What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  “Vice president in charge of research and development.”

  “She was vice president. She was made president of the company six months after Szereto was tagged.”

  “Which means she benefited from his death. Whaddya know, McKenzie? You might be useful after all.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Of course. She was in Chicago at the time of the murder.”

  “She was in Chicago when Harris was killed, too,” I said. “What do you think the odds are, statistically speaking?”

  “Depends on how often she goes to Chicago. Okay, McKenzie, here’s one for you. Jonny Szereto was not squeaky clean. He was a country-club drunk who tried to fuck everything in a skirt that he could make stand still. I have statements suggesting that when Jonny took over after the old man died, he turned the company into his own private whorehouse, threatening to terminate vulnerable female employees, single mothers, young women carrying huge student loans, unless they gave it up—blackmailing them into trading sexual favors for their jobs. The economy being what it was back then, what it still is…”

  I needed to let that sink in for a moment as my inner voice started calling the man names that you don’t often hear even on HBO. I found myself flashing on what Diane had said about Harris—He got what was coming to him.

  “Was Dauria among them?” I asked.

  “She said no. Nearly all of the women I interviewed said no. They claimed that they had not been abused and had no knowledge that anyone else had; they claimed they didn’t know what I was talking about. Some were straight-up angry about it. They accused me of slandering the Szereto name. Except a chosen few—apparently Jonny was very selective in choosing his victims, picking only on those that were”—by the sound of her voice, Utley was loath to speak the word even as she said it—“weakest. The women who confirmed the rumor begged me to keep it to myself. They were afraid their husbands, boyfriends, families wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t blame them for that.”

  “Neither do I, although if just one of them had had the nerve to step forward…”

  “You know how the system treats rape victims.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Especially if there’s no indication of violence; if it’s just he said, she said.”

  “I know.”

  “Who told you this was happening?”

  “Originally? It was the director of human resources, guy named Stuart Mason, but only after I leaned on him. Apparently a couple of the women complained, went to his office for help. He had their names and stories in his files.”

  “What did he do about it?”

  “Not a goddamn thing.”

  Now you know why Dauria fired him, my inner voice said.

  “You see my problem, then,” Utley said.

  “The names of the women…”

  “No. You don’t get that. Not from me.”

  “Did any of them live near the intersection where the shooting took place?”

  “I know what you’re going for. The man leaves his office, and three hours later he’s found dead only a mile away—maybe he spent the time forcing himself on one of his employees. I checked, and there were a few who lived in the general vicinity; more than a few. None of them admitted to being one of the bastard’s victims, though.”

  “How ’bout someone who didn’t admit it?”

  “A distinct possibility.”

  The look in Utley’s eye, I knew better than to push the matter any further.

  “Mason, then,” I said. “Where can I find him?”

  “Szereto?”

  “No. Dauria fired him the minute she took charge of the company.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Makes me think she knew what was going on.”

  “I don’t know. She seemed genuinely surprised about it when I interviewed her. If she had…”

  “That could be a motive, too. Protecting her co-workers…”

  “Or it could have been any of the women that Jonny raped, whether they lived nearby or not.”

  “Or their husbands. Or their boyfriends.”

  “Or—it could have been Jonny’s wife.”

  “Did she know what her husband was up to?” I asked.

  “She said she had no idea.”

  “Does that make her the last to know or simply the last one to admit it?”

  “Which brings us to Jonny’s mother—Evelyn Szereto. Turned out that she and Jonny had a big blow-up in front of witnesses about how he was running her husband’s—his father’s—business into the ground just days prior to the murder. She said, and I think I’m quoting accurately, ‘I can get rid of you in a heartbeat.’”

  “Did Evelyn know about the rumors?”

  “She denied it, too, at first. When I told her I had already interrogated the human resources director, she admitted that he had informed her about the complaints.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where Evelyn was when her son was shot.”

  “I do. She and her daughter-in-law were having a three-hour dinner at Club Versailles on Lake Minnetonka. Do you know it?”

  “One of those places where you need a black credit card before they’ll seat you at the bar.”

  “According to both of them, Vanessa had just learned that she was pregnant, and she and Evelyn were chatting about how their lives were going to be forever changed at just about the time someone stuck a nine-millimeter in Jonny’s face, the mother celebrating with six-hundred-dollar champagne and the daughter-in-law drinking designer water. Afterward, Vanessa drove them home. Turned out they all lived together.”

  “Cozy.”

  “And awfully convenient,” Utley said.

  “You have too damn many suspects.”

  “Tell me about it. Now you’ve added Diane Dauria to the list, and I can’t place her at the scene any more than I could the others. There were no traffic cameras in the vicinity. According to my only reliable witness, who admits he’s not a car guy, the shooter’s vehicle may or may not have been a dark-colored Toyota. That’s all I have.”

  “How come none of this made the papers, the evening news?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t about to tell anyone, and neither was the ACA; not unless it led to an indictment. Why would we? Ruin how many lives for no reason? As for the Szereto Corporation, ask yourself, would you want it to get out?”

  We both took turns sipping our coffee in the silence that followed. Finally Detective Utley said, “I should get back to work.”

  “Me, too.”

  Yet neither of us moved.

  I had to say it. “Detective Downing is upset that he hasn’t cleared the Harris homicide.”

  “Are you asking if I’ve lost sleep over the Szereto case? No, I haven’t, but McKenzie—first day on the job, I was taught you can’t choose the victim.”

  “I was taught the same thing.”

  “I want the killer.”

  I nodded as if I believed her.

  *   *   *

  I found Stuart Mason on LinkedIn. He was working for an investment firm in Golden Valley, only three miles from Szereto’s corporate offices. There was nothing in his profile that suggested he had been associated with the problems over there or that he had been fired. I went to his office without calling first for an appointment. The receptionist directed me to his door as if people dropped in on him unexpectedly all the time. His assistant was less accommodating, a practiced bureaucrat who relished the opportunity to control your life if ever so briefly, daring you to respond with resentment or anger or, God help you, with sarcasm. She thrust a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard at me and told me to fill in the blanks. I wrote “McKenzie” where it said NAME, scribbled “Jonathan Szereto Jr.” in large letters across the top page, and handed back the clipboard. The office assistant took one look and glared at me as if I were a jackrabbit that had somehow managed to invade her carefully cultivated garden.

  “It’s a personal matter,” I sai
d.

  She responded by taking the clipboard into the office located directly behind her desk. A moment later she reappeared. She motioned me through the office door. I moved past her. She closed the door behind me.

  A man was sitting behind a desk covered with files. He was wearing a dress shirt and dress slacks, but no tie or jacket. He pointed at the clipboard. “What is this?” He glanced down where I had written my name. “McKenzie.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about your time at Szereto.”

  “I’m bound by a confidentiality agreement.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the St. Louis Park Police Department.”

  “I will neither confirm nor deny anything they have to say.”

  “I’ve also spoken with Diane Dauria.”

  “That lesbian bitch?”

  The “bitch” part didn’t surprise me, but “lesbian”?

  Who cares? my inner voice said.

  “I take it you don’t think well of her,” I said.

  “I took care of the paperwork, her contract, payroll, benefits, all of that—gave her the papers to sign. When she finished I went to congratulate her on her promotion, only before I could even get the words out she fired me. Fired me. After all I did for Szereto. Had security escort me from the building.”

  “Why?”

  I had hoped the question would speed him along, yet it seemed to have the opposite effect. Mason leaned back in his chair and regarded me carefully.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Several fibs sprang to mind, some of them tried and true, but I figured a man in Mason’s profession would probably know a liar when he saw one. I decided I’d get further if I told the truth—sort of.

  “I’m investigating the murder of a Szereto employee,” I said. I emphasized the word “investigating” because it made me sound official.

  “Jonny Szereto?”

  “No. Someone else.”

  “There’s a second one?”

  “Frank Harris. Did you know him?”

  “No, but—I know the name. He’s the one they hired to replace me. He was a friend of that lesbian bitch. At least that’s what I was told back when I still had friends over there who would talk to me. When did this happen?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “A year?”

  “The cops were unable to solve the crime, so now I’m looking into it.”

  “They couldn’t find out who killed Jonny, either—fuckups.”

  I felt a chill of anger climb up my spine. Having been in harness myself, I don’t like it when people criticize the police, even when they richly deserve it, but I let it slide.

  “Who do you think killed Szereto?” I asked.

  Mason grinned at me.

  “Could have been a lot of people,” he said.

  “The women he abused?”

  “You heard about that, huh?”

  “I don’t think it’s a secret.”

  “Sure it is. The cops know because they’re the cops, because they read my files, but no one else except maybe some of the people the cops talked to. They were asking a lot of questions, you know? To most of the employees, though, the industry—it’s a deep, deep, deep dark secret.”

  “Were you responsible for that?”

  “Partly—and that lesbian bitch fired me for it. Do you think it was easy keeping all that shit quiet? Keeping those women quiet? I should write a book. Be a bestseller like Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “That damned confidentiality agreement.”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “The names of the women…”

  “Uh-uh. The police didn’t tell you, I’m not gonna. What has this to do with whatshisname, Harris, anyway?”

  “I’m trying to find out if there’s a connection. Tell me—when the women came to you, what did you do?”

  Mason regarded me for a few beats while his internal voices argued over whether or not he should tell the story. From the look in his eyes, he clearly wanted to. So I gave him permission.

  “This is just between you and me,” I said.

  “The first time, I took it to the boss.”

  “Jonny Szereto?”

  “What you gotta understand, McKenzie, my job is to serve the interests of the employer, not the employees—what I told that woman cop. HR serves employees, too, of course, for purposes of retention and morale, but only because it’s good for the company. At the end of the day, the employer always comes first.”

  “You took the complaint to your boss even though the complaint was about him?”

  “That’s what I was paid to do,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “I told him one of the secretaries, she was all teary-eyed, accused him of bringing her into his office, forcing her to her knees, and making her service him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to fire her.”

  “Did you?”

  “I told him if I did that, she might take it to the cops, go public. I told him this was the kind of thing that could destroy a company overnight, especially a company where I think maybe ninety-five percent of its customers are women. Also, at the time, there were rumors that the company was for sale, that some European conglomerate was looking to buy, so a scandal, not in Szereto’s best interests. Jonny just waved me off, told me to handle it.”

  Mason grinned again; swear to God, like he was enjoying the telling.

  “You have to admire the man’s audacity,” he said.

  I felt like bitch-slapping him upside the head. Instead, I asked, “Did you handle it?”

  “Not at first. At first I was like, if I ignore it, maybe it’ll go away. Then a second woman came forward. And a third. One woman, a girl really, even though she already had a kid in daycare, she said how Jonny brought her into the office, locked the door, and told her she was a substandard employee and he was going to fire her unless she shaped up. What he meant by that was she should slowly remove all of her clothes, do a kind of striptease, you know, and show him her shape. Then he made her lean against the glass wall of his office, her hands pressed against the glass so anyone driving along the freeway could look up and see while he fondled her tits and pussy. Afterward he penetrated her from behind, and when he finished he made her clean him off with her mouth. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Go ’head, my inner voice said. Beat the hell out of him.

  “So the problem wouldn’t go away,” I said aloud.

  “I knew this couldn’t go on, so, like I told the police, I took it to the boss’s boss.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Mrs. Szereto, his mother. She’s the chairman—chairwoman of the board of directors.”

  “I thought Szereto was a family-owned company.”

  “It is. Well, two-thirds of it is family owned. The rest of the shares are publicly traded. The board of directors—it’s what they call a paper board. It meets once or twice a year to approve the company’s financials, dividends, whatever is required by law. Mrs. Szereto waves all the shares she owns, and everyone else pretty much does whatever she says.”

  “What did Mrs. Szereto say when you went to her?”

  “She said she would take care of Jonny, and I should take care of the women.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “Some were promoted, some were transferred, some resigned; they all got money. Lots of money.”

  “Do you think that made it all right?”

  “I was just doing my job, protecting the company.”

  “Did Mrs. Szereto take care of her son?”

  “All I know is that they had a huge fight that very day in the conference room.”

  “Then what?”

  “Jonny got himself killed, but”—he held up his hand like a cop stopping traffic—“that was like three weeks later, so don’t go around saying I accused the old lad
y. Okay?”

  It happens all the time—you want to say something but you don’t know what until much later, when the perfect words come to you. By then, though, it’s too late. What I should have told Mason was that I wished he had been in the car with Jonny Szereto, that three shots were fired instead of two, and that one of them drilled him right between the eyes. Except I didn’t think of it until I was already in the parking lot and walking to my Mustang.

  SIX

  I have friends who live on Lake Minnetonka, but not many. That’s where Minnesota’s one percent hang out, and even though there are those who consider me to be a member of the fraternity, I never feel comfortable there. Call it my blue-collar upbringing asserting itself.

  I found Mrs. Szereto’s big house at the end of a long private driveway surrounded by several acres of snow left undisturbed except for the tracks of various woodland creatures. It had been decorated so tastefully for the holidays that I expected to turn around to see camera crews taking its photograph for magazine covers and postcards. I parked next to a four-car garage and walked to the door. It was cold enough that the thin layer of ice crunched beneath my feet; a north wind blew through my hair.

  I rang the bell. It was because of the brisk wind that I rang it again without waiting the polite length of time. The inside door was pulled open. A man stood there, a muscle-bound thirty-something trying to pass for a twenty something in a tight, thin, short-sleeve T-shirt and jeans. My first thought—didn’t he know it was cold outside? My second—he didn’t look like a servant. He looked like someone’s angry boyfriend.

  “Whaddya want?” he asked.

  “I’m McKenzie. I’m here to see Mrs. Szereto?”

  “Which one?”

  “The chairwoman of—”

  “I was just messin’ with you.” He opened the outer storm door. “Hurry in, then,” he said. “We’re not paying to heat the whole outdoors.”

  It was something my father might have said, but it didn’t make me like him any better. I stepped past him. He shut the door behind me. I stamped my feet.

  “I don’t want you here,” he said. “If I had my way—I’m just saying.”

  “That might bother me if I knew who you were.”

  “That’s none of your goddamned business. I know why you came around, and I don’t like it. That’s none of your goddamned business, either. I told Mrs. Szereto so. But she’s—you just watch yourself, that’s all I got to say.” And then, “Keep your shoes on,” he told me.