Diane Dauria didn’t flat-out refuse to see me. Since it was important to Mrs. Szereto that we get together, she said she was hopeful a meeting might be arranged sometime in the future when an opening could be found in her exceedingly busy schedule although, off the top of her head, she couldn’t imagine when that might be. Meanwhile, she would make her personal assistant available to me.
I found Candy Groot sitting alone in the employee cafeteria and sipping a beverage from a tall cardboard cup with a plastic lid. It was a spacious room with plenty of natural light, wooden chairs and tables, carpeting on the floor, and several chandeliers. There were so many food stations located along the walls offering such a wide selection of cuisine that it reminded me of a shopping mall food court. All of them were closed by the time I arrived save one that provided gourmet coffee, light sandwiches, pastries, and snacks.
Candy watched me cross the large room to her table. I waved at our surroundings.
“Very plush,” I said.
“We care about our employees, although—Mr. McKenzie, I decided I don’t care for you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because I like you just fine.”
Candy gestured at a chair opposite her, and I sat.
“You’re disruptive,” she added.
“Sorry ’bout that.”
“Going over Ms. Dauria’s head the way you did—that was unforgivable.”
“Look at it from my point of view.”
“I just don’t know what you expect to accomplish.”
“I know about Jonny Szereto. I know that he abused women in this company.”
Candy’s eyes clouded. There was some lightning in them, followed by thunder.
“Now what?” she asked. “You want them to revisit their pain, their embarrassment, their shame?”
“No.”
“What do you want from them? What do you want from me?”
The rain fell. Candy closed her eyes against the tears and grimaced as if she hadn’t meant to say those words and wished she could take them back. In that moment, I understood why. She had been one of Jonny’s victims.
Goddammit, my inner voice shouted.
Candy lowered her head, shook it a few times, and brought it up. She brushed the rain away with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”
Because the pain is always lingering nearby and some jerk just reminded you of it.
“I cried at his funeral, too,” Candy said. “Do you believe it?”
I didn’t say if I did or didn’t.
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
“A connection between Jonny Szereto and Frank Harris.”
“Does there have to be a connection? Must one thing be part of the other?”
“No, but…”
“But what?”
“If there is a connection—listen, it’s not just about Harris’s son. Jonny’s son, too. Mrs. Szereto is afraid of the harm it might do him growing up not knowing the truth. The rumors he’ll hear instead.”
“Is that why she’s letting you do this?”
“It’s why she asked me to do this.”
“Whether you find out who killed Jonny or not—how much truth do you think Evelyn will tell her grandson?”
“Only what she thinks he’ll need to get by.”
“A child should never suffer for the sins of his father, yet he will. The children of all those … people … will pay for it.”
“Someone needs to.”
“Should I tell you the truth, McKenzie? Should I tell you what Jonny did to me, the filthy names he called me while he was doing it? Forty-two years I’ve given to this company, to the Szereto family, from the day I graduated college until now. Should I tell you what that meant to him?”
“Why didn’t you quit?” I asked. “Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you burn the sonuvabitch to the ground?”
I regretted the questions immediately. They made it sound as if I blamed her for what had happened. I knew better than that. I dealt with rape victims when I was on the job. I was taught how to behave, how to “chaperone” a victim. I was taught that rape was the ultimate violation, just one step short of homicide. I was taught about the fear, shame, anger, shock, humiliation, and guilt that a woman experiences. I was taught about her inability to sleep and the nightmares she’ll have when she does sleep, the erratic mood swings and the feelings of worthlessness that will come later. Yet there I was, piling on.
I reached across the table and took Candy’s hand in mine.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” I said.
“I ask myself the same questions, though. I tell myself that I didn’t want to hurt the company. That I was protecting Mr. Szereto’s name, that good and sweet man. Only there’s more to it. I never married, McKenzie. Szereto was all that I had or ever will have. I can’t even imagine being somewhere else, getting another job at my age. Jonny knew it, too, and used it against me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She looked down at my hand holding hers and shook it away.
“Do you want to know something?” she asked. “Every morning when I look into the mirror, I smile because I know that Jonny’s dead. I wish I had killed him. I hope you never find the person who did.”
“I understand.”
“No man understands.”
Fair enough.
“I’ve been instructed to assist you,” Candy said. “Tell me how.”
“I’d like to speak to your HR guy.”
“Woman. Our director of human resources is a woman.”
“Okay.”
Candy stood.
I stood.
“I’ve been told to stay with you, not to let you out of my sight for a moment,” she said.
“So you can report everything back to Dauria. I get it.”
“And to Mrs. Szereto.”
That, I admit, caught me by surprise. It made me feel like I wasn’t trusted.
* * *
The director of human resources was sitting behind her desk. Her name was Annabelle Ridlon, and like Candy, she was dressed in a fashionable outfit. I had noticed that all of the employees I saw while making my way to her office were stylishly dressed, mostly in black, and I mentioned it.
“The Szereto Corporation has an image in the beauty industry of chic sophistication, and the president wants the employees to reflect that at all times,” Ridlon said. “We do not dress casually here.”
“If a woman came in wearing a pair of skintight two-hundred-dollar jeans with strategic rips in them?”
“She’d be sent home.”
“It’s the way the boss likes it,” Candy said.
“Ahh.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?” Ridlon asked.
Candy half sat, half leaned against a round table off to the side of Ridlon’s desk where she could watch us both at the same time. It was as if she knew something funny was going to happen and wanted to make sure she didn’t miss it.
“I would like to read your files,” I said.
“No.”
“Especially those containing complaints from women—”
“No.”
“When Jonathan Szereto Jr. was president.”
“Hell, no.”
“Mrs. Szereto said—”
“I don’t care.”
“Ms. Ridlon—”
“Mr. McKenzie. Any HR professional understands how essential it is to uphold employee privacy.”
“You’re not a doctor. You’re not a priest or a lawyer. You’re under no obligation to maintain confidentiality.”
“Hell I’m not.”
“Everything in your files is discoverable.”
“Are you a police officer? Member of a government agency? Do you have a warrant?”
“Look—”
“No, you look, McKenzie. What you’re asking for—I don’t have the time to list the many legal and ethical issues involved. I’m just telling you, you’re not going to get it. Not from me.”
I gestured toward Candy.
“Ms. Groot will confirm that I am inquiring with the permission of the chairwoman of—”
“If Mrs. Szereto were standing right where you are now, then probably I would take the time to list the many legal and moral issues involved, and when I finished I’d bet she’d take my side. In any case, I’m not going to give up the files. I’ll make them fire me first.”
“May I sit down?”
Ridlon gestured at the chair in front of her desk. I sat.
“I like you a lot more than the last HR director I spoke to,” I said.
She shrugged as if she couldn’t have cared less.
“May I ask a general, nonspecific question?” I said.
“If you don’t mind a general, nonspecific answer.”
“I know what happened here while Jonathan Szereto Jr. was president, what he did—”
“None of that is public record.”
“And what the former HR director did about it—”
“If Stuart Mason discussed any of these matters with you, he’s in violation of the nondisclosure clause in his contract.”
“Although I don’t know the identity of any of the women involved.” I added that last part because Candy was listening and I wanted to make sure she knew that I was on her side. “Now, I need to make some assumptions.”
“Assume away,” Ridlon said.
“I assume that Frank Harris had access to all of Mason’s files, that he knew which women complained of … Let’s call it harassment for lack of a better word.”
“Let’s call it rape for accuracy’s sake.”
“Could he have hurt them the way Jonny hurt them, thinking that since they gave in once they might give in again?”
“If Mr. Harris had abused his position, I’ve seen no evidence of it; nothing to suggest that he victimized anyone. This isn’t a Ma and Pa operation, McKenzie. Mr. Harris was working with assistants, associates, and they tell me that while he often seemed distant, he behaved with the utmost professionalism. That’s probably why Ms. Dauria hired him without considering other applicants. Because she knew he could be trusted.”
That’s right, my inner voice reminded me. Dauria hired him. ’Course, she didn’t know about Jayne at the time.
Ridlon seemed to read my mind.
“Could he have kept his criminal activities secret—assuming he was involved in criminal activities?” she asked. “I think not. In any case, no one came forward to complain after he died; no one sought redress or threatened to sue the firm.”
“Perhaps his victims were embarrassed.”
Ridlon regarded me for a few beats with such intensity that I knew she was trying to determine what kind of man I was.
“I couldn’t say,” she said. “In any case, our security protocols have been updated since Ms. Dauria took over. Now all employees who use company computers or phones, or GPS-enabled company cars, are subjected to technological surveillance. We can track the specific content employees produce at their workstation down to the individual keystrokes. In addition, we’ve added social media clauses to employee contracts that allow us to monitor their personal Web sites, Facebook pages, and Twitter accounts. We do this to root out employees involved in industrial spying and corporate espionage. One woman—we had to let her go when she posted on her Facebook page that she was thrilled to be collaborating on a special project. She said she couldn’t reveal what she was working on, but wrote ‘Watch out, Gillette.’ In essence, she announced to the world that the Szereto Corporation was involved in designing the next generation of women’s razors.”
“I would never have guessed that.”
“In her personal information she listed her specific credentials and for whom she worked. Add that to her post—granted, the privacy settings on her account limited her remarks to only her friends, about two hundred I think it was. But McKenzie, if we’re monitoring our employees’ activities, what’s to stop our competitors from doing the same? I would wager that nearly everyone in the beauty industry has an organized system for collecting information on their rivals. They’d be foolish not to.”
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“We’re always searching for communications that undermine the company’s business strategies and public image, but we see everything. If Mr. Harris had abused his position, someone would have complained, even if it was only to her girlfriend on Twitter—and we would have known.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’d be happy to give you twenty minutes on paranoid, power-happy employers versus the individual employee’s right to privacy, but I doubt you’d want to hear it.”
“Every employee of the Szereto Corporation is an ambassador for the Szereto Corporation.”
“Yeah, well, I have a feeling you’ve given me all the help you’re going to.”
“Funny, I wasn’t trying to help you at all.”
I stood. Ridlon stood. I noticed for the first time that she was taller than I was by about three inches. I offered my hand. She shook it.
“Believe it or not, I’m grateful for your time.”
“In that case, as a wise man once said, don’t go away mad…”
“Just go away,” Candy Groot said.
* * *
Candy walked me to the elevator.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“I think I’ve spread as much joy and sunshine around here as I can for now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
“Tell Ms. Dauria that I still need to speak with her.”
“Why?”
Because, my inner voice told me. It isn’t only Szereto that connects Frank Harris and Jonny. It’s her.
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside.
“I’m sorry for your troubles,” I said. “I really am.”
Candy didn’t answer. Instead, as the doors closed, I saw her take up her cell phone and start making a call.
* * *
Not long ago, something called the American Highway Users Alliance ranked the fifty worst traffic bottlenecks in the country. Minnesotans were outraged—outraged!—that we didn’t make the cut. How could there be a worse snarl than the one that occurred when three lanes of westbound I-394 traffic were reduced to one lane so it could merge with three lanes of southbound I-94 traffic as it slowed to 35 mph and passed through the Lowry Hill Tunnel? At the best of times with weather not a factor, it was a ten-minute delay. At drive time with rain or snow added to the equation, it could take an hour or more. And it was snowing.
I joined the long, slow crawl back into Minneapolis almost immediately after I left the Szereto parking lot, KBEM-FM turned up loud, the windshield wipers keeping time. The same vehicles in front and behind the Mustang stayed with me for several miles. Because I hadn’t expected the traffic to change, it wasn’t until I put the bottleneck behind me and managed to merge with the vehicles heading north on 35W that I realized I was being followed.
A black Acura.
Staying close, accelerating and slowing as I accelerated and slowed.
I shifted lanes.
It shifted with me.
Who? my inner voice asked. Why?
The freeway lights were already on; at that time of year in Minnesota, night falls like a hammer around 5:00 P.M. Yet I couldn’t make out the driver’s face in the rearview. My first thought—Jack McKasy. My second—whoever Candy Groot called while I was boarding the elevator.
I flashed on what Detective Utley had told me earlier—her only reliable witness was sure the shotgun blast that killed Jonathan Szereto Jr. had come from inside a dark-colored Toyota. Yet it could have been an Acura, I told myself. Ever since the automotive industry decided that mpg was more important than character, most cars were given nearly indistinguishable aerodynamic designs. Since this one sped through a red light to remain on my rear bumper when I took the Washington Street exit …
No, no, no, my inner voice chanted. You’re being paranoid. You haven’t done anything worth getting shot over. Yet.
I moved to the right-hand lane.
The Acura stayed with me.
I slowed for a stoplight.
The Acura twisted into the left-hand lane and halted with a jerk next to me.
Its passenger window started to power down.
I didn’t linger long enough to see who was behind the window or to get a good look at the driver. Instead, I threw the Mustang into reverse and stomped on the accelerator.
Tires spun on the freshly fallen snow, caught, and squealed as the Mustang leapt backward.
I stopped twenty feet behind the Acura and waited.
Nothing happened.
There were no flashes of gunfire. No telltale popping sounds. Although the Acura did engage its turn signal.
I watched carefully, the wipers counting the seconds like a metronome.
When the light finally changed, the Acura hung a left and drove onto the freeway entrance ramp, heading back in the direction it had come.
Behind me, someone tapped his horn. I put the Mustang into a forward gear and drove toward my condominium.
* * *
The coverage in the underground garage where I parked was iffy. It wasn’t until I was on the elevator heading up to the seventh floor that I was able to call Detective Downing.
“What?” he wanted to know.
“Could you quick run a license plate for me?”
“I was just about to go home.”
“It’s important.”
“Why?”
“It belongs to a black Acura that was following me. I’m thinking it might have been the same car that was used in the Jonathan Szereto shooting.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“An Acura isn’t a Toyota.”
“They look alike.”
“They do not.”
“In the dark? To a guy who doesn’t know cars?”
Downing hesitated for a few beats and said, “I’m beginning to wonder if I should have checked your references more thoroughly.”
“I’m neither paranoid nor delusional as far as I know.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll get back to you.”
He did, fifteen minutes later. I was in the condo and sucking on the business end of a Summit Ale when he called.
“The Acura belongs to Jerome Geddings,” Downing said. He recited a street address.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked.
“It’s in my files. Geddings is a member of the New Brighton Hotdish. He was one of them that alibied Jayne Harris on the night her husband was stabbed.”
“My, my, my.”
“McKenzie, what does this mean?”
“I have no idea, but the coincidences—they’re starting to pile up.”
* * *
I went to my notes, partly to confirm what Downing had told me. Jerome Geddings was indeed a founding member of the New Brighton Hotdish and had signed a statement swearing for the record that he was among those who were with Jayne when Frank Harris was attacked. I searched a couple of social media sites for information. A business profile announced that he worked quality assurance for a tech firm in Apple Valley. That didn’t sound like a job where you could just get up in the middle of a shift and wander off. Even if he could—Apple Valley was located on the other side of St. Paul, about as far away from St. Louis Park as you could get and still be in the Twin Cities. Fact remained, though, he did follow me. Why? How would he even know who I was? Candy Groot was on her phone when I left the Szereto offices—did she call him? Why, again? She had no connection to the Hotdish, did she? Maybe she called Diane Dauria, and Dauria called Geddings and told him to do what? Scare me? Shoot me? Find out where I lived? I found myself humming an old Michel Legrand song:
… like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel,
never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel …
The Hotdish was the obvious common denominator, so I returned to Downing’s list of witnesses who had vouched for Jayne Harris and checked them out one at a time. Like many people these days, they had all posted a frightening amount of private information on Web sites such as Facebook and LinkedIn. With the notable exception of a few interests and hobbies like caving and paranormal investigations, they all seemed pretty ordinary to me, with middle- to upper-middle-class occupations—account supervisor, IT development manager, graphic designer, RN at Allied Hospitals and Clinics, adult education management professional, senior data architect, financial analyst—two divorces, and not a single arrest among them. Obviously they knew Frank Harris, yet none of them seemed connected to Jonathan Szereto Jr. except Dauria.
One name stood out. Katherine Meyer, the person Dauria said was the chief instigator of the group. She labeled herself as a “marketing and advertising consultant—poet.”
I glanced at my watch—6:57. Nina was at the club; I didn’t expect to see her until much later tonight. God knew where Erica was; she had been purposely vague about where she was going and with whom starting when she turned eighteen. The girl valued her independence.
I made a call. Katherine Meyer answered on the third ring.
“Mrs. Meyer,” I said. “My name is McKenzie.”
“Call me Katie. I wondered if I was going to hear from you.”
“News travels fast in the New Brighton Hotdish.”
“We’re a close-knit group.”
“I’m not disturbing your dinner, am I?” It’s a question that most Minnesotans ask when making phone calls between 5:00 and 7:00 P.M.
“Not at all.” Katie spoke so quickly that her sentences sounded like one long word. “I was just about to run over to Cub. I am so low on flour and sugar. I’m hosting a New Year’s Eve party tomorrow night, and oh my God, so much to do.”
“I’m wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk to me?”
“To talk about Frank Harris? Yes, yes, I know, I know. My son, Critter? He said he met you at Jayne’s house, and Jaynie and I had the most delightful conversation, talked for it seemed like hours and hours. Kids today, all they do is text, but when I was young, it was like I had a phone glued to my ear. My father was always yelling at me to hang up. Afraid he’d miss an important call. Now everyone has their own private phones. Even children. First and second graders. If you don’t return a text or a missed call in like five minutes, oh my God, people wonder if something terrible has happened. Either that or they think you’re snubbing them. It’s funny how things change from generation to generation, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Meyer. Katie—”
“I don’t have time to talk, McKenzie. I really don’t. I have so much shopping to do, and then I have to bake. Cakes and pies. Pillsbury, you know how it has an annual bake-off which pays a million dollars to whoever comes up with the best dessert? I thought I’d give the winning recipe a try. Might not be worth a million, though. We’ll see. I’ll settle for half a million.”
Katie chuckled at her joke, but only for a moment.
“But you want to talk. Okay … umm … Diane said you were over to Szereto. Was that because it was the last place where they saw Frank alive? Like on the TV? ’Course, he was alive when they found him in the park, so … What a world. Diane—well, you can’t go by her. That woman. I love her to pieces. Smart, oh my God, only she has no sense of humor that I’ve ever seen. She’s so pretty and thin I told her once she must have a painting hidden in her attic but she. Didn’t. Get it. You have to explain jokes to her. Just ruins them. You want to talk, though. Only not over the phone like we’re kids—you hang up first, no you. Umm. Oh, I know. Tomorrow. How ’bout—I’m meeting a client at eight thirty. I’m a freelance writer. Well, writer, creative director, account executive, producer, whatever you need. How ’bout—there’s a coffeehouse on Silver Lake Road? Do you know New Brighton? The Bru House. North of 694. East side of the road. You can’t miss it. They sell a frittata muffin, oh my God. Does ten thirty work for you? In the morning, I mean? I doubt my meeting will last that long; the client wants to shut up shop at noon, give his employees a jump on the holiday, only you never know, do you?”
“Ten thirty would be great.”
“Okay, okay. I’d have you over to the house, but you might be a homicidal maniac. Am I right?”
“Well, no—”
“I’m kidding. Besides, the place is a mess. I haven’t even started cleaning yet. Do you think I’m going to get any help from my husband? From Critter? I can’t talk now. I’m already halfway out the door. Okay, okay. Tomorrow then. Ten thirty, right? Good-bye, McKenzie.”
* * *
I had done very little talking, yet I felt out of breath when the call ended. I had learned one thing, though, without asking—everyone in the Hotdish seemed to know who I was and what I was doing.
Maybe Geddings was acting on his own, my inner voice suggested.
No, I told myself. He might have known my name, but not what car I drove.
Unless Critter told him.
Hey, that’s right. The kid took a picture with his phone.
Still …
Erica opened the door, closed it, and walked past me without saying a word.
“A pleasant good evening to you, too,” I said.
“McKenzie”—she slumped in a chair without taking off her coat—“I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“About men.”
“Isn’t this a conversation you should be having with your mother?”
“Have you met Robin? You haven’t, have you? He is so cute. Waitresses fawn over him and I’m sitting right there, that’s how cute. He’s funny, too. And you don’t get into the engineering department at Notre Dame without being smart. Something else. He likes me. He really likes me, I can tell.”
“Okay.”
“Meanwhile, Malcolm is a screwup even during the best of times. I’m just saying.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t understand love.”
“Join the club.”
“The guy Karen is marrying, what a jerk. Why would you marry someone you knew was a jerk? Why would you even go out with him?”
“She probably doesn’t see him that way.”
“Why doesn’t she? She’s graduating in the top ten percent of her class.”
“Karen or you?”
“Both of us. What does that have to do with anything?”
“The heart—”
“Don’t. Okay? Shut up about the heart. The heart is the least reliable organ in the human body. McKenzie—you weren’t always rich.”
“No. I was a blue-collar kid from St. Paul all the way down to my white socks.”
“You wore white socks?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Would you have hooked up with Mom if she weren’t well-off?”
“Of course. Have you seen your mother?”
“Would she have hooked up with you if you weren’t a millionaire?”
“I don’t think she knew I was rich when she pushed that guy down the stairs.”
“Is that really a true story?”
“Yep. I was chasing a guy out of the old Minnesota Club, and his partner was on the landing above me. When he tried to interfere, your mother gave him a hip-check, and down the stairs he rolled. That’s when I knew she was the girl for me.”
“When did she know you were the guy for her?”
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure I am the right guy. Could be she’s just letting me hang around until the real thing comes along.”
Erica stared at me as if she were wondering if I actually believed that.
“You make her laugh,” she said. “I’ve known her fifteen years longer than you have, and during that time she hardly ever laughed.”
“Is that because I’m humorous or peculiar?”
“Heck if I know.” She stood. “Robin makes me laugh. All the time. So does Malcolm. ’Course, Malcolm—he’s just a friend. I couldn’t even think of dating him while I was dating Robin. That would be … I don’t know.”
Erica retreated toward her bedroom.
“Gawd!” she said.