What the Dead Leave Behind Page 4

  Dauria moved toward me with her hand extended.

  “A pleasure, Mr. McKenzie,” she said.

  If Jayne Harris was New Brighton, then Dauria was Uptown, probably the most fashionable neighborhood in Minneapolis. At first glance, her black silk certainly appeared business-office appropriate, yet the way it molded to her figure demanded comparisons to every woman standing within fifty feet; comparisons that would clearly favor her.

  “It was kind of you to see me,” I said. “Especially on such short notice.”

  Dauria shook my hand; her flesh was soft, yet her grip was firm.

  “Whatever I can do to help,” she said. “Thank you, Ms. Groot.”

  Candy left the office but did not close the door. Dauria moved behind her large glass desk. There was a sleek PC on top, along with an elaborate telephone system and a Sheaffer Ferrari fountain pen—but no paper. I sat in a chair across from her. A window-wall was at her back. If not for the slate gray clouds, I would have been looking directly into the sun.

  Dauria made a production out of looking at the jeweled watch on her wrist. I don’t think she wanted to give me a sense of her wealth so much as to remind me that her time was far more valuable than mine—don’t waste it.

  “Mr. McKenzie, you said—”

  “McKenzie is fine.”

  “McKenzie it is. You may call me Diane.”

  “Thank you, Diane.”

  “You said on the phone that Malcolm Harris asked you to find out what happened to his father, but you didn’t say what you planned to do about it.”

  “There’s not much I can do, Diane. The man’s going to stay dead no matter what I learn.”

  “Considering the circumstances, I believe your … should we call it a flippant attitude? I believe it is out of place.”

  “I apologize,” I said, although I didn’t really mean it. “Sometimes we use humor to mask the seriousness of things.”

  “I ask again—what will you do if you learn the truth? Will you inform the police?”

  “Probably. I’m sure they’d like to know.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Diane glanced at her watch some more and then returned her gaze to me. “Tell me what you want as directly as possible.”

  “I have questions…”

  “Obviously.”

  Behind her chair was a credenza stacked with photographs. I was surprised to see a framed copy of the New Brighton Yankees. I gestured at it.

  “Are you a member of the Hotdish?” I asked.

  “I am. Didn’t you know?”

  “Jayne Harris told me that you were friends, only I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Frank Harris wasn’t just an employee; you knew him personally because of Hotdish.”

  “Yes, although we kept it out of the office.”

  “How did you come to hire him?”

  “One of my first duties when I was made president of the company was to dismiss our human resources director. As you said, I knew Frank through Hotdish, knew of his work for his previous employer, so I asked him to apply for the position.”

  “This was…”

  “As I said, it was right after I was made president, so it had to be two years ago.”

  “Just twelve months before he was killed.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, that’s become one of the anniversaries we now use to mark the passage of time.”

  “Did Harris get along well with his co-workers?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Did he get along well with any co-worker in particular?”

  “If he did, I never heard.”

  “Would you have?”

  “My assistant, Ms. Groot—she keeps me pretty well informed. McKenzie, Detective Downing asked the same questions when the incident took place. I’m afraid I have no better answers now than I did then.”

  “You never know. Time and memory—sometimes things look much clearer from a distance.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Did you know that Frank was abusing his wife.”

  “Not … not when I hired him. When I found out, I was angry enough to fire him but couldn’t think of a way to manage it without leaving Szereto open to a wrongful termination lawsuit. He did a good job for us, especially when you consider what happened before. Time and memory make it hard for me to reconcile one man with the other.”

  “What happened before?”

  “Szereto business, not yours.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Make no mistake, McKenzie. My feelings toward Frank—God, I hated him for what he did to Jayne. There was just nothing I could do about it. I suggested to him once, in private, that he should think about working somewhere else. He told me he would leave when he was good and ready. He was the HR director. He knew my hands were tied.”

  “Tell me about the Hotdish.”

  Diane reached behind her for the photo of the New Brighton Yankees.

  “It was the kids,” she said. “We went to all their games, their practices—usually drove them there. That’s what parents do, isn’t it? We discovered in a very short period of time that we enjoyed each other’s company and started doing things together, barbecues after the game; that sort of thing. When the season ended, the final season, we fell into the habit of meeting once a month. Sharing our lives. It was the members who helped me move to Edina after I was promoted. It was Katie’s doing mostly. She kept us together.”

  “Katie?”

  “Katherine Meyer.”

  Diane thrust the photograph toward me; it was the first time I had a close look at the Yankees. She tapped a finger on the second ballplayer on the left kneeling in the first row. I recognized him immediately. Critter Meyer.

  “That’s her son,” Diane said. She moved her finger three players over in the second row. “Here’s Malcolm. This beautiful young lady”—she tapped the ballplayer kneeling directly in front of him, the one with a rich pumpkin-colored ponytail flowing out from the back of her baseball cap—“is my daughter, Sloane.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “There were only three girls playing in the league back then. Sloane was one of them. The Yankees desperately needed her, too. The first year, when most of the team was in the seventh grade, they only won three games. When Sloane joined the team in the eighth grade, they finished ten-and-six and missed the playoffs on a tie-breaker. The next year they went undefeated and won the league championship. She was named MVP. Pitched and played short. My little girl. The boys didn’t want her on the team at first. Which truly upset Katie, one of the reasons I like her so much, calling out the team for being prejudiced. Same with Philly.” She tapped the photo of an African American kid standing at the end of the back row. “Jalen Phillips is his real name. Back then I think there might have been fewer African American kids playing baseball in New Brighton than girls. Katie expected the boys to treat him like a teammate, too, so they did. Anyway, when the boys saw Sloane throw … and bat … and run … She was fourteen for fifteen in stolen bases that final season. Half of the boys wanted to date her; the other half treated her like a sister. It was kind of fun to watch.”

  Diane spoke with such pride, and her smile was so broad, that I found myself smiling, too. But then I love stories like that.

  “Is Sloane still playing?” I asked.

  “No. In high school they make the girls play softball, and Sloane didn’t care for that. Same in college. She’s a junior now, majoring in women and international development at St. Catherine University in St. Paul. She wants to change the world for the better and won’t take no for an answer.”

  I found myself chuckling.

  “You think that’s funny?” Diane asked.

  “Not at all. I was just thinking—I’ve never known a ginger you could push around.”

  “That’s because they’re teased when they’re young. They grow up tough. When she slid into second base, it was always cleats high. You know what I mean by that
?”

  “Sure. I played ball myself. For a young woman who demands to be taken seriously, it makes a powerful statement.”

  “It does indeed.”

  I noticed Diane’s eyes search my left hand, third finger for a ring that wasn’t there. It gave me a pleasant jolt that grew in intensity when I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, either. It aroused in me a golden-blond memory of a woman, the one who came and went before Nina. In many ways Nina was a miracle, the rebound girl who stayed.

  “You interest me, McKenzie,” Diane said.

  Do I need to remind you, my inner voice said, that you’re spoken for?

  No, you don’t, I told myself.

  “You and the other members of the Hotdish,” I said. “When did you become aware that Harris was abusing his wife?”

  Whatever Diane had been thinking was pushed to the back of her mind. She spun in her chair, returned the photograph to its spot on the credenza, and spun back again.

  “Some suspected right away,” she said. “The more Jayne denied it, the more they suspected. But me? I’m often oblivious to what’s going on with other people, their emotions. It’s a personal failing, I know. Once I found out, though—I don’t know why Frank beat Jayne. I don’t know why she let him. It’s incomprehensible to me. My husband cheated on me fifteen years ago. I divorced him on the spot. If he had tried to beat me, I might have killed him. Certainly I would have had him arrested. There’s no compromise in these matters.”

  Now we know why her daughter is so tough, my inner voice said.

  “What did you think when you learned that Frank had been killed?”

  “He got what was coming to him.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Are you asking if I believe Jayne was responsible? She was not. That’s the one thing I know for sure. She was surrounded by Hotdishers at the time.”

  “Were you among them?”

  “No, I—” Diane became very still. “I was out of town. I believe Detective Downing made inquiries just to make sure.”

  I did a quick review of Downing’s notes in my head. Something about Chicago—I’d have to check.

  “What about the other Hotdishers?” I asked.

  “Most of them were at the party that night. Those that weren’t, like me, they were cleared by the police. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

  “Actually, I do. I just wanted to hear what you had to say.”

  “You don’t consider me to be a suspect, then?”

  “When you have no suspects, everyone becomes a suspect. All I know for sure is that Harris was killed by someone he knew, by someone he had arranged to meet.”

  “I assume you believe that person works for the Szereto Corporation.”

  “Not necessarily. Diane, you work in an extremely competitive industry.”

  She leaned back in her chair and regarded me cautiously as if she were unsure what I was getting to and didn’t like it—being unsure. She picked up the pen; it was something to hold while she considered my statement.

  “That’s why it’s fun,” she said.

  “Is there much corporate espionage?”

  “Now I understand where you’re going. To answer your question—yes and no. Sometimes the struggle for customers can become very aggressive, and industrial spying often affords high gains and little risk to those who practice it, because more often than not it goes undetected until a knock-off is introduced to the marketplace. Even then it’s extremely difficult, if not impossible, to trace the origin of the product. However, it’s nothing compared to the tech industry, where entire companies can rise and fall based on who launches what products first.”

  “Yet there’s money to be made.”

  “Are you suggesting that Frank could have been involved in the theft of proprietary information, that he might have attempted to sell it to our competitors and that somehow this contributed to his murder?”

  “I am.”

  “Nonsense. For one thing, he wasn’t privy to any of our restricted areas. Believe me, security protocols were quite effective back then. They’re even better now. Unless you have clearance, you’re not allowed anywhere near R&D, and those employees that are have to check their smartphones at the door. Besides, he wasn’t the type.”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  Diane didn’t have an answer for that. I asked, “From the time Harris started working for you until now, have any of your competitors come up with products or marketing schemes that made you wonder?”

  “Time and memory, again. Yes, there have been a couple of things that made me suspect … McKenzie, we have people, all they do all day is evaluate competitive products, competitive claims, and marketing materials, searching for possible patent and copyright infringements, and they haven’t found anything actionable that could be traced back to Frank.”

  “Okay.”

  Diane played with her pen some more.

  “McKenzie, what if I asked you to leave this matter alone?” she asked.

  “I’d have to ask you why.”

  “I don’t want my friends upset.”

  “If you’re referring to Malcolm and Jayne, they’re already upset, and they’re the ones who asked me to investigate.”

  “Jayne didn’t.”

  How does she know? my inner voice asked. News must travel awfully fast in the New Brighton Hotdish.

  “Perhaps not,” I said. “However, she seemed okay with it when we spoke, which makes me wonder if you might not have another reason for asking me to quit.”

  “Is this how you spend your time, making obscene suggestions?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Diane stood so abruptly I was startled. A moment later, Candy appeared. She spoke loudly. “Ms. Dauria, you’re needed in the conference room.”

  Diane glanced back at the jeweled watch wrapped around her wrist.

  “Thank you, Ms. Groot. McKenzie, I’m afraid I must end this.” She circled the desk and offered her hand again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful.”

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me to speak with you again at some later date.”

  “If I have the time. I’m a working girl, you see.”

  “I thought you were the man.”

  “Which means I need to work harder than most men. Mr. McKenzie, I cannot have you disrupting my workforce with your questions, either.”

  With that Diane moved toward the door. She spoke as she passed Candy. “Please see Mr. McKenzie to the elevators.”

  She was out of the office and moving down the corridor when I spoke to her assistant.

  “Was it something that I said?” I asked.

  “You brought up a subject that’s very difficult for us.”

  “You know what we were talking about?”

  “Of course. This way, McKenzie.”

  Candy was a lot less talkative on our way back to the elevators near the reception area. I couldn’t have that. If I was unable to call on Diane for help, I might need hers.

  “Ms. Groot,” I said. “Candy—I owe you an apology. Frank Harris’s son asked me to investigate what happened to his father. I was so concerned with his feelings that I didn’t consider what effect my questions might have on others.”

  Candy squeezed my arm. I don’t know if she meant it maternally or otherwise.

  “Did you know Frank Harris?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I didn’t care for him. It seemed … He did a good job, at least that’s what I was told. But it seemed to me as if he wished he were somewhere else. Like him or not, though, he was one of us. What you need to understand, McKenzie, is that tragedy has befallen the Szereto family before, and it hurts to be reminded of it. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Of course, only if it’s not too painful, may I ask—what tragedy?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Szereto. The son, not the father
. He was murdered two and a half years ago.”

  What did she say?

  “Murdered?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. He was so young, too. His wife was pregnant at the time.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  We were standing next to the bank of elevators. Candy pressed the down button.

  “Not much to tell, I’m afraid,” she said. “He was president of the company right before Ms. Dauria took charge. One day, well, one night, actually, he was shot to death while he was sitting in his car at a stoplight. The police never found out who did it.”

  “Why was he killed?”

  “If they knew that, then they’d know who killed him, wouldn’t they?”

  She had a point.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “Practically watched him grow up working for his father.”

  “What about you? Do you have a theory why Szereto was killed, who killed him?”

  Candy’s lips curled into a thin smile, only there was no joy in it. At the same time, a bell pinged and the doors of the elevator slid open.

  “Good afternoon, McKenzie,” she said.

  FOUR

  The killing of Frank Harris might have been worth only six paragraphs in the St. Paul Pioneer Press, but the murder of Jonathan Szereto Jr.—that was covered by the Pioneer Press, the Minneapolis Star Tribune, the MinnPost, all the local TV stations, and Minnesota Public Radio. Money will do that. I noticed, though, that all the reports I found on the Internet were filed within twelve days after the shooting. Which meant that the cops had developed no new information since then that would have kept the story alive—at least none that they had been willing to share.

  I called Detective Downing, catching him just as he was about to call it a day.

  “I wonder if you could do me a favor,” I told him. “There was a homicide committed in St. Louis Park two and a half years ago. An unsolved homicide. Will you reach out to the lead investigator on the case, see if he’ll speak to me?”