“Ma’am, you’ll have to place a phone call to Missing Persons and make an appointment,” the guard insisted. “Now, please, there are other people who need to get upstairs to their jobs.”

Frustrated, I walked outside the building and pulled out my cell phone. Judge Huot had been in civil court, and I never had much contact with the Assistant D.A.s, but I did know one, Matt Wilson. I called the District Attorney’s office and was connected to his phone. Matt wasn’t at his desk and had recorded the usual answering machine instructions. “Leave your name, number, and a brief message. I’ll get back to you.”

“This is Carolyn MacKenzie,” I began. “We’ve met a few times. I was Judge Huot’s law clerk. My brother has been missing for ten years. He left a note for me yesterday in a church on Amsterdam Avenue. I need help to see if we can track him down before he disappears again.” I finished by giving my cell phone number.

I was standing on the steps. A man was going past me, a square-shouldered guy in his midfifties with close-cropped gray hair and a purposeful stride. I could tell that he had overheard me because, somewhat to my dismay, he stopped and turned around. For a moment we eyed each other, then he said abruptly, “I’m Detective Barrott. I’ll take you upstairs.”

Five minutes later, I was sitting in a shabby small office that contained a desk, a couple of chairs, and stacks of files. “We can talk in here,” he said. “Too much noise in the squad room.”

He never took his eyes off my face as I told him about Mack, only interrupting me to ask a few questions. “Calls only on Mother’s Day?”

“That’s right.”

“Never asks for money?”

“Never.” I had put the note in a plastic sandwich bag. “I don’t know if his fingerprints might be on it,” I explained. “Unless, of course, he had someone else drop it in the basket for him. It seems so crazy that he would take a chance on Uncle Dev spotting him from the altar.”