“What homicide?”
I told him what my online research had told me—approximately 8:30 P.M., Thursday, June 22, Jonathan Szereto Jr., the forty-three-year-old son of beauty industry pioneer Jonathan Szereto Sr. and president of the Szereto Corporation, was driving home from an undisclosed location.
“The police determined that he had left his offices at 5:36 P.M.,” I said. “Yet they have no idea where he was for the ensuing three hours or what he was doing. Just like with Frank Harris.”
“Probably not just like him, but go on.”
“Szereto stopped at a traffic light less than a mile from his office. An unidentified vehicle pulled next to his. A witness out walking his dog said he heard two dull pops that he thought might have come from inside the second vehicle, but when he didn’t hear the sound again, he ignored it. He didn’t believe anything was amiss until the unidentified vehicle sped off after the light changed while the car carrying Szereto remained at the intersection.”
“Was he the one who called it in?” Downing asked.
“No. The driver of the car that came up behind Szereto and was caught waiting through two red lights called it in. He blew his horn a few times and then went up to Szereto’s window wondering if he had passed out or something; saw the blood. Szereto had been shot in the head and the throat with a nine-millimeter handgun. Very messy. From what I read, the St. Louis Park PD never came up with a viable person of interest. The press speculated that it was a random shooting like when that schoolteacher was shot a while back for no particular reason.”
“This is connected to my case how?”
“You have to admit it’s an interesting coincidence.”
“In what way?”
I explained the math.
“Szereto was killed two and a half years ago, at about the same time that Harris began abusing his wife. Six months later, Diane Dauria was named president of the Szereto Corporation, replacing Szereto. Almost immediately, she dismissed the company’s director of human resources and hired Harris—they were both members of the New Brighton Hotdish, you see. One year later, Harris was killed.”
Downing laughed at me. Can’t say I blamed him.
“And you think what?” he asked. “That Dauria asked Harris to kill Szereto so Dauria could get a promotion—and then paid him off with a new job before killing him a year later—because why exactly?”
“I haven’t worked out all the details yet.”
“Well, here’s one—I can place Dauria in Chicago at the time of the Harris stabbing. She was conducting a seminar with a chain of salons or whatever they’re called that carries their merchandise; something about new product innovations. It’s in my notes.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean she didn’t have it done while she was gone, though.”
“It sounds to me, McKenzie, like you’re grasping at straws.”
“Clark, I went through your supplementals very carefully. Your investigation was thorough as hell. Grasping at straws is pretty much all that’s left. So far this is the only thing I could find that seems amiss. Can I use that word again? Anyway, just for my own peace of mind…”
“Yeah, mine, too. I’ll call you back.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you sure there aren’t any other unsolved homicides we should be looking into?”
“I’ll let you know.”
* * *
I was starting dinner when Nina came home. She stopped inside the doorway and inhaled deeply.
“That smells good,” she said. “What is it?”
I answered as she discarded her winter coat and boots: braised boneless pork ribs simmering in a gravy laced with chili powder; mashed potatoes seasoned with onion salt, black pepper, butter, cream cheese, sour cream, and chives; plus green beans and pecans sautéed in chicken broth and maple syrup.
“You are such a good cook,” she told me.
I turned the heat down to a simmer on everything and wrapped my arms around her.
“There are a few other things I’m pretty good at, too,” I said.
“What do they say in Missouri? You’ll have to show me.”
“I can do that. Do you need to go back to Rickie’s tonight?”
“Nope.”
“After dinner…”
“What’s wrong with before dinner?”
“Now that you mention it…”
Erica walked through the front door. She was leading Malcolm by the arm because he had trouble seeing where he was going; his head was tilted back, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose.
“We’re almost there,” Erica said.
“This is so embarrassing,” Malcolm told her.
“Don’t be such a child.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Erica led Malcolm up the steps into the kitchen area and halted at the sink. She wet a wad of paper towels with cold water and pressed it against his nose. He took the towels into his own hand and lowered his head.
“Is it still bleeding?” she asked.
“I think it stopped.”
“It doesn’t look broken.”
“It hurts, though.”
“Uh-hum,” Nina said.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, McKenzie. Are we interrupting anything?”
Nina stepped out of my embrace.
“Gosh, honey, whatever gave you that idea?” she said.
“Mom, this is Malcolm. Mal, my mother.”
“Hello, Ms. Truhler.” The paper towels gave Malcolm’s voice a muffled quality. “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
“Call me Nina. What happened to you?”
Malcolm looked at Erica as if he were afraid she would answer the question. She didn’t.
“Nothing,” Malcolm said. “Just a silly accident.”
“Like what happened to your hand?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to come here. Erica made me.”
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want your mother to see you like this,” Erica said.
I took a chance.
“Was the accident caused by Critter Meyer?” I asked.
Malcolm started speaking—“How do you know”—and stopped.
“I’m a semiprofessional private investigator,” I said. “Remember?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I honestly don’t know what to think. Help me out.”
Malcolm didn’t answer.
“Erica?” I said.
She raised both her hands in surrender. “Leave me out of it,” she said.
Nina grabbed Erica’s wrist and lowered her hand to get a good look at her knuckles. They were swollen. She pulled Erica over to the sink, turned on the cold water, and pushed the girl’s hand into the flow.
“I don’t know about McKenzie,” she said, “but I’m starting to lose my temper—something I hardly ever do.”
Erica smiled at her mother’s words. “Hardly ever?” she asked.
“Rickie…”
“Mom, I’m in kind of a difficult spot here.”
She made promises, my inner voice said.
I stepped closer to Malcolm.
“I’m only going to ask one more time,” I said.
“I was in a fight, okay?” he said.
“With Critter?”
“Yes.”
“What was that about?”
“It’s personal.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You got into a fight with my daughter,” Nina said.
“Not with her. I mean, she was there.”
“That’s what I meant. It’s why I’m taking it personally.”
“Stop yelling at me. People are always yelling at me.”
I stepped between Nina and the kid; I was pretty sure that she might have punched him if I hadn’t. I deliberately kept my voice low and calm.
“Explain it to us,” I said.
“I
knew he was looking for me. You did send the text,” Malcolm said. “I ignored it, and then we met up at this coffeehouse on Silver Lake Road, him and some other friends.”
Friends?
“That doesn’t tell me what the fight was about,” I said.
Malcolm glanced at Erica. She didn’t say a word.
“It was”—Malcolm turned his head so Erica couldn’t see his face—“about a woman.”
“My daughter?” Nina asked.
“No, a different woman. You don’t know her.”
I took another chance.
“Sloane Dauria?”
Malcolm’s eyes grew wide with—was it surprise or fear? Probably both, I decided.
“Sloane, no, why?” he said. “What do you know about Sloane?”
“I know she’s pretty fast.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fourteen stolen bases in fifteen attempts your championship year.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember.”
“What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does any of this have to do with Rickie?” Nina asked.
“Nothing.”
Nina held up Erica’s hand, now dripping with water.
“Then how did she get hurt?” she asked.
Erica freed herself.
“There were three of them,” she said. “Only one of him, so—I hit the one who was closest, just the way McKenzie taught me.”
I winced at the answer, and not just because Nina glared at me as if I were the cause of every problem that had ever existed in the world. I had contributed only three lessons to Erica’s education: I taught her how to play Texas Hold ’Em, pick locks, and throw a punch. In my defense, I hadn’t actually expected her to do any of those things.
“I didn’t need your help,” Malcolm said.
“The patriarchy is alive and well and standing in my kitchen,” Erica told him.
“C’mon, Rick.”
“Know what? Next time I’ll just stand by and watch them pummel you about the head and shoulders.”
“Why were you fighting over Sloane Dauria?” I asked.
“You were fighting over some other girl while you were out with my daughter?” Nina asked.
“We weren’t fighting cuz of Sloane,” Malcolm said. “I mean, she was part of it, but only because—arrrrrggggg. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
My inner voice said, There are too damn many kitchen knives lying around. I took hold of Nina’s shoulders and turned her away. She didn’t like it, yet she didn’t resist, either. I guided her to the sofa in front of the fireplace in the living room area.
“Let the children work it out among themselves,” I said
She didn’t reply. I think it was because she didn’t trust herself to speak. The one aspect of Nina’s life that you don’t mess with—ever—is her daughter.
We sat with our backs to the kitchen area. After a couple of beats Nina attempted to speak, but I put a finger to my lips. The thing with living in what amounted to a single room, the acoustics were wonderful. Even though the kids were now whispering, we could hear them plainly; it was as if they were sitting next to us.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in my problems,” Malcolm said.
“It’s okay.”
“Now your mother hates me.”
“She hates all the men I’m involved with.”
“Are we involved?”
“Mal…”
“I know, I know. Best friends forever.”
“We are involved, though, you and I. McKenzie is, too, because of me. You can’t keep secrets from him, you know. Not if you want him to help you.”
“What happened today, that has nothing to do with my father. This thing with me and Critter, it goes back way before … before Dad was … before he was killed.”
“What thing?”
“Rickie, can we not talk about it? It was such a long time ago.”
“Not so long that Critter has forgotten.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to forget.”
“How come all this time you’ve never mentioned Sloane Dauria to me? Who is she?”
“Someone I played baseball with on the team in New Brighton. She was really good.”
“Is she pretty?”
Oh-oh, my inner voice said.
“Yeah, she really is.”
“Prettier than me?”
“No one is as pretty as you.”
Nice save, kid.
“Besides, Critter hangs around with her all the time,” Malcolm said. “I mean, he’s always at her house.”
“Does that make you jealous?”
Ssssssssss …
“What? No. If anything, he should be jealous of me. He sees you standing next to me; he has to think his whole life sucks.”
Not bad, not bad …
“I’m just teasing with you,” Erica said.
“I have to go, but, Rickie—New Year’s Eve, there’s a party, some of my teammates from when I played ball, this group my mom is part of, if you’re not doing anything…”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to that party.”
“I wasn’t, but now my mom is making a big deal out of it. Anyway, I was wondering…”
“Oh, Mal. I wish I could. I have to work. The club, my mom’s club that she named after me, New Year’s Eve is huge, and she needs me to help out. Maybe if you had asked sooner … Thanks for asking, though. I appreciate it.”
“’Kay.”
“I’ll see you before the party, though.”
“Absolutely.”
“And we’ll get together during the weekend.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I turned my head just enough to watch Erica lead Malcolm to the door. They hugged but didn’t kiss, and then he was gone. Erica closed the door and leaned against the wood, supporting her weight with one hand.
“Mom, do you need any help New Year’s Eve?” she asked.
“You can help hostess, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
Erica wiggled her fingers as she moved toward us to prove it was undamaged.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
“Not much to tell. We were at this coffeehouse in New Brighton. The Bru House, I think it’s called. When we left, Critter—I didn’t know who he was then—he and two other guys showed up. Critter pushed Mal, and Mal pushed him back. They didn’t even speak to each other at first, just started pushing. I know you don’t want to hear it, Mom, but that was kinda fun. I mean, it’s fun to know I can really hurt a guy if I have to. The one I hit, he cupped his face like it was going to fall off, and then I kicked him in the knee like McKenzie said I should. He limped back to the car, and the other guy just sort of stepped off while Malcolm and Critter started throwing punches at each other. Critter said, ‘What are you doing?’ and Mal said, ‘I’m not doing anything,’ and Critter said, ‘Don’t lie to me. I was at your mom’s.’”
What does that mean? my inner voice asked.
“That’s about all the conversation they had,” Erica said. “The thing is, though—even while they were hitting each other, they didn’t seem like they were that angry. It was like they were just going through the motions, you know? Like it was something they felt they had to do. Then these other guys came out of the coffeehouse and broke it up, and I drove Malcolm’s car here because he didn’t want to go home right away. Anyway, thank you, McKenzie. For teaching me.”
Erica retreated to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“Thank you, McKenzie,” Nina said. “For teaching her.”
“There are a couple of moves I could teach you, too, if you’re still interested.”
Nina patted my knee. “Not while Rickie’s home.” She moved toward the kitchen area. “When’s dinner?”
Dammit!
FIVE
Detective Sergeant Margaret Utley
had a suspicious nature. She agreed to meet me per Downing’s request, except not at a neutral location. Instead, she selected one of the four substations that the St. Louis Park Police Department actually labeled “cop shops.” We spoke in an interrogation-slash-conference-slash-break room over foam cups filled with really awful coffee.
“What do you have for me?” she asked.
“I was hoping you had something for me.”
“That’s not how this is going to work.”
“How is it going to work?”
“You’re not going to see my case files; I don’t give a damn how they do things in New Brighton. But if you can help me, then maybe I can help you.”
“Quid pro quo.”
“Now we’re speaking the same language.”
“I have an unsolved homicide of a white suburban male, not into drugs, not in the life, which means the odds of him being murdered were quite slim. You have an unsolved homicide of a white one-percenter, also living the squeaky clean, which means the chances of him being murdered were even less. Both worked for the same company—”
“Not at the same time.”
“True. However—”
“However, the Szereto Corporation has employed thousands of workers in its forty-three years of existence. It currently has over four hundred full- and part-time employees. The odds that two of them were involved in violent death within eighteen months of each other are not as statistically improbable as you seem to think, such is the world we live in.”
“When I worked the job you have, I never took a coincidence lightly regardless of how statistically probable or improbable it might have seemed at the time, and neither do you.”
“Why would you assume that, McKenzie?”
“When I called to set up the meet after Detective Downing gave me your name, you could have told me to go … entertain myself. You didn’t.”
Utley regarded me carefully.
“My experience, someone that kills and gets away with it—often they feel empowered to do it again,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“You’re right. It is possible that the person or persons unknown who killed Jonny Szereto might have been working for the company. It’s possible they might also have killed Frank Harris.”
“Which brings us back to where we started.”
Detective Utley showed me the palms of both her hands as if she expected me to keep speaking, so I did.
“During your investigation, did you speak to Diane Dauria?” I asked.
What the Dead Leave Behind Page 5
