What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

“Where is Mom, anyway?” Victoria asked.

“In the kitchen cleaning.”

“Again?”

“She just finished talking to Nina. There’s no change in McKenzie’s condition.”

Victoria sighed dramatically as if that was not the news she had wanted to hear.

“Did Dad find out who shot him yet?” she asked.

“Dad never talks about his work, you know that.”

“This goes a little above and beyond his usual cases, wouldn’t you think?”

“That’s what I told him this morning.”

“What did he say?”

“What does Dad always say?”

“Let me guess—‘We’ll see’?”

“Man of a thousand words, that’s him.”

Victoria lifted her arm and her younger sister curled up against her, resting her head against her shoulder. Victoria lowered her arm and pulled her closer.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“About the same as you,” Katherine said.

“That well, huh?”

“What are you studying?”

“Biology.”

“Let me see.”

Victoria gave her a good look at the page she was reading.

“Looks like gibberish to me,” Katherine said.

“You need to study more. Seriously.”

“You need to get out of the house and play some ball. Seriously. Hang out with friends and talk about something besides what college has the best ROI.”

“I’ll start doing the one if you do the other.”

“Deal.”

“I have a cache of snack bars hidden away in my desk drawer. Help yourself.”

“I’m good. Thanks for offering.”

“Katie?”

“Vic?”

“Never mind.”

“Me, too, sister. Me, too.”

TEN

The office that housed the Homicide and Robbery Unit of the Major Crimes Division was empty when Shipman returned to the Griffin Building. She sat behind her desk and waited for the phone to ring, wishing for a felony; hell, she’d even settle for a gross misdemeanor—anything that would get her out and about instead of squandering her time trying to discover who shot me. Only the phone didn’t ring, so she went back to my notes.

What I did next.

After hearing what Chief Neville and Lieutenant Rask had to say, I decided to give Marshall Sohm another try.

Mr. Sohm, I apologize for my hissy fit. It was uncalled for. But you must understand how important this has become to me. I repeat that I want nothing from you or your daughter. Nor will I impose myself on your cousins and my half siblings Charles, Porter, and Jenna King. I wish merely to learn only about their father Gerald (and apparently my father, too). I need to know about his relationship with Anna Theresa Chastain, a secretary who might have worked for him forty-four years ago. I keep thinking that a twenty-minute conversation is all that I require from you or one of the Kings or even from some as yet unidentified source with knowledge of the situation. We don’t even need to have it in person. Please help me out. I am not going to let this go.

I waited and waited, yet Marshall did not respond. If he had really been my cousin, I would have been very disappointed in him. I might have even crossed him off my Christmas card mailing list. If I had a Christmas card mailing list.

I asked myself who else I could contact. There was Elliot Sohm and Emma King, of course, but I decided that they should be my absolute last resort. I even typed a note next to their names—“When all else fails.”

Beyond the girls, there were the Kings themselves. Somehow I didn’t think King Charles would make himself available to talk to a man claiming to be his long-lost brother, especially while the SEC was looking for him. Porter was a possibility, yet given all the controversy swirling around his family and KTech, he would certainly view me with suspicion. That left Jenna and the question—how do I find her?

Carleton College would know where she lived, I told myself. Only I couldn’t think of a gag that would convince them to give up her address or phone number and again, I didn’t want to involve Emma. It just seemed so tawdry.

What’s a step up from tawdry? my inner voice asked.

Mendacious, I told myself.

I searched my notes for a phone number and called it. A woman with a perky voice said “KTech Marketing Department. How may I direct your call?”

“Porter King,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. King is unavailable. May someone else assist you?”

“I hope so. My name is McKenzie. I’m calling on behalf of the Minneapolis / St. Paul Business Journal.”

“Mr. King will be answering questions concerning the absence of Charles King…”

“Miss?”

“At two thirty P.M. in our auditorium…”

“Miss, please.”

“For members of the press and interested shareholders.”

“Miss, I’m not calling about that.”

“No?”

“No, although if you have some insider information…”

“I do not.”

“I’m sure my employers will appreciate it.”

“What is it that you want, Mr. McKenzie?”

“I’m a freelance writer. The Journal hired me to work up a where-are-they-now piece about some of the businesspeople who have appeared in our annual Forty-Under-Forty series over the years. Are you familiar…”

“I am.”

“Six years ago, Ms. Jenna King appeared in the Journal. She was president of Social King, Incorporated, at the time. Since then, of course, Ms. King sold Social King to a firm in Seattle…”

“Yes.”

“And we lost track of her. The phones numbers we have for her office are no longer valid, of course, and neither are the numbers for the home phone where she lived in St. Paul with her daughter Emma.”

“Yes.”

That yes confirms that Jenna and Emma are mother and daughter, my inner voice told me, in case I had any doubt.

“We certainly want to include her in the piece; especially since she is still under forty,” I said aloud. “I was hoping that Porter King, Jenna’s brother, could supply me with a phone number or email address or even a land address so that we might contact Ms. King and arrange an interview. Or perhaps I might even impose on you. I would be happy to supply you with my own number and email address and if you could forward them to Jenna, she’d be welcomed to contact me at her convenience. Is that possible?”

Perky Voice paused before she answered, “I’ll have to check.”

“I appreciate this very much. My number is…”

“I have your number