Tires spun on the freshly fallen snow, caught, and squealed as the Mustang leapt backward.
I stopped twenty feet behind the Acura and waited.
Nothing happened.
There were no flashes of gunfire. No telltale popping sounds. Although the Acura did engage its turn signal.
I watched carefully, the wipers counting the seconds like a metronome.
When the light finally changed, the Acura hung a left and drove onto the freeway entrance ramp, heading back in the direction it had come.
Behind me, someone tapped his horn. I put the Mustang into a forward gear and drove toward my condominium.
* * *
The coverage in the underground garage where I parked was iffy. It wasn’t until I was on the elevator heading up to the seventh floor that I was able to call Detective Downing.
“What?” he wanted to know.
“Could you quick run a license plate for me?”
“I was just about to go home.”
“It’s important.”
“Why?”
“It belongs to a black Acura that was following me. I’m thinking it might have been the same car that was used in the Jonathan Szereto shooting.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“An Acura isn’t a Toyota.”
“They look alike.”
“They do not.”
“In the dark? To a guy who doesn’t know cars?”
Downing hesitated for a few beats and said, “I’m beginning to wonder if I should have checked your references more thoroughly.”
“I’m neither paranoid nor delusional as far as I know.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll get back to you.”
He did, fifteen minutes later. I was in the condo and sucking on the business end of a Summit Ale when he called.
“The Acura belongs to Jerome Geddings,” Downing said. He recited a street address.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked.
“It’s in my files. Geddings is a member of the New Brighton Hotdish. He was one of them that alibied Jayne Harris on the night her husband was stabbed.”
“My, my, my.”
“McKenzie, what does this mean?”
“I have no idea, but the coincidences—they’re starting to pile up.”
* * *
I went to my notes, partly to confirm what Downing had told me. Jerome Geddings was indeed a founding member of the New Brighton Hotdish and had signed a statement swearing for the record that he was among those who were with Jayne when Frank Harris was attacked. I searched a couple of social media sites for information. A business profile announced that he worked quality assurance for a tech firm in Apple Valley. That didn’t sound like a job where you could just get up in the middle of a shift and wander off. Even if he could—Apple Valley was located on the other side of St. Paul, about as far away from St. Louis Park as you could get and still be in the Twin Cities. Fact remained, though, he did follow me. Why? How would he even know who I was? Candy Groot was on her phone when I left the Szereto offices—did she call him? Why, again? She had no connection to the Hotdish, did she? Maybe she called Diane Dauria, and Dauria called Geddings and told him to do what? Scare me? Shoot me? Find out where I lived? I found myself humming an old Michel Legrand song:
… like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel,
never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel …
The Hotdish was the obvious common denominator, so I returned to Downing’s list of witnesses who had vouched for Jayne Harris and checked them out one at a time. Like many people these days, they had all posted a frightening amount of private information on Web sites such as Facebook and LinkedIn. With the notable exception of a few interests and hobbies like caving and paranormal investigations, they all seemed pretty ordinary to me, with middle- to upper-middle-class occupations—account supervisor, IT development manager, graphic designer, RN at Allied Hospitals and Clinics, adult education management professional, senior data architect, financial analyst—two divorces, and not a single arrest among them. Obviously they knew Frank Harris, yet none of them seemed connected to Jonathan Szereto Jr. except Dauria.
One name stood out. Katherine Meyer, the person Dauria said was the chief instigator of the group. She labeled herself as a “marketing and advertising consultant—poet.”
I glanced at my watch—6:57. Nina was at the club; I didn’t expect to see her until much later tonight. God knew where Erica was; she had been purposely vague about where she was going and with whom starting when she turned eighteen. The girl valued her independence.
I made a call. Katherine Meyer answered on the third ring.
“Mrs. Meyer,” I said. “My name is McKenzie.”
“Call me Katie. I wondered if I was going to hear from you.”
“News travels fast in the New Brighton Hotdish.”
“We’re a close-knit group.”
“I’m not disturbing your dinner, am I?” It’s a question that most Minnesotans ask when making phone calls between 5:00 and 7:00 P.M.
“Not at all.” Katie spoke so quickly that her sentences sounded like one long word. “I was just about to run over to Cub. I am so low on flour and sugar. I’m hosting a New Year’s Eve party tomorrow night, and oh my God, so much to do.”
“I’m wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk to me?”
“To talk about Frank Harris? Yes, yes, I know, I know. My son, Critter? He said he met you at Jayne’s house, and Jaynie and I had the most delightful conversation, talked for it seemed like hours and hours. Kids today, all they do is text, but when I was young, it was like I had a phone glued to my ear. My father was always yelling at me to hang up. Afraid he’d miss an important call. Now everyone has their own private phones. Even children. First and second graders. If you don’t return a text or a missed call in like five minutes, oh my God, people wonder if something terrible has happened. Either that or they think you’re snubbing them. It’s funny how things change from generation to generation, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Meyer. Katie—”
“I don’t have time to talk, McKenzie. I really don’t. I have so much shopping to do, and then I have to bake. Cakes and pies. Pillsbury, you know how it has an annual bake-off which pays a million dollars to whoever comes up with the best dessert? I thought I’d give the winning recipe a try. Might not be worth a million, though. We’ll see. I’ll settle for half a million.”
Katie chuckled at her joke, but only for a moment.
“But you want to talk. Okay … umm … Diane said you were over to Szereto. Was that because it was the last place where they saw Frank alive? Like on the TV? ’Course, he was alive when they found him in the park, so … What a world. Diane—well, you can’t go by her. That woman. I love her to pieces. Smart, oh my God, only she has no sense of humor that I’ve ever seen. She’s so pretty and thin I told her once she must have a painting hidden in her attic but she. Didn’t. Get it. You have to explain jokes to her. Just ruins them. You want to talk, though. Only not over the phone like we’re kids—you hang up first, no you. Umm. Oh, I know. Tomorrow. How ’bout—I’m meeting a client at eight thirty. I’m a freelance writer. Well, writer, creative director, account executive, producer, whatever you need. How ’bout—there’s a coffeehouse on Silver Lake Road? Do you know New Brighton? The Bru House. North of 694. East side of the road. You can’t miss it. They sell a frittata muffin, oh my God. Does ten thirty work for you? In the morning, I mean? I doubt my meeting will last that long; the client wants to shut up shop at noon, give his employees a jump on the holiday, only you never know, do you?”
“Ten thirty would be great.”
“Okay, okay. I’d have you over to the house, but you might be a homicidal maniac. Am I right?”
“Well, no—”
“I’m kidding. Besides, the place is a mess. I haven’t even started cleaning yet. Do you think I’
m going to get any help from my husband? From Critter? I can’t talk now. I’m already halfway out the door. Okay, okay. Tomorrow then. Ten thirty, right? Good-bye, McKenzie.”
* * *
I had done very little talking, yet I felt out of breath when the call ended. I had learned one thing, though, without asking—everyone in the Hotdish seemed to know who I was and what I was doing.
Maybe Geddings was acting on his own, my inner voice suggested.
No, I told myself. He might have known my name, but not what car I drove.
Unless Critter told him.
Hey, that’s right. The kid took a picture with his phone.
Still …
Erica opened the door, closed it, and walked past me without saying a word.
“A pleasant good evening to you, too,” I said.
“McKenzie”—she slumped in a chair without taking off her coat—“I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“About men.”
“Isn’t this a conversation you should be having with your mother?”
“Have you met Robin? You haven’t, have you? He is so cute. Waitresses fawn over him and I’m sitting right there, that’s how cute. He’s funny, too. And you don’t get into the engineering department at Notre Dame without being smart. Something else. He likes me. He really likes me, I can tell.”
“Okay.”
“Meanwhile, Malcolm is a screwup even during the best of times. I’m just saying.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t understand love.”
“Join the club.”
“The guy Karen is marrying, what a jerk. Why would you marry someone you knew was a jerk? Why would you even go out with him?”
“She probably doesn’t see him that way.”
“Why doesn’t she? She’s graduating in the top ten percent of her class.”
“Karen or you?”
“Both of us. What does that have to do with anything?”
“The heart—”
“Don’t. Okay? Shut up about the heart. The heart is the least reliable organ in the human body. McKenzie—you weren’t always rich.”
“No. I was a blue-collar kid from St. Paul all the way down to my white socks.”
“You wore white socks?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Would you have hooked up with Mom if she weren’t well-off?”
“Of course. Have you seen your mother?”
“Would she have hooked up with you if you weren’t a millionaire?”
“I don’t think she knew I was rich when she pushed that guy down the stairs.”
“Is that really a true story?”
“Yep. I was chasing a guy out of the old Minnesota Club, and his partner was on the landing above me. When he tried to interfere, your mother gave him a hip-check, and down the stairs he rolled. That’s when I knew she was the girl for me.”
“When did she know you were the guy for her?”
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure I am the right guy. Could be she’s just letting me hang around until the real thing comes along.”
Erica stared at me as if she were wondering if I actually believed that.
“You make her laugh,” she said. “I’ve known her fifteen years longer than you have, and during that time she hardly ever laughed.”
“Is that because I’m humorous or peculiar?”
“Heck if I know.” She stood. “Robin makes me laugh. All the time. So does Malcolm. ’Course, Malcolm—he’s just a friend. I couldn’t even think of dating him while I was dating Robin. That would be … I don’t know.”
Erica retreated toward her bedroom.
“Gawd!” she said.
EIGHT
So far it had been one of the softest winters on record, with temperatures as high as twenty degrees above average. We had come to within an inch of having a brown Christmas. It snowed again the following day, but instead of the foot we were promised, the Twin Cities was dusted with only three inches—try using that as an excuse for being late to work. Yesterday’s snowfall? Barely enough to pretty up what was already on the ground. The street crews hadn’t even bothered to plow it.
I found a spot in the parking lot in front of the Bru House and walked inside. Like just about every other retail business, the place had been decked out for Christmas. Friendly conversations, soft music, and the aroma of coffee and fresh bakery greeted me at the door.
“McKenzie?” a woman said. She was wearing black-rimmed glasses.
“Yes.”
“I knew it was you. Critter said you were tall, and Jayne Harris said you were handsome, so I knew it had to be you. Jayne said you look like Bradley Cooper the actor, but she exaggerates. Should we sit over here by the window? Oh, wait. You haven’t ordered yet. Why don’t you get your coffee and I’ll guard the table. Sometimes this place gets awfully crowded.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I have a cup. Thanks for offering, though. It was very kind of you. I’ll be right over here. By the window. See?”
The table had two chairs and a view of the parking lot and Silver Lake Road beyond. It was littered with a large cardboard coffee cup with lid, a paper plate holding half a muffin, a well-scribbled legal pad, and an open laptop. Five minutes later, I sat across from the woman. The legal pad and computer had been placed into a shoulder bag, and the muffin had been consumed, but the cup remained. I extended my hand.
“McKenzie,” I said.
“Katie Meyer. Oh my God, I didn’t say before. You probably thought I was this crazy person accosting strange men in coffeehouses.”
“I really didn’t.”
Her coat was hanging off the back of her chair, and she was wearing a powder blue dress shirt with a button-down collar and a light brown cardigan with tiny dark blue dots. The sweater seemed distressed to me, with a couple of unraveled knits, zigzagging threads, and some pilling, and I thought, Is that a thing now? Then I realized. “Katie,” I said. “Your sweater is inside out.”
“Oh my God.” She immediately pulled it off and started rearranging it. “You must think I’m such a ditz. My client—I wore it like this during our meeting. ’Course, we’ve worked together many times over the years. He knows me. Probably telling everyone—that Katie…”
She put the sweater back on, this time right side out.
“Better?” she said.
Five foot two, eyes of blue—the lyric to the old song came to me as I regarded her over the brim of my coffee cup—with a figure the fashion police labeled petite; I doubted she weighed a hundred pounds. Add that to her effervescent personality and cheerful smile—I was convinced she was still carded in every club and bar she walked into. I told her so.
“At my age?” she said. “Besides, I don’t hang out in bars anymore, although…” She leaned across the table. “This one time I went into a bicycle shop because I was buying a helmet for Critter, these two college boys, they started hitting on me, telling me I should join them on this tour, this overnight bike trip.” Katie brought her hand to her mouth. “I was old enough to be their mother.” She dropped her hand. “Oh my God, don’t ever tell anyone I told you that.”
“Why not? It’s a pretty good story.”
“People will think I was milfing.”
“Milfing?”
“You know what a MILF is?”
“I hardly think…”
The light in her eyes went out just like that. The blue became dark and cold, and Katie said, “People blame women for all kinds of things that are not their fault.”
I didn’t know what she was thinking, and I didn’t ask.
“I’ll keep your secret,” I said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
And the light returned.
“Besides, women of a certain age should only be involved with men of a certain age,” Katie said. “Don’t you think?”
“Life is short. I’m not sure you shouldn’
t take what you can get.”
“It’s all right for men to say that, only society holds women to a different standard, always has, always will.”
“I know a young woman who would be happy to tell you where society can go in no uncertain terms.”
“Have you met Sloane Dauria?”
“I was thinking of someone else, but based on what her mother told me, yes, Sloane, too.”
“Wonderful girl and a real beauty. Super serious, though. Like her mother. Oh my God.”
Katie glanced around the room, adjusted her glasses, and leaned forward again.
“I feel so wicked.”
“Why?”
“People know me here. They know I’m a happily married woman with two kids—one of them in college no less. Yet here I am having coffee in an out-of-the-way coffeehouse with a man. It just makes me feel so—’course, my husband knows I’m here. You know what he said when I told him I was going to meet a strange man that Jayne said looks like Bradley Cooper in a coffeehouse? He said, better that than a motel. I remember when he used to be romantic. We’re all so old now. Although I don’t feel old. Do you feel old?”
“Sometimes.”
“I bet we’re the same age, too.”
“Except you don’t look it. You look like you’re a graduate student, which is probably what those kids in the bike shop thought, not that you’re a MILF.”
Katie stared at me for a few beats.
“You’re trying to be nice,” she said. “Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“About Frank—Frank Harris. Wasn’t that terrible? A terrible thing. And now you’re trying to help Malcolm and Jaynie, too, I guess. That’s what we’re going to talk about, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“The police”—her eyes clouded again—“have done nothing.”
“They’ve tried.”
Katie stared at me as if she were debating whether to argue about it. Her eyes brightened; she lowered her head so she was looking at me over the top of her glasses and spoke in a Yoda voice. “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” Her hand went to her mouth, and she laughed behind it. “Oh my God—where did that come from? I don’t even like those movies. I mean, they’re okay…”
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