The Key

chapter twenty-eight

A s far as I could tell, Peter and Frank Kryzluk had nothing in common beyond both being males of the human variety.

Peter was the son of a lawyer and a doctor and had been raised in an environment of enlightened liberalism, complete with whole-grain baked goods, organic vegetables, fervent recycling, and family vacations that involved hiking, cross-country skiing, and other healthy and ecofriendly pastimes. When he left his parents’ comfortable Bay Area home, he didn’t go far, earning his degree at Stanford and then returning promptly to San Francisco. In fact, before his recent move to New York, he’d never lived anywhere but northern California. He was handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way, and his quiet charm sometimes made it easy to forget just how smart he was. He also seemed to have been spared the gene that was responsible for interest in professional sports, golf, and cigars, and, until the advent of the trucker cap, he had never dressed in a way that embarrassed me.

Frank Kryzluk had a couple of decades and more than a couple of pounds on Peter, and he wore his flannel and relaxed-fit denim ensemble as if this was his customary attire. He’d never attended college but had gone directly from high school to his first factory job. “I got my union card the same day I got my diploma,” he told us proudly in a booming voice, after insisting that we toast to the Steelers.

Given their differences in background and interests, I could come up with only one explanation for why Peter and Frank hit it off so well and so fast: the hats. Frank’s trucker cap was almost identical in style to Peter’s, albeit more worn and adorned with a Steelers logo. And, to my eye at least, Frank’s hat looked like it belonged on his head, whereas Peter’s didn’t quite seem to fit.

But it was as if wearing the hat had changed more than Peter’s usual fashion statement. His voice was louder, and his manner was practically gregarious. He was also exhibiting a taste for draft beer-and belching-that was completely unfamiliar to me and more than a little disconcerting. I only liked to drink beer with spicy food, so after a few sips and in the absence of a decent Pinot Grigio or Shiraz, I’d focused my attentions on Diet Coke. Peter, however, had been sucking down glass after glass of beer, and he didn’t stop when we joined Frank at his table. Watching the two men bond over Iron Cities, I made an executive decision that once it had fulfilled its current mission, Peter’s favorite new accessory was going to mysteriously disappear.

Kryzluk’s initial reaction when we introduced ourselves was a mix of surprise, concern, embarrassment, and curiosity. Surprise because he thought he’d warned us off, concern because of the dangerous turn events had taken, embarrassment because he’d both enjoyed and recognized the absurdity of his cloak-and-dagger shenanigans, and curiosity because he was eager to hear if we’d turned up any new info.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that you thought Perry had Brisbane manipulating the contracts?” I asked, trying not to sound impatient.

Frank rubbed his nose, which was on the large side and reddish in color. “I didn’t have any way to know for sure. I had a hunch, but that was it. I was worried that you’d think I was some sort of crank, or not trust my motives, being the union president and whatnot. I thought I could give you some hints and get you interested. Then you’d start digging around.”

“Why me?”

His nose grew redder. “Well, I don’t know if you’ll like the answer to this one.”

“Try me.”

“I had my daughter call that Gallagher guy’s office and pretend she was Perry’s secretary. She got a list of all the folks who were working on the buyout, and I thought you’d be the best person to contact, being a female and all. I wasn’t trying to be a male chauvinist. It’s just that sometimes women care more about these things.” I had been a pretty soft touch as it turned out, so I probably couldn’t blame him.

“Dahlia gave you my name, but how did you get my e-mail?”

“That was my daughter’s doing, too.” The pride in his voice was almost tangible. “She’s only fourteen, but she’s a real computer whiz. She figured that a young urban professional lady like yourself would probably have that fast Internet thing-”

“Broadband?” interjected Peter, popping a potato chip into his mouth. I brushed ineffectually at the crumbs that dropped on his sweater.

“Broadband, right. She figured out which companies offer that service where you live, and then she called them pretending to be you. After a couple of tries she found the right one. That’s how she got your e-mail, and then she got me all set up to write to you. Wasn’t that smart? She’s a real pistol. She does all my research for my show, too. Did you know I’m a TV personality? FrankTalk with Frank it’s called. Every Saturday morning on public access channel fifty-five.”

It was a bit unsettling to learn that an adolescent girl in another state was successfully able to impersonate me and access my various service provider accounts, but I would worry about that later. Instead, with Peter’s help, I brought Frank up to speed on our theory about Jake and Annabel being responsible for Gallagher’s murder and the ways in which I had been set up to take the blame. “But not only do we not have any proof about what Perry and Brisbane and Gallagher were all up to, I’m wanted for murder and the real murderer and his girlfriend are about to make a mint.”

“That’s a real pickle,” Frank agreed.

“My friend Luisa is checking for any sort of legal paper trail that can show that Brisbane and Gallagher were invested in the deal, but I doubt she’ll be able to find anything before the shareholder vote tomorrow morning.”

“Well, I have a plan for that. I had to do something, and I didn’t realize you two were going to show up when you did, so I hatched a plot of my own. But now that you’re here, I could sure use your help.”

Frank told us his plan over more Iron City and in between greeting the steady stream of “buddies” dropping by his table to toast to the Steelers. He also insisted that we join him in playing a few rounds of a game that involved trying to throw miniature basketballs into miniature rings in order to make different bells and buzzers go off. Apparently, the bells and buzzers also indicated points accumulated. I wasn’t very good at this, but Peter was a natural. Frank was enthusiastic about his new protégé, and a great deal of high-fiving, back-slapping and beer-glass-clinking ensued.

“Where are you kids staying tonight?” he asked. “Nonsense,” he said, when we told him we were going to find a motel. “You’ll stay with us. There’s one of those pullout beds in the rec room.” He checked his watch. “But we should get going. Little Frankie-that’s my daughter-she’s got her band practice on Friday nights, but I like to be there when she gets home.”

I insisted on driving. I might be a little near-sighted, but at least I wasn’t drunk, and I wasn’t sure I could say the same for Peter. When all was said and done, Frank had probably had two or three beers, and I was practically afloat on a sea of Diet Coke, but Peter had gone through the better part of a keg on his own. He boozily extolled Frank’s virtues from the passenger seat as I concentrated on the taillights on Frank’s battered minivan.

The Kryzluk residence was a modest ranch house on a street lined with similar houses. I parked Luisa’s car at the curb as Frank pulled the minivan into the attached garage. Peter grabbed the small athletic bag that held our limited collection of belongings, and we followed our host inside.

For dinner, Frank had promised to whip up a batch of his homemade pierogies, which, according to him, were famous. Peter volunteered to help him out while I called in a quick update to Luisa. She had little new to report, except Hilary’s frustration-apparently both Jake and the mysterious stranger had slipped her trail.

I’d finished the call and was trying to convince Peter and Frank that I could be sufficiently trusted with a knife to chop something when Frank’s daughter arrived. From the way he’d spoken of Little Frankie, I’d automatically pictured a teenage-girl version of Frank in a polyester band uniform and befeathered hat lugging a tuba and a zip drive. Little Frankie, however, defied all expectations. She may have been a band member and computer whiz, but her fashion inspiration seemed to come from Gwen Stefani rather than Bill Gates, and she had more jewelry protruding from more piercings than I’d ever seen on one person’s face.

Her behavior, however, was straight out of Emily Post. She greeted her father with affection and his guests with friendly welcome. When Frank suggested that she fetch clean linens and make up the bed in the rec room while he prepared dinner, she readily agreed. I offered to help, and she chattered on about her band and her blog as we carried sheets and blankets down into the basement.

The rec room appeared to serve many functions. A ping-pong table with a broken net was pushed up against a wet bar, and a classic Barbie town house sat on a cardboard box. “I had the same one,” I said approvingly, pausing to admire it.

“I haven’t played with it in years.”

“Me, neither. But I really loved mine.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” Frankie pulled on the string that moved the elevator up and down between the four stories. “I could probably sell it on eBay or something, but I’d rather hold on to it.”

Camera cases and video equipment filled one corner, and green metal file cabinets filled another. Framed photographs vied for space on the crowded walls. “All of the family pictures are upstairs,” explained Frankie. “These are just from my dad’s other stuff-you know, the TV show, and union things.”

I didn’t recognize any of the people in the photos of Frank interviewing guests on a makeshift set, but I assumed that they were mostly area natives. There was a picture of a slightly younger Frank being sworn in as union chapter president, with a proud, younger, and less pierced Frankie at his side. Then there was a series of group photographs featuring men, women, and children decked out in red, white, and blue outfits.

“Those are from the annual union picnics,” Frankie said, guiding me from photo to photo and narrating their progression. “This one’s from forever ago; from before my dad was even president.” A banner above the crowd indicated that the picture had been taken on the Fourth of July eight years earlier. I guessed that eight years qualified as forever when it accounted for more than half of your life. “See, there I am, and there’s my dad.”

I obediently followed her pointed finger with my eyes. Then I noticed the man next to Frank. “Who’s that?” I asked. He looked both nondescript and somehow familiar.

“Him? That’s Mr. Marcus-he was the union president before my dad-and that’s his wife, Mrs.Marcus. She passed on, though. Cancer, I think. And these are their kids, Andrew and Bobby.”

I looked at the first boy she pointed to, and then back at his father. “Andrew Marcus?”

“Yeah, that’s him and Bobby. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years, but they’re a lot older than me anyhow. They both went off to college. I forget where they went, but they didn’t move back here after. I mean, who’d want to, right? Especially after their mom died. I don’t know where they live now, but it’s got to be more interesting than Pittsburgh. Anything is.”

“Andrew Marcus,” I said again.

“Do you know him or something?” asked Frankie.

“Sort of,” I said. Because I sort of did.

Just by a different name.

I may not have been able to see too well at a distance, but I could see just fine up close.

The boy smiling out from the picture was none other than a teenaged Mark Anders.