directly after receiving his MBA degree. At that time Joshua Madison was chief executive of the privately held wealth-management company, but when he died suddenly two years later, his partner, Elliott Wallace, had taken over as chairman and CEO.
Aaron had loved the gruff Josh Madison, but initially he had been intimidated by Wallace, whose formal manner was completely the opposite of his own easygoing style. Then as Aaron continued to rise steadily through the ranks, working with higher and higherâprofile clients, Elliott had begun to invite him to lunch in the executive dining room of their office on Wall Street, a clear sign that he was being groomed for a top job.
Ten years ago their relationship had taken a giant leap forward when Elliott let down his guard and confided to Aaron the grief and pain he was experiencing at the disappearance of Charles MacKenzie Jr. Elliott had been managing the MacKenzie money for years, and after CharlesSr. died on 9/11, he spoke of Olivia MacKenzie and her children with an air of fierce
Nick DeMarco, the son of immigrant parents who owned a small storefront restaurant in Queens, had been a scholarship student at Columbia. I remembered that after he got his MBA from Harvard, he went into the restaurant business and, I understand, has been very successful. Both his home and business phone numbers and addresses were in Manhattan.
I sat at Dadâs desk and picked up the receiver. I decided to call Bruce first. There was a reason for that. When I was sixteen, I had a fierce crush on Nick. He and Mack were particularly close friends, and Mack regularly brought him home for dinner. I lived for those dinners. But then one night he and Mack brought a girl with them. Barbara Hanover was a senior at Columbia and lived in the same student apartment building, and it was immediately clear to me that Nick was crazy about her.
Even though I was absolutely crushed, I thought I had kept up a good front that evening, but Mack could read me like a book. Before he, Nick, and Barbara left, he pulled me aside, and said, âCarolyn, I know you have big eyes for Nick. Forget it. Heâs got a different girlfriend every week. Stick to guys your own age.â
My angry denial only caused Mack to smile. âYouâll get over it,â were his parting words to me that night. That was about six months before he disappeared, and it was the last time I stayed home when Nick was coming. I was embarrassed and didnât want to be there. The fact that it was obvious to Mack that I had a crush on Nick made me sure it had been obvious to everyone else. I was grateful neither of my parents ever referred to it.
I got through to Bruceâs secretary at Galbraith Real Estate and was told that he was on a business trip until next Monday. Did I care to leave a message? I gave the secretary my name and phone number, hesitated, then added, âItâs about Mack. We just heard from him again.â
Then I called Nick. His office is at 400 Park Avenue. Thatâs about a fifteen-minute walk from Sutton Place, I thought, as I dialed. When I asked for him, his secretary picked up and crisply told me that if I was from the media, any statement would be coming from Mr. DeMarcoâs lawyer.
âIâm not from the media,â I said. âNick was a friend of my brotherâs at Columbia. Iâm sorry, I didnât realize he was having legal troubles.â
Maybe the sympathy in my voice and the use of his first name was the reason his secretary was so frank. âMr. DeMarco is the owner of the Woodshed, the place where a young woman was last seen before she disappeared the other night,â she explained. âIf you give me your telephone number, Iâll have him return your call.â
13
A aron Klein had been working for Wallace and Madison for fourteen years. He had started there directly after receiving his MBA degree. At that time Joshua Madison was chief executive of the privately held wealth-management company, but when he died suddenly two years later, his partner, Elliott Wallace, had taken over as chairman and CEO.
Aaron had loved the gruff Josh Madison, but initially he had been intimidated by Wallace, whose formal manner was completely the opposite of his own easygoing style. Then as Aaron continued to rise steadily through the ranks, working with higher and higherâprofile clients, Elliott had begun to invite him to lunch in the executive dining room of their office on Wall Street, a clear sign that he was being groomed for a top job.
Ten years ago their relationship had taken a giant leap forward when Elliott let down his guard and confided to Aaron the grief and pain he was experiencing at the disappearance of Charles MacKenzie Jr. Elliott had been managing the MacKenzie money for years, and after CharlesSr. died on 9/11, he spoke of Olivia MacKenzie and her children with an air of fierce
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