Rask glanced at his watch. He was always glancing at his watch.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked.
“You spoke to McKenzie Tuesday.”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me what you spoke about—if it’s not sensitive?”
“It was about a missing persons case. Actually, I believe it was murder, although it was never designated as such.”
“Murder?”
“Gerald King was a businessman. Owned a finance company here in Minneapolis. One day, poof, he was gone. He was last seen leaving his office at five thirty P.M on a Wednesday in September in the year 2000. We did not get the call from his family. His wife had died four years earlier. His family, his immediate family, consisted at the time of a son named Porter, age twenty-one, and a son named Charles, age nineteen. They were both attending Northwestern University at the time. There was a daughter, age sixteen, named Jenna who was a sophomore at Minnehaha Academy. She and her father lived in the house alone. No, the call came from business associates who were alarmed that he hadn’t shown up at his office, blowing off several important meetings without explanation.”
“Odd,” Shipman said. “Usually, it’s the family who makes the call.”
“Within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of the subject going missing, too,” Rask said. “The children, however, claimed that it was not unusual for their father to stay away from home for days at a time. The middle child, Charles, accused the father of being an abusive, absentee father who slept around. He was very angry.”
“Was he?”
“Yes. The sister didn’t seem particularly happy, either. She confirmed what her brother had said.”
“What about the other son, Porter?”
“He didn’t say much of anything. Both Charles and Porter were in Chicago when Gerald disappeared. Well, Evanston. I didn’t discover that until later when I delved deeper into the case. At the time, I thought Gerald King had simply gone out for a pack of cigarettes and kept on going. A rich, middle-aged widower who became disenchanted with his life and simply walked away from it. It’s always been easy for Americans to go somewhere else and start over. That’s what our ancestors did. That’s why America exists today. You’re too young to remember the director of the Minneapolis City Council. She packed her bags, arranged for an attorney to pay off her debts, and, poof, she was gone. Nobody knew where she went. Everybody had a theory—she had embezzled money and was on the run or she had taken up with a secret lover or had been abducted or had been murdered. Turned out she had gone to San Francisco to become a different person. That’s what I was thinking about when I caught Gerald King’s case. There was no sign of foul play, as they say. No evidence of a crime.”
“What changed your mind?” Simpson asked.
“The car.”
“King’s car that was found in the parking lot of a marina on Lake Superior? Wouldn’t that have fit your initial theory? Park the car, jump on a boat, and sail to God knows where. Sail off to Canada.”
“Except we impounded the car and went over it. We found hair samples and a single drop of dried blood in the backseat that belonged to King.”
“So? It was King’s car.”
“What do you drive?” Rask asked.
“A Ford Prius.”
“Nice car.”
“Thanks.”
“Does it have a backseat?”
“Of course.”
“Ever sit there?”
Shipman found herself thinking about it.
“No,” she said.
“How long have you owned the car?”
“Four years.”
Rask spread his hands in a do-you-get-it gesture.
“That’s not evidence of murder, of course, but it was enough for me to expand the investigation,” he said. “Starting with the kids. I couldn’t place Charles and Porter in Chicago the night of the disappearance, but I could early the next morning. It’s an awfully long drive from there to here and then back again. There was no evidence that Jenna had ever left the house after she came home from school. We checked the phones and found that she had made one call to her aunt Mary Ann Sohm in Shell Lake, Wisconsin, that had lasted about five minutes. We interviewed both parties separately and they agreed—Jenna had called because she was worried when her father failed to come home from work. Her aunt told her not to worry, that he would turn up; he always did.
“Next we interviewed the people who worked for him. At first we got the usual answers, especially from the men—he was a nice guy, a demanding but fair boss, and so on and so forth. The more we pressed though—it turned out that he was a lying sonuvabitch who had been abusing his female employees for years, especially the young, single, and vulnerable women; blackmailing them, forcing them to exchange sexual favors for their jobs.”
“How many?”
Rask held up four fingers.
“That’s the number that would talk to us on the record,” he said. “Who knows how many more were keeping quiet because of fear or embarrassment or I don’t know what. Who knows how many more had been abused who were no longer working there?”
Shipman thought—Anna Theresa Chastain? Was she one of them? Is this what McKenzie meant when he wrote “Dave isn’t going to like this”?
“No one said anything?” she asked aloud.
“This was long before the hashtag MeToo Movement, Detective. Back in those days, women were rarely believed when they accused a man who wasn’t a stranger of sexual assault, rarely taken seriously unless there was plenty of physical evidence, like strangulation marks on their throats. Even then it was always their fault because of the way they were dressed or because they had a drink in a bar or because—ah. You know the story. Us.” Rask tapped his chest. “Law enforcement. We had a lot to do with that, too, God forgive us. It wasn’t just us though. It was the politicians, the entertainment industry, the porn industry; it was—when King first started preying on his female employees back in the seventies, people like Phyllis Schlafly were working to kill the Equal Rights Amendment, saying things like ‘sexual harassment on the job is not a problem for virtuous women.’”
“I don’t care about the circumstances,” Shipman said. “The women should have done something.”
“Not everyone gets to carry a gun, Detective. In any case, I believe that someone did do something. A woman. Or perhaps her husband or boyfriend, father, brother, cousin. I think Gerald King was executed by one of his vics or someone close to one of his vics and his body was disposed of, probably in Lake Superior.”
“Why Superior, though? There are ten thousand lakes in Minnesota.”
“McKenzie asked the same question, only he said there were 11,842 lakes in Minnesota.”
“Leave it to him to know the exact number. Still, why not one of the 11,842 lakes? Or dump his body in the Mississippi River? Or the Minnesota? Or the St. Croix? Or bury him in one of our—what is it—fifty-nine state forests? Why drive two hundred and thirty-five miles to Red Cliff, Wisconsin? And why Red Cliff? Superior is a big fricking lake. You could toss his body anywhere.”
“I don’t know,” Rask said. “If I did, I would have closed King’s case twenty years ago. That’s what I told McKenzie. I also told him that I didn’t particularly care one way or the other. Not then and not now. I know I’m supposed to care. Care deeply. You can’t choose the victim; one of the first things they teach you at the academy. The law works for everybody or it doesn’t work for anybody. But of all the murders I caught and haven’t solved—I promise I don’t lose sleep over this one.”
“What about the King kids? What did they do when Daddy didn’t come home?”
“Nothing. Here in Minnesota, a missing person is considered alive and well. It’s only after the person is missing for a continuous period of four years that he will be presumed dead and probate can begin. So, for four years the King children continued to live as if their father was still alive; as if he’d walk back in through the front door a
t any moment. Porter and Charles moved back to the Cities; both enrolled at the University of Minnesota. They lived in their house in Linden Hills with their sister Jenna, went to school, paid the bills—they had access to the old man’s accounts and apparently they found a man to run Gerald’s business as if Gerald was on vacation, paying the kids their fair share of the profits as they went along. After four years, a judge declared Gerald dead and they finally collected their inheritance, sold the business, and moved on from there.”
“From what I’ve read, they seemed to have done pretty well for themselves,” Shipman said.
“Except now Charles King is missing.”
* * *
Victoria Dunston was lying on her bed and reading a textbook when she heard a knock on her bedroom door. The door opened and her sister stepped inside without waiting for a reply.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
Katherine crawled onto the double bed and sprawled alongside Victoria.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Then eat.”
“I better wait for dinner. You know Mom.”
Victoria did know her mother and knew that she had never once objected when her daughters grabbed an apple or banana or a handful of grapes when they came home from school. Cookies and chocolate bars, however, were a different matter. She glanced at her watch. It was a good two hours before dinnertime.
“Where is Mom, anyway?” Victoria asked.
“In the kitchen cleaning.”
“Again?”
“She just finished talking to Nina. There’s no change in McKenzie’s condition.”
Victoria sighed dramatically as if that was not the news she had wanted to hear.
“Did Dad find out who shot him yet?” she asked.
“Dad never talks about his work, you know that.”
“This goes a little above and beyond his usual cases, wouldn’t you think?”
“That’s what I told him this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“What does Dad always say?”
“Let me guess—‘We’ll see’?”
“Man of a thousand words, that’s him.”
Victoria lifted her arm and her younger sister curled up against her, resting her head against her shoulder. Victoria lowered her arm and pulled her closer.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“About the same as you,” Katherine said.
“That well, huh?”
“What are you studying?”
“Biology.”
“Let me see.”
Victoria gave her a good look at the page she was reading.
“Looks like gibberish to me,” Katherine said.
“You need to study more. Seriously.”
“You need to get out of the house and play some ball. Seriously. Hang out with friends and talk about something besides what college has the best ROI.”
“I’ll start doing the one if you do the other.”
“Deal.”
“I have a cache of snack bars hidden away in my desk drawer. Help yourself.”
“I’m good. Thanks for offering.”
“Katie?”
“Vic?”
“Never mind.”
“Me, too, sister. Me, too.”
TEN
The office that housed the Homicide and Robbery Unit of the Major Crimes Division was empty when Shipman returned to the Griffin Building. She sat behind her desk and waited for the phone to ring, wishing for a felony; hell, she’d even settle for a gross misdemeanor—anything that would get her out and about instead of squandering her time trying to discover who shot me. Only the phone didn’t ring, so she went back to my notes.
What I did next.
* * *
After hearing what Chief Neville and Lieutenant Rask had to say, I decided to give Marshall Sohm another try.
Mr. Sohm, I apologize for my hissy fit. It was uncalled for. But you must understand how important this has become to me. I repeat that I want nothing from you or your daughter. Nor will I impose myself on your cousins and my half siblings Charles, Porter, and Jenna King. I wish merely to learn only about their father Gerald (and apparently my father, too). I need to know about his relationship with Anna Theresa Chastain, a secretary who might have worked for him forty-four years ago. I keep thinking that a twenty-minute conversation is all that I require from you or one of the Kings or even from some as yet unidentified source with knowledge of the situation. We don’t even need to have it in person. Please help me out. I am not going to let this go.
I waited and waited, yet Marshall did not respond. If he had really been my cousin, I would have been very disappointed in him. I might have even crossed him off my Christmas card mailing list. If I had a Christmas card mailing list.
I asked myself who else I could contact. There was Elliot Sohm and Emma King, of course, but I decided that they should be my absolute last resort. I even typed a note next to their names—“When all else fails.”
Beyond the girls, there were the Kings themselves. Somehow I didn’t think King Charles would make himself available to talk to a man claiming to be his long-lost brother, especially while the SEC was looking for him. Porter was a possibility, yet given all the controversy swirling around his family and KTech, he would certainly view me with suspicion. That left Jenna and the question—how do I find her?
Carleton College would know where she lived, I told myself. Only I couldn’t think of a gag that would convince them to give up her address or phone number and again, I didn’t want to involve Emma. It just seemed so tawdry.
What’s a step up from tawdry? my inner voice asked.
Mendacious, I told myself.
I searched my notes for a phone number and called it. A woman with a perky voice said “KTech Marketing Department. How may I direct your call?”
“Porter King,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. King is unavailable. May someone else assist you?”
“I hope so. My name is McKenzie. I’m calling on behalf of the Minneapolis / St. Paul Business Journal.”
“Mr. King will be answering questions concerning the absence of Charles King…”
“Miss?”
“At two thirty P.M. in our auditorium…”
“Miss, please.”
“For members of the press and interested shareholders.”
“Miss, I’m not calling about that.”
“No?”
“No, although if you have some insider information…”
“I do not.”
“I’m sure my employers will appreciate it.”
“What is it that you want, Mr. McKenzie?”
“I’m a freelance writer. The Journal hired me to work up a where-are-they-now piece about some of the businesspeople who have appeared in our annual Forty-Under-Forty series over the years. Are you familiar…”
“I am.”
“Six years ago, Ms. Jenna King appeared in the Journal. She was president of Social King, Incorporated, at the time. Since then, of course, Ms. King sold Social King to a firm in Seattle…”
“Yes.”
“And we lost track of her. The phones numbers we have for her office are no longer valid, of course, and neither are the numbers for the home phone where she lived in St. Paul with her daughter Emma.”
“Yes.”
That yes confirms that Jenna and Emma are mother and daughter, my inner voice told me, in case I had any doubt.
“We certainly want to include her in the piece; especially since she is still under forty,” I said aloud. “I was hoping that Porter King, Jenna’s brother, could supply me with a phone number or email address or even a land address so that we might contact Ms. King and arrange an interview. Or perhaps I might even impose on you. I would be happy to supply you with my own number and email address and if you could forward them to Jenna, she’d be welcomed to contact me at her convenience. Is that possible?”
Perky Voice paused b
efore she answered, “I’ll have to check.”
“I appreciate this very much. My number is…”
“I have your number on my computer.”
“Of course.”
“I will contact you as soon as I can.”
“Thank you again.”
“Good-bye, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Good-bye.”
After I hung up I thought, This should work. Only it didn’t. I waited and waited some more. I had a late lunch and waited again. Perky Voice didn’t call back. ’Course, she might have been too busy to reach out to Porter, so I decided to call her again and give her a nudge. Before I could even say hello and identify myself, Perky Voice, speaking in a very non-perky manner, said “Who do you think you are? More to the point, sir, who do you think we are that we would reveal personal information to any liar who calls us on the phone?”
“Miss…”
“You are not a freelance writer, Mr. McKenzie. Nor are you employed by the Minneapolis / St. Paul Business Journal. As far as we are concerned, you are nothing more than a criminal engaged in a fraudulent activity. Do not call this number again. Have a nice day.”
I was laughing as she hung up the phone. Have a nice day; even while telling me off she had to be polite. Minnesota Nice. Oh, well. At the same time I laughed at myself because of my own carelessness. What I should have done was taken a name off an article that had appeared in the Minneapolis / St. Paul Business Journal and used that.
If you’re going to lie, you need to commit to it all the way, my inner voice said.
Words of wisdom, I told myself.
Now what?
It was becoming increasingly obvious that I had exhausted pretty much all of the options available to me by personal computer and phone. I would need to leave the comfort of my condominium if I was to learn anything more about Dave Deese’s second family. But where would I go? What would I do? March down to KTech or AgEc and demand that Porter King or Marshall Sohm receive me? After the security guards escorted me off the premises, then what? Stage a sit-in?
I glanced at my all-purpose watch, the one that monitors my heart rate, counts the steps I walk, the calories I burn, the minutes I sleep, and only incidentally tells the time. One forty-four P.M. I reminded myself that Perky Voice said that Porter King would be answering questions concerning the absence of Charles King at two thirty P.M. in the company’s auditorium for members of the press and interested shareholders.
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 14
