What the Dead Leave Behind Read online

  “What did Dwayne Phillips do time for?” I asked.

  “Drugs. Manslaughter.”

  “Were you able to connect him to Bosh?”

  “Nah, the old man was clean. From what I could tell, he’d been a law-abiding citizen from the time the kid Jalen was born. Saw the light, I guess. He was very polite, too. Called me ‘Officer.’ But you could tell, he wasn’t on our side.”

  I thought that might have been because six percent of the population in Minnesota is African American, except in our prisons, where it’s thirty-six percent—but didn’t say so.

  “I’m not tryin’ to make excuses, ’kay, McKenzie?” Olson said. “Slippin’ up on the rape kit, there’s no excuse for that. But Meyer, Katherine Meyer, you have to remember—today New Brighton has three detectives, but in my time there were just the two of us, and we only had the time and resources to work those cases we thought we had the best chance of solving. Ninety-seven percent of the assholes who commit rape in this country, they get away with it. What are you going to do?”

  Try harder, my inner voice said.

  *   *   *

  I walked back to my Mustang thinking, Downing must have come across the names of Jalen and Dwayne Phillips when he took a hard look at the Bosh case last summer. But he didn’t connect them to the New Brighton Hotdish. Why would he have? They were both long gone to New Ulm when he caught the Frank Harris homicide. They weren’t among the members of the club that he interviewed.

  Even so, there was no reason to believe that what Jalen might or might not have seen in Veterans Park that day had anything at all to do with Frank Harris being stabbed in the head and left to die in the snow six years later.

  Why would it?

  On the other hand, what did Detective Sergeant Margaret Utley of the St. Louis Park Police Department tell me—My experience, someone that kills and gets away with it, often feels empowered to do it again.

  I wondered how many African Americans named Jalen and Dwayne Phillips could be found in New Ulm.

  Not many, I bet.

  SEVENTEEN

  I told the receptionist that I knew the way and promised I wouldn’t wander. She insisted on having someone walk me to Candy Groot’s office anyway. Apparently the Szereto Corporation had rules.

  Candy was sitting behind her desk. She smiled when I arrived and came to me. I thought she might actually give me a hug, but instead she gripped my arm above the cast and said, “Good to see you,” as if we were old friends too long apart.

  You should flirt with older women more often, my inner voice told me.

  Candy dismissed my escort and said, “No one’s signed your cast yet.”

  “You could be the first.”

  She led me deeper into the office. “I’d like that, except—you didn’t come here to see me, did you?”

  “No, that’s just a pleasant bonus.”

  “Ms. Dauria hasn’t returned from Owatonna yet. I expect her at any time, though. You’re welcome to wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Diane said. She swept through the door, her long winter coat flying open and a heavy bag hanging from her shoulder. I wasn’t at all surprised that she stopped, pressed her fists against her hips, lowered her head, and sighed dramatically when she saw me standing there. But when she lifted her head and said, “McKenzie, what happened to your arm?”—that made me wonder.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “I’d like to tell it.”

  Candy helped her remove her coat and carried it to a rack near the door. Diane kept hold of her bag.

  “No calls, Ms. Groot, except—”

  “I know,” Candy said.

  “Thank you.”

  Diane motioned me into her office. I was surprised yet again when she closed the door behind us.

  She dropped her bag next to her desk and sat in the swivel chair behind it. As usual, the desk was empty of everything except a laptop, a telephone system, and a pen. Diane picked up the pen and started rolling it in her fingers. I sat in the chair in front of her.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I don’t have much time. I need to get to New Ulm.”

  “What’s in New Ulm?”

  “Besides the August Schell Brewing Company? Not much.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “Rebecca Denise Crawford.”

  “You saw her giving me a Christmas card at my home on New Year’s Eve. Big deal. Are you going to start spreading rumors that I’m gay, too?”

  “I don’t care if you’re gay or not, although Critter Meyer might.”

  “Dammit, McKenzie.”

  “Tell me about Rebecca.”

  “Why should I?”

  I held up my cast for Diane to see.

  “All right,” I said. “Let me tell you a story about Rebecca.”

  Diane stared at me for a good three beats after I finished.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Why would Becky want to scare you? Why would she want to harm you?”

  Now it was my turn to stare.

  Is it possible she doesn’t know? my inner voice asked. She asked about your cast. If she and Rebecca were in cahoots …

  “McKenzie?” Diane asked.

  “She works here,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “I have no idea what you already know and what you don’t.”

  “About Jonny Szereto?”

  “Then you do know. Okay. Rebecca was one of the women that he … approached. She quit rather than let him touch her. She didn’t tell me this, though; not at the time. I had hired her out of grad school. I suppose you could say she was a protégé of mine. It bothered me a lot that she left without an explanation. Later, after Jonny was killed and the police started asking questions, I figured it out. I contacted her soon after I was named president, tried to make it up to her. Rebecca was working for Barek Cosmetics at the time, and she said she hated it but that she had a noncompete clause in her employment agreement and couldn’t move. A year later, though, she called back and said the agreement had expired and she would love to return to Szereto, but only on a contract basis, meaning she could set her own hours, come and go as she pleased—at least to start with. She was still upset because of her experiences with Jonny. It was against our usual business practices, but I agreed. I felt I owed her.”

  “You honestly don’t know—that’s what you’re telling me?”

  “Know what?”

  “Rebecca is still working for Barek Cosmetics.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I don’t know how it’s possible, but it is. If you don’t believe me, call her.”

  “All right, I will.”

  Diane reached for her heavy bag.

  “No,” I said. “Don’t call her cell. Call the corporate offices. Ask the operator to connect you to R. D. Crawford in research and development.”

  Diane reached for her desk phone. Her hand hovered above the receiver. I had seen her burn through a lot of different emotions in the brief time since we met, but the one that etched her face and scoured her eyes startled me. She was afraid.

  “What are you telling me?” she asked.

  “Rebecca is selling Barek’s corporate secrets to you.”

  “No. No, McKenzie. Absolutely not. She would never do that. I would never do that. Besides, it’s not even possible. We have security systems in place that prevent just that kind of thing. Protocols.”

  Protocols, my inner voice repeated.

  “Rebecca never handed you a thumb drive with Barek’s trade secrets on it?” I asked.

  “Never.”

  “Are you trying to tell me, Diane, that you’re not using Rebecca to conduct a little corporate espionage on Szereto’s chief rival?”

  “How dare you?”

  “Well, then, if she’s not selling Barek’s secrets to you, she’s selling your formulas to Barek.”

>   “No, no, no. McKenzie, formulas, end products, are of limited value. What’s important is the means of production, the research and development, the know-how. What helps you cut down on development costs and aids in long-term production; what helps get your product to the market first.”

  “You mean like what a trusted employee might be able to pass on to a competitor?”

  “You can’t be right about this.”

  Protocols, my inner voice said again.

  “When I met Rebecca coming out of the building yesterday, I tried to contact Mrs. Szereto. I didn’t have her number, but I had yours. I left a message for her on your voice mail.”

  “I never received it. The time you called, the time you say you called, I was on the phone talking to Sloane. After I finished, I left the office to go to her apartment.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t send those thugs to rough me up?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “If it wasn’t you, it had to be Rebecca.”

  “No, McKenzie. No.”

  “I don’t think she’s working two full-time jobs simultaneously for corporate rivals just to pocket an extra paycheck. Do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “Diane, do you meet with Rebecca very often?”

  “Not often. Just from time to time.”

  “Not here, though. Not at Szereto; in the employee cafeteria, for example.”

  “No. We meet…”

  “At out of the way places. A coffeehouse. A bar. Just the two of you. Usually at night. And when you meet, she always gives you something. A card. A small gift. An appreciation from a protégé to her mentor.”

  “What are you telling me, McKenzie? What’s going on?”

  “I think I get it now.”

  “Get what?”

  “Protocols.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I need a favor, Diane. A big one. Perhaps the biggest favor you’ve ever done for anyone in your entire life.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to trust me.”

  Except she didn’t. I could see it in those volcanic eyes of hers. She was thisclose to telling me where to go when Candy Groot’s voice cut in.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Dauria,” she said. “Call on line one.”

  Diane lowered her head and spoke sharply into the speaker-microphone.

  “I don’t want to accept any calls from anyone unless it’s my daughter,” she said.

  “It’s Katherine Meyer.”

  “Oh. All right. Thank you.”

  Diane snatched the receiver off the cradle and spun in her chair until her back was to me.

  “Katie,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  I could hear only Diane’s side of the conversation.

  “Yes, I’m fine, but you shouldn’t be worried about me … Sloane and I spent hours and hours talking last night. God, that girl can eat … I wish I were as thin as you say. Did you know she was involved in, what do they call it…? Yes, mixed martial arts … She didn’t tell me until I saw the bruises … Every woman in the world should know how to fight … I didn’t mean it like that … How can you be so kind to me after what I’ve done…? No, it wasn’t a mistake. It was worse than that. It was … Katie … I haven’t spoken to Critter. He probably hates me, too … Well, you should … I can’t … I can’t … McKenzie?”

  Diane spun back in her chair until she was facing me.

  “Yes, I know how to reach him. Katie, just a second. I’m going to put you on speakerphone.”

  Before she did, though, she put a finger to her lips—the universal sign that I should keep my mouth shut.

  “What about McKenzie?” Diane asked.

  “Just tell him to give me a call,” Katie replied in her usual bright and breezy voice.

  “May I ask what it’s about?”

  “I think he’s entitled to know the truth.”

  “He’s not entitled to shit.”

  “Oh my God, Diane, listen to you being all protective of me. And the kids, too, giving the poor man the runaround. I have such great friends. I’m including you, Diane. I mean it. And something else since I have you on the phone, it’s not my turn, but I’m going to host the next Hotdish and everyone is going to come, especially you.”

  “Katie—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I. Do. Not. Want. Oh, you know what you should do? You should make those mini-eggrolls like you did that one time. With the mushrooms and shrimp? I know it’s a lot of work, but those were the best things. Everybody loved those. And don’t worry, for God’s sake. Can’t we all just get along? I mean, we’ve been together so many years now, and oh, you know what I just found out? Maybe Sloane already told you. She’s the one that hit Critter in the mouth. Oh my God. Do you believe that? Everyone thought it was Malcolm—”

  “Katie, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Sloane punching him, I would have loved to have seen that. You go, girl. He deserved it, too. What he said, if Critter had said those things while I was standing there, I would have hit him, too. Slapped him right up the side of his head. Train these kids while they’re young, that’s what you need to do. Okay, okay, I gotta go. So have McKenzie call me.”

  “Does he have your number?’

  “Yes, he does.”

  “If he has your number, how come you don’t have his?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why did you call me?”

  “Just an excuse to say hi. Okay, I gotta go. Remember, mini-eggrolls. Okay. See you later, alligator.”

  “Good-bye, Katie.”

  “Oh my God, Diane. See you later, alligator.”

  Diane paused, a mystified expression on her face. Katie spoke again.

  “See you. Later. Alligator?”

  “After a while, crocodile?”

  “You’re a work in progress, Diane, but I love you so much.”

  And Katie hung up.

  And Diane hit the button that ended the call on her end.

  And she spoke in a halting voice, the fire in her eyes doused by the tears.

  “Katie wants you to call her,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “She’s the best person I’ve ever known, and because she trusts you, I will, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call Rebecca. Arrange to meet her.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Tell her you spoke to me and you’re concerned about something I said. Don’t tell her what. Let her pick the location so she feels comfortable. I’ll be coming with you, of course, but don’t tell her that, either. You need to set the meeting for later tonight, sometime after ten because there’s something I need to do first.”

  “You’re not going to hurt her?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “What are we going to do, then?”

  “Buy her affections.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to offer her a bribe.”

  *   *   *

  The first thing you see when you drive Highway 14 south across the Minnesota River into New Ulm is the baseball field, Johnson Park, home of the Brewers. Behind it is a town that Nina might have labeled quaint, although there are only three buildings older than 1862. The rest were burned to the ground by the Dakota for all the reasons you might expect Native Americans to rise up against the white government, forcing the entire population of the town to flee to Mankato, about thirty miles away.

  Among the buildings that were destroyed was Turner Hall. It was rebuilt on the original site, though, after peace had been restored by force of arms and the largest mass execution in U.S. history, thirty-eight Dakota men. In the basement of the hall is the Rathskeller, which the natives claim is the oldest bar in Minnesota. It’s also quaint,
the walls adorned with 150-year-old murals that had been restored through a grant from the Minnesota Historical Society.

  I sat at the bar. ESPN was on the TV in the corner near the ceiling, and a collection of bottles of alcohol, labels facing out, was stacked in front of the mirror. I ordered a Snowstorm, a product of Schell’s brewery, one of the few places in New Ulm left untouched during the war. Apparently the owners had treated the Dakota with respect and consideration before hostilities broke out. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. Dwayne Phillips now worked for the brewery in some sort of management capacity.

  The bartender was a pleasant middle-aged woman who treated me the same as the regulars who assembled one and two at a time around the bar starting at about 5:00 P.M. until there were enough to field a baseball team. They were drinking Grain Belt, an iconic Minnesota brand once brewed in Minneapolis but now made by Schell’s, and complaining about the Vikings’ quick exit from the playoffs. Yet despite their disappointment, to a man they predicted a Super Bowl appearance the following season. Which made me grimace. One of them must have noticed.

  “What?” he asked. “You’re not a believer?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had my heart broken before.”

  “You can’t live without hope, son.”

  “Here we go,” the bartender said.

  “You can last forty days without food. You can go four days without water; four minutes without oxygen. But you can’t last four seconds without hope.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” one of his partners asked.

  “You believe that, son, don’t you?”

  “Not when it comes to the Vikings, no,” I said. “I appreciate the sentiment, though. Let me buy you guys a beer.”

  I had never seen so many men drain so many glasses so quickly.

  “Grain Belts all around,” one of them said.

  The bartender started pouring them even as she glanced at her watch.

  “Goin’ somewhere?” one of the regulars asked.

  “I gotta date,” she said. “Need to go home and get ready.”

  The announcement caused a commotion among the regulars, most of them wondering who the lucky man was.