What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  First things first, though.

  I found the apartment building where Sloane lived on an active bus route. It was an old building. Its security system consisted of an intercom with the names of the apartment dwellers. I pressed the one marked S. DAURIA. A moment later her voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “McKenzie.”

  There was a short pause followed by a buzzing sound and a metallic click. I opened the inner door and the buzzing stopped. I walked up two flights of stairs and searched the corridor for her door. I knocked. The door was pulled open. Sloane said, “Hello.”

  I said, “What happened to you?”

  Sloane was wearing a tank top and gym shorts, and I could see bruising on her shoulders, collarbone, thigh, and calf muscle.

  “Now you know why I wore that ugly dress on New Year’s Eve,” she said.

  “Sloane…”

  “Come in, come in. What can I do for you?”

  The door was closed. Sloane turned and led me into her living room as if she were used to going first while the rest of the world followed along. She turned again and stood flat-footed, feet apart, hands at her side in front of me, giving me a good look at her body. Along with the bruises there was swelling and a few red blotches.

  “Sloane,” I said again.

  “I’ve been fighting.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “She can’t figure it out for herself?”

  “I’ve been hiding the bruises until I get better. I don’t want her to freak.”

  “Sloane, what the hell?”

  “I wanted to learn to fight, so I’ve been working out at Gracie’s Power Academy.”

  “In Frogtown?”

  “You know it?”

  “The owner, Dave Gracie—he’s taught me a thing or two over the years. ’Course, that’s when it was called Gracie’s Gym.”

  “He’s a sweetheart.”

  “The times I’ve worked out with him—I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “They have a program now for training women to compete in mixed martial arts.”

  “Sloane, don’t, don’t, don’t go there.”

  “I’m not. I can’t compete with those girls. I learned that the first week. But they have a kind of introductory course that will teach you how to get by.”

  “Get by where? Syria?”

  “McKenzie.” Her voice became hard and unyielding. “No one will ever do to me what they did to Jayne Harris or Katie Meyer. No one. Not without a fight.”

  “What did they do to Katie Meyer?”

  Sloane turned and walked slowly to a chair where there was a gray sweatshirt with the name ST. KATE’S WILDCATS stenciled across the front. She put it on and fluffed her red hair over the collar.

  “Mom always says not to speak when you’re angry,” she said. “At least she’s said it enough that you’d think I’d catch on by now.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “McKenzie, I spoke out of turn. Whatever happened to Katie belongs to Katie. If you have questions, you need to speak to her.”

  She has a lot of self-control; you have to give her that, I told myself. And a competent way of handling herself that you usually don’t find in someone so young. Add that to the arrogance of invulnerability most people her age seemed to possess …

  “Sloane, you’re going to get hurt,” I said.

  “Just a few bruises until I learn to protect myself.”

  “That’s not what I meant, but never mind.”

  “Why are you here, McKenzie?”

  “I have questions I hope you can answer.”

  “About what? Malcolm?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s kind of a romantic, isn’t he?”

  “He refuses to believe that his father abused his mother.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “When Erica brought him to me—”

  “Erica.” She spoke the name as if she found it exasperating. “Another romantic.”

  “Have you met?”

  “No, but Malcolm told me about her. Rickie. Another one who believes in fairy tales.”

  “I take it you don’t.”

  Sloane made a fist and tapped it against the palm of her other hand. “I want to,” she said. “I wish I could.”

  “When I met him, Malcolm was desperate to find out what happened to his father. He spent one night with you and suddenly he couldn’t care less.”

  “You don’t approve of Malcolm and me, do you? Us sleeping together.”

  “Hard to judge when all you’re doing is pretty much the same thing I did when I was your age.”

  “Talk to my mom. She doesn’t see it that way.”

  “She’s your mother. What do you expect?”

  “I expect … It doesn’t matter. Anyway, you want to know what I told Mal.”

  “Yes.”

  “I reminded him that he has a mother who loves him more than anything. And he should love her at least as much.”

  “Could you possibly be more ambiguous?”

  Sloane laughed at me.

  “I don’t mean to be,” she said. “But McKenzie, it’s the same thing. If you want answers about Malcolm, you need to talk to Malcolm.”

  “According to his mother, he’s been pretty incoherent since he spent the evening with you.”

  “Like I said, he’s a romantic.”

  “What’s with all the hickeys?”

  “He made fun of my bruises, so I gave him a few that I could make fun of. I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

  “His cell phone?”

  “That was something we made up to pacify Jayne. ’Course, we didn’t know the cops were looking for him.”

  Sloane spoke so straightforwardly about her tryst with Malcolm that it set me back. I had been trying to figure out who she was since we met and failing, possibly because she was in the process of doing the same thing and was just as baffled as I was. I took a chance.

  “Critter Meyer,” I said. “You’re the one who gave him the fat lip, aren’t you?”

  “He said something about my mother that I didn’t like. I made him take it back.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, why not? You know about Mom anyway, don’t you? Her and Critter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you do. You want to know how I feel about it, too, I’ll bet. I honestly don’t know yet. Katie came over yesterday; we talked for hours. She’s so concerned that I don’t blame my mother. Actually, she doesn’t care if I blame her or not, she just doesn’t want me to stop loving my mother. Can you believe that? Is she incredible or what?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “As for Mom—I’ve been riding that roller coaster all weekend. She keeps calling and I keep swiping left. I don’t want to talk to her until I know what I’m going to say. Right now—if you look at it objectively, you have a gullible, dreamy college boy who meets a beautiful, lonely MILF—”

  “I’ve never liked that acronym.”

  “Romance blooms, at least on his side. On her side, what? Companionship? Someone warm to cling to on a cold winter’s night? A fuck toy? Goddammit, Mother.”

  I rested what I thought was a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Sloane might have had the look of someone who was hard to jolt, but that jolted her. She tensed and backed away quickly until she was out of reach.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “No. Excuse me. It often takes a long time before I feel at ease with people.”

  “I’m much the same way.”

  “What would you tell my mother, McKenzie? If she were standing in front of you right this minute, what would you say?”

  “Never do anything you wouldn’t want your daughter to know about.”

  Sloane laughed at that.

  “And never do anything you wouldn’t want your mother to know about,” she said. “I’v
e been so concerned over what I’m going to tell her about Critter that it didn’t occur to me until just now that she might have a few choice words to say about Malcolm.”

  Sloane smiled, stepped forward, and shook my hand.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your questions, McKenzie,” she said. “If Mal won’t tell you, I guess you’re out of luck. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to call my mom.”

  And I thought, Sloane really is a fighter, a ring girl who could take a shot that lands her facedown, but who pushes the canvas away at the three count, comes to one knee at six, stands at nine and, grinning foolishly, brings her gloves up and moves forward.

  I’d wager that her mother was the same way.

  *   *   *

  I sat in the Mustang outside of Sloane’s apartment building, listening to Wes Montgomery on the radio and checking my mirrors. A small tingling sensation told me that I was being watched. But by whom? Sloane’s apartment was on the far side of the building; she wouldn’t have been able to see me from her window.

  I started the car and drove off, accelerating and slowing, making random turns through the neighborhood I knew so well. I couldn’t pick anyone up. I felt disappointed. I realized that I wanted something to happen. I needed a new puzzle piece to work with because the ones I had just didn’t fit together; they gave me no sense of the picture they were supposed to display.

  Why was it important that I discover the reason Malcolm and Critter were fighting outside the Bru House? Why did it bother me that the kid no longer wanted to know who killed his father? Why should I care that Diane Dauria and R. D. Crawford met New Year’s Eve? Why did it matter that Vanessa owned the Szereto Corporation instead of Evelyn?

  I believed in momentum. I believed that if you keep moving, peeking under beds, peeping over fences, turning over rocks, there’s a better chance of accidents happening, some good, some bad; of the fortuitous unearthing of the odd puzzle piece in the most unlikely nook or cranny. Except I was stalled. I had no idea what to do next. Where to go. Whom to talk to.

  Driving back to the condo, I got caught by a light. While I waited, I heard Louis Armstrong’s trumpet solo playing from my cell phone. The caller ID told me that it was Diane Dauria.

  “Diane,” I said.

  “No. This is Evelyn Szereto. I’m using Diane’s office. I’m calling from her phone.”

  “Good afternoon, Evelyn.”

  “We were supposed to talk New Year’s Eve. Jack told you.”

  “Yes, sorry ’bout that. You retired upstairs, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Nonsense. I saw you standing on the staircase watching us. If you had waited ten minutes…”

  “Here I thought I was being a gentleman.”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Come to the corporate offices. We’ll have a late lunch in the employee cafeteria, and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  *   *   *

  I parked in the visitor’s section of the sprawling lot and walked toward the entrance. As I approached, a woman stepped outside the building that housed the Szereto corporate offices. She was five-six, 125 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes, but all that registered later. What I noticed first, what made me stop and stare, was her hunter green felt hat with a wide brim and a festive green and blue hatband.

  I blocked her path. For a moment we engaged in that little dance people do when they’re caught in an aisle at a supermarket or department store until she realized I kept sliding in front of her on purpose. She looked me hard in the eye.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “I like your hat.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “R. D. Crawford, right?”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Rebecca Denise Crawford.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I recited her address in St. Louis Park. I meant to panic the woman. Instead, she tilted her head prettily as she assessed the weight of my words. A thin smile formed on her lips.

  “McKenzie,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Rebecca reached out and set a hand on my arm.

  “Diane Dauria warned me that you might have seen us the other night,” she said. “I must say, honey, you’re taller than I’d thought you’d be.”

  “Oh?”

  “Considering some of the words she used in describing you—sniveling toady, busybody night crawler…”

  “Ahh.”

  “Peeping Tom, scandalmonger…”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “How do you know my address?”

  “I ran your license plate.”

  “How resourceful of you, baby.” Rebecca rubbed my forearm a bit just to remind me that her hand was still there. “What else do you know about me?”

  “Very little. You don’t leave a large footprint. I presume it’s on purpose.”

  She seemed pleased by my admission. Let her be, I told myself. In the meantime, I’d keep Barek Cosmetics in my pocket. Knowledge really is power, and I didn’t want to repeat the mistake I had made with Diane, giving up too much of it too soon.

  “You work for Mrs. Szereto, don’t you?” Rebecca asked.

  “You could say that.”

  “Then we’re both on the same side.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Would you like to have a drink with me?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Rebecca rubbed my arm some more and suggested a family restaurant-slash-bar just off the freeway and provided directions before we broke for our separate cars. I had the number for Evelyn’s landline, but I knew she wasn’t home. My cell had captured Diane Dauria’s phone number, though, and I called that. Someone must have been using it, however, because I was sent immediately to voice mail.

  “Diane, this is McKenzie,” I said. “Please convey my apologies to Mrs. Szereto.” I told her where I was going. “Something came up involving one of your employees. I’ll try to call her at home first chance I get, or she can contact me. Thank you.”

  I was smiling when I hung up. This was what I meant by momentum.

  FOURTEEN

  It was one of those national chains where the waitstaff wore garish shirts and relentless smiles and where there were weekly, daily, and hourly specials on just about everything. The hostess tried to seat us at a tall table near the bar, but Rebecca lobbied for a booth against the wall. My first thought—she wanted privacy. That opinion changed when she claimed the far seat, the one that gave her an unobstructed view of the entrance.

  Rebecca folded her charcoal coat and set it on the seat next to her, dropping her flashy hat on top. She positioned her cell phone, screen up, on the table in front of her. I left mine in my jacket pocket. A moment later, the waitress enticed us with all manner of food choices from appetizers to desserts. Rebecca declined them all, though, so I did the same. She ordered a vodka gimlet. I thought about a Summit Ale but went with a Maker’s Mark on the rocks because I thought it made me look tougher. Despite her near-constant smile, Rebecca struck me as a woman who liked tough.

  I paid for the drinks as soon as they were served.

  “How well do you know Mrs. Szereto, sweetie?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’ve been to her house.”

  “That’s nothing, honey. Everyone who works for Szereto has been there—for her party, if nothing else.”

  “Have you been to her party?”

  “A couple of times.”

  How is that possible? my inner voice asked.

  “In my case, it was a private affair,” I said aloud.

  She leaned across the table to rest her fingertips on my hand. Her voice was soft, just above a whisper.

  “Private affair—aren’t you the mysterious one,” she said.

 
“Me?” I said. “You’re the one engaged in mysterious late-night meetings.”

  “But baby, you’re the one spying on them from parked cars—that was your Mustang in front of Diane’s house, wasn’t it? I should have known. It’s illegal in that neighborhood to park on the street at night.”

  Do not underestimate this woman, my inner voice warned. Do not, do not …

  My cell played for me. I pulled my hand away, fetched the phone from my pocket, glanced at the caller ID—it was Mrs. Szereto—and swiped left, before turning off the ringtone and dropping it screen down on top of my coat.

  “Louis Armstrong,” Rebecca said. She reached for my hand again, and I let her. “I’m impressed, honey.”

  “What was in the envelope you gave Diane?” I asked.

  Again I meant to panic her, yet my question didn’t seem to joggle Rebecca one damned bit.

  “A belated Christmas card,” she said.

  “That you delivered at 11:30 P.M. on New Year’s Eve?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “You didn’t stay long.”

  “Oh, sweetie, it was late. I needed my beauty sleep.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Why were you following Diane?” she asked.

  “Curiosity.”

  “What do they say—curiosity killed the cat?”

  “But satisfaction brought him back.”

  “Are you really that guy?”

  “I am. And while we’re at it—can I ask what school you went to?”

  “Why do you ask, baby?”

  “You’re using a lot of names that end in y, and you keep touching me when you speak with that breathless voice of yours. Straight-up Seduction 101. Just wondering where you took your degree.”

  “The school of hard knocks.”

  “Not actually a thing, but okay.”

  Rebecca withdrew her hand, and her voice became harder, colder; yet I still found it pleasant to listen to.

  “You know nothing about me,” she said.

  “How long have you been working for the Szereto Corporation?”

  “On and off for five years.”

  On and off?

  “Do you like it there?” I asked.

  “It’s okay. The benefits are nice.”

  “Plus, there’s the profit sharing.”