by Beverly Long
“I’m keenly aware of his involvement in that.”
It was an odd choice of words. “Keenly aware?” he repeated.
“When it first started, about three other VPs brought it to my attention. It made all of us a little uncomfortable that he was spearheading the effort. We didn’t want it to appear that it was a banking-led thing.” She held up a hand. “That sounded bad. It’s a good idea, right. But just not something that we’d generally take a lead on because there’s been a few situations with these efforts where the primary fund-raiser was working for his own gain. It would be problematic for Baywood Bank if that was the situation. So I immediately talked to him about it. And let me tell you, I read the fine print of how he’s got everything set up. I felt good when I could assure my peer group that it was all aboveboard, that the money would and could only go to the Whitmans. Steven evidently just felt moved to do something to help. He was being a good friend.”
“I guess I’m surprised that the bank felt so strongly about it.”
“Well, in truth, it probably had much to do with the fact that it was Steven Hanzel. He’s got a reputation in the bank.”
“For?”
“This will stay confidential between us, right, Detective?”
“As much as I can keep it,” he said.
She sighed. “That’s the same answer that I give. Steven Hanzel is an underperformer. He’s a loan officer who doesn’t get very many loans closed. Loan officers are basically sales representatives. And you’d think that his personality would be a good fit for that. But for some reason, he cannot seem to pull together the numbers that we expect or certainly what his own peer group produces. And some of his decisions about loans have also seemed questionable. So questionable that I’m reviewing every one that he authorizes above a certain limit.”
“So why does he still have a job?” A.L. asked.
“Excellent question. I inherited Steven from another VP who, quite frankly, isn’t willing to address performance issues. Over the last six months, I watched him closely and took every opportunity presented to me to coach him on his work. And when that didn’t have the desired effect, I started with the bank’s formal corrective action process. Steven Hanzel has received several written notices that his performance is lacking. Quite frankly, he’s on his last leg here.”
“Seems like a lot of work for somebody who isn’t doing the job.”
“Steven suffered a pretty severe hearing loss when he got sick in college. Mono? Meningitis? I can’t remember the reason. All I know is that it meets the definition of disability. Which complicates the issue for us. The bank doesn’t like to get sued by former disgruntled employees. When we do, we want to make sure that we win the case easily. Good documentation is our friend. But just as importantly, from my perspective, is that I’ve earned a reputation here as somebody who gives people a chance. I’ve turned around poor performers. I really wanted him to succeed. But he just gets in his own way.”
“How’s he do that?”
“I’d be speculating and I don’t want to do that.”
A.L. shrugged. “I won’t think less of you. In fact, right now, I’m thinking that you’re pretty smart and talented and that you’re a high performer, which is how you got to a VP position at what seems to be a fairly young age.”
She smiled. “I have worked hard.” She drummed a perfectly polished index finger on the table. “The bank does preemployment drug testing and four years ago, Steven Hanzel passed his. We only conduct ongoing testing when the work performance is such that we suspect that alcohol or drugs are affecting performance. I want to test him, but thus far my human resources department has put the brakes on that.”
“You think he’s a drug user.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. My ex-husband was an addict and I see some of the same behaviors.”
“Like?”
“Steven is a smoker so he makes a beeline outside every break and lunch hour. He stands near the south entrance, smoking and talking on his phone. Twice now, when I’ve walked by on my way to a midday meeting off-site, he’s stopped talking. Not stopped as in listening. He was midsentence both times that he saw me and boom, he goes silent. I think he’s making drug deals. But I’ve been told to manage him out of the bank based on his performance. So I’m biding my time.”
Steven Hanzel was on thin ice and he knew it. It made A.L. wonder if he’d shared that information with his best friend, Troy Whitman. And while it could not be disputed that it was a good thing to get the fund-raising going, perhaps Steven would have been better served to focus on his job.
“Do you happen to know the balance of the fund-raising account?” A.L. asked.
“I saw Steven in the employee break room yesterday. He couldn’t wait to tell me it was close to $160,000. I wish he watched his own numbers so closely.”
That was real money. People were very generous. “I appreciate your time, Ms. Federer.”
“I hope you find Emma and the person who is responsible for this.”
“Me, too.”
He left the bank and called Rena from the car. Filled her in. First on the fact that Shana Federer thought she’d seen Kara Wiese in the bathroom prior to 7:30. “Are you going to ask Kara about it?”
“Not just yet,” he said.
She didn’t ask why, probably figured he had a reason. After all, by Shana’s own admission she thought it was her but she didn’t really look at her. It just felt like something he wanted to hold in his pocket for now.
Then he told her about his conversation with Hanzel’s boss.
“Didn’t you say he was sort of an exuberant guy, kind of loud?” she asked. “Is it possible that’s a well-honed defense mechanism? Act confident and like you’re a winner and people will think you are. It’s a little like Chief Faster.”
That made sense. Both Steven Hanzel and Faster set his teeth on edge.
Talking to Rena made him remember that he had yet to order flowers for Tess. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“I’ll call once I’ve talked to Melissa Wayne,” Rena said.
A.L. hung up the phone and made a quick right-hand turn. Three minutes later, he pulled up in front of Petal Poof.
There was a young woman behind the counter who had probably been hired to take Jane Picus’s spot. Five minutes later, he’d purchased a forty-dollar bouquet of fresh flowers with a fall theme. Whatever the hell that was. He’d been assured the bouquet would be delivered today.
“Do you want a special message on the card?” the woman asked.
Maybe don’t pay attention to my crazy ex-wife, I never do. “No. Just A.L.”
“Al?” she asked.
“No. Never mind. Sign it Able.”
* * *
Rena rolled into Dover at 8:45. She had Melissa Wayne’s address plugged into her GPS. The woman’s house was a two-story with white siding, green shutters, a brick driveway and well-tended flowers in big pots. Nice, she thought. She knocked on the door. A woman wearing scrubs answered the door. She wasn’t very tall and Rena could easily look over her shoulder. She didn’t see or hear anything that made her think a five-year-old was in the house.
“Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
The woman shook her head. “She’s not home. Can I help you?”
Rena pulled her badge. “Detective Morgan, Baywood Police Department.”
The woman briefly studied her badge. Then lifted her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Can you tell me where I might find Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
“She’s at her shop.”
“Shop?” Rena repeated.
“She owns the Brighter Day Salon on Parke Street,” the woman said. “They open at 7:30 on Saturdays.”
“May I have your name, please?” Rena said.
“Candiss Lake.”
“And your rel
ationship to Ms. Wayne?”
“Personal,” Candiss said, her voice edgy.
“Thank you,” Rena said. She pulled a business card from her pocket. “If I happen to miss Ms. Wayne, would you give this to her and let her know that I need to talk with her?”
“Of course.” Candiss slipped the card into the pocket of her top.
Rena got into her vehicle and pulled up the Brighter Day Salon on Parke Street on her GPS. It was a short drive. She parked just left of the front door. There was a sign in the window advertising services. Cuts, color, facials. The list went on. Rena looked in the rearview mirror. Maybe she should get her eyebrows waxed while she was here. They were looking a little bushy.
When she opened the door, the smell of salon, of every salon ever known, assailed her. A bell tinkled and a small older woman behind the counter looked up. Rena couldn’t see anything else because a partition separated the front from the rest of the salon. She looked too old for a personal relationship with Candiss Lake but Rena didn’t want to assume.
“Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
“Oh no, honey. I just work the desk. Melissa is the owner. She’s back there.”
Rena stepped around the wall. Scanned the oblong space. Swivel chairs. A bunch of tall, thin young girls wearing black aprons. Sinks. A pedicure station. Customers. All female. Wet hair, foiled hair, almost dry hair. Her eyes stopped. There in the back, scissors in one hand, comb in the other, stood Alice Quest.
No. Not Alice Quest. It had to be Melissa Wayne.
But the resemblance was startling. Same face. Same lean body. Same brown hair, although Melissa’s had some blond highlights and it was shorter, cut in a stylish asymmetrical bob with one side pushed behind an ear that had at least four gold earrings in it.
Rena started walking toward her. Melissa put down her scissors.
“Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
“Yes.”
Rena assumed that Candiss Lake had immediately called or texted Melissa Wayne. So there should be no surprises. Rena passed her a business card. There was no reason to announce to a salon of women that the police were there. Melissa Wayne looked at it briefly.
“I really need to finish this cut,” she said. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
Rena looked at the woman in the chair. One side was four inches shorter than the other. “Sure,” Rena said.
Melissa pointed to a closed door. “That leads to a break room. There should be coffee. Help yourself.”
“Okay.”
There was coffee and Rena poured herself a cup. Then she sat at the oblong table and picked up a People magazine that was several weeks old. My God, when was everybody going to get over the royal family and their growing brood of royal babies? Still, Rena let her eyes settle on the one closest to the camera. Cute kid. A little red in the hair.
Her child could have red hair.
She owed Gabe an answer about using Shannon as a carrier for their baby. If she said no, they’d have to start the search over. Another delay. Another reason for Gabe to decide that maybe kidless was the way to go.
For one damn minute, can you stop being a cop? That’s what Gabe had asked her when she’d expressed concern about Shannon’s husband.
No. She didn’t think she could. It was who she was.
The door opened and Melissa Wayne walked in. She poured herself a cup of coffee and held the pot in Rena’s direction. Rena shook her head. Melissa took a seat on the other side of the table.
“Thank you for letting me finish with my customer,” she said.
“No problem,” Rena said. “You were expecting me,” she said.
“I was. Candiss sent a text.”
“More than that,” Rena said, taking an educated guess. “After you got Candiss’s text, you called Alice.”
Melissa stared at her cup. “I did,” she said finally looking up. “Woke her up. She hadn’t had her coffee yet.”
So Alice knew that the police were aware she’d lied about knowing Dover.
“My sister told me about the ridiculous conversation she had at the police station.”
“I can’t talk to you about that,” Rena said. She stared at the woman across the table. “The two of you really look very much alike.”
“People used to get us mixed up when we were younger,” Melissa said. “And Alice was able to use my ID easily to get into bars when she was still underage. Although I suspect that’s not something I should be telling you.”
“Not my worry right now,” Rena said. “I’m looking for a missing five-year-old.”
“It’s a terrible thing. But thinking that Alice had anything to do with it is really just a waste of time.”
“When did you move to Dover, Ms. Wayne?” Rena asked.
“After college.”
“Did Alice ever live in Dover?”
“No.”
“You were here ten years ago when Corrine Antler disappeared?”
“I was. Had just started the salon. It was all anyone talked about for weeks, maybe even months.”
“Did you know the Antler family?”
“Not before. But some of the local businesses got together to do some fund-raising for them afterwards and we met then. Nice people.”
“Did you know Trapper Frogg or his son, Coyote Frogg?”
“No.”
“Brenda Owen?”
“No.”
“Rosemary Bracken?”
Melissa opened her mouth, closed it. “Actually, I do. I cut her hair, like once every six months.”
Rosemary Bracken’s hair had been straight to her shoulders with a middle part. Not a hint of style that she saw in Melissa’s hair or in the cut she’d been doing earlier. “That’s a long time to go between haircuts.”
“Rosemary is a strange one. She doesn’t like to leave her house. But for some reason, she came to me more than five years ago for a haircut. I didn’t really want to do it. After all, she’s not the best advertisement for my work. But I felt sorry for her. She seemed to have a really lonely existence. Anyway, she continues to come.”
A.L. had asked if there was a connection between Alice and Rosemary Bracken. Through Melissa, there was. “Have you and Rosemary ever discussed Corrine Antler?”
“No. She’s only been a client for about five years. Long after Corrine went missing.”
“Did you know that Rosemary was once considered a person of interest in Corrine Antler’s disappearance?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay. Did you and Alice ever talk about the Antler disappearance?”
“I imagine we did.”
“But you don’t remember for sure?” Rena asked.
“Detective, it was ten years ago. No, I do not remember every conversation I had with my sister ten years ago.”
“You’ve never talked about it recently?”
“No. I... I don’t want to sound crass, but quite frankly I’d sort of forgotten about it. I’ve had my own shit going on. In the last ten years, I got married, got divorced, started a business and watched Candiss’s mother die a slow death from Alzheimer’s.”
“When’s the last time that you saw Alice?”
“Fourth of July. We had a picnic at my house.”
Fairly recently. Was that when Alice had remembered the Antler case? Had they talked about it there? “Who was at the picnic?” Rena asked.
“Me. Her. Candiss. A few friends that we’ve all known for years.”
“Their names?” Rena asked.
“Is this really necessary?” Melissa asked.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t,” Rena said, pen in hand.
“This is just getting ridiculous,” Melissa said, shaking her head.
Rena said nothing.
“Maggie Simmons. Patrice Candle. Ben Wallace. Patri
ce and Ben live next door. Maggie is Patrice’s sister.”
“Do you have contact information on all of them?”
Melissa pulled it up on her phone and Rena copied it down. “Thank you,” Rena said. She got up and had her hand on the break room door when Melissa suddenly stood up.
“My sister loves those kids. Fuck. Loves them more than their parents do. That’s who you should be looking at. Emma’s parents. Alice has said stuff about them. Stuff that sure as hell isn’t going to get them nominated for parents of the year.”
“What stuff?” Rena asked.
Melissa stared at her. “Just pay attention to the parents, okay?” She brushed past Rena. “I have to get back to work. Show yourself out, Detective.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Rena was parked in front of Patrice Candle and Ben Wallace’s house. She’d not yet had time to get out of her car when a Honda rounded the corner and pulled into the driveway. A woman was driving. The garage door went up, then down. Rena counted to thirty before opening her door. She knocked and the front door opened.
“Patrice Candle?” Rena asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Morgan from the Baywood Police Department.” Rena waited for a hint of recognition. After all, she figured Melissa Wayne had called her friend and neighbor. Rena flipped out her badge.
Patrice studied it, then looked up at Rena. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“I want to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Melissa Wayne?”
“Oh my God. Is she okay? Did something happen?”
“You haven’t talked to her or heard from her today?” Rena asked.
“No. I...well, maybe she tried to call but I’ve sworn off my cell phone for thirty days. To prove a point to my husband.”
Rena resisted the urge to smile. “May I come in?” She really didn’t want to have this conversation on the sidewalk.
“Of course,” Patrice said. She opened the door.
“Your husband isn’t home?” Rena asked.
“He coaches fall soccer. They practice on Saturday mornings. It’s a pain but he loves it.”
