The Fregoli Delusion (26 page)

“Yes, m’am.”

“You don’t have to call me m’am,”
Karen said. “We don’t give a shit about the weed, although your roommate should
maybe think twice about it. What’s her name?”

“Adelia Peterson.”

“Okay. Tell us about Holland.
Exactly when did you work for him?”

“From oh-three to oh-five. Then I
got promoted to EA for the general manager, Mr. Simmons. They had this
competition, with tests and interviews. I scored a lot higher than anybody
else.”

“Good for you. But you left that
job when Holland became general manager, right? Why was that?”

“I didn’t want to work for him anymore.”

“No? How come?”

Celestina glanced at Hank, who was
listening with a placid expression on his face. “He just wasn’t somebody you’d
want to work for, that’s all.”

“Some managers are hard to live
with,” Hank said. “If you say black, they say white. If you need time for a
doctor’s appointment or something, they make a big deal about it. Is that how
Holland was?”

“Sort of.”

“Or maybe,” Karen said, looking at
Hank, “he had a mean streak. Could be a little nasty. Some bosses are like
that.”

“True enough,” Hank agreed.

“He was mean,” Celestina said, “and
not just to me.”

“Oh?”

“He was phony nice, but if you
made a mistake, he could get real nasty about it. Once, when I was his
secretary, I cut off somebody on the phone by mistake and he came out of his
office and hit me on the back of the head with a rolled-up magazine. Real hard.
I didn’t see it coming and it really hurt, you know? It triggered a bad
migraine that lasted the rest of the day. I was crying in the washroom
afterwards but couldn’t tell anybody why. I just made something up. If I said
it was because of him and it got back, he’d do something else even worse. But
people knew. Word got around anyway, because he was mean to all the girls like
that.”

“Just the women, Celestina?” Karen
asked. “He just bullied support staff?”

“Oh, no. He was mean to everybody.”

“All right.” Karen glanced at
Hank, who was listening to Celestina without expression. “Did he ever do
anything of a sexual nature to you or anyone else you know?”

“No. Not at all. He wasn’t that
kind of person.”

“He wasn’t a sexual predator or a
guy who used his position to pressure women, yourself or others, into having
sex with him?”

“No.”

“But he was violent. He hit you.
Did he hit other people, to your knowledge?”

“Yes. There were stories. The
secretary who replaced me when I was promoted, I remember one day she had a lot
of bad bruises on her arm but she wouldn’t talk about it. My friend Florence
heard it was Mr. Holland, that she tried to leave a little early for lunch and
he grabbed her, twisted her arm and forced her back into her chair and wouldn’t
let her leave the office until the end of the day. Not even to go to the
washroom. Someone said she wet herself in the middle of the afternoon and he
wouldn’t even let her go clean up. She quit a few days later.”

“Christ.”

“As soon as Mr. Holland got the
promotion to general manager,” Celestina said to Hank, “I got out of there. I
wasn’t going to work for him again. No way. I didn’t even stay at the Tower. I
found a secretary’s job over here at the Wilmingford campus, in skin care. I
took a big cut in pay and ended up moving across the river to this place
because I couldn’t afford the commute anymore, but it was worth it to get away
from him. I’m telling you all this stuff now, but you have to keep my name out
of it. And Florence’s, too. It’s about Mr. Jarrett, isn’t it? About him being
shot.”

“That’s right,” Hank said.

“I thought so. You think he killed
Mr. Jarrett.”

“What kind of relationship did
Holland and Jarrett have?”

“I don’t know. I never met Mr.
Jarrett. He never came around to our floor back then. But I heard people say
later, after I got out of there, that Mr. Jarrett had a soft spot for him, that
Mr. Holland was his golden boy. Nobody could understand it. The people who knew
what Mr. Holland was like.”

Karen sat forward. “Let me ask you
about something else. Do you know who Brett Parris is?”

“Um, yeah. That’s Mr. Parris’s son.
He’s got some kind of mental condition. The poor guy.”

“You’ve met him before? You know
him?”

“I saw him a couple of times at
parties, like at Christmas. He was there one time taking pictures. Seems like a
nice guy.”

“Know of any back-and-forth
between him and Holland?”

“No. Nobody really knew him at
work. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Karen said.

“Wait. That’s who it was,”
Celestina said suddenly. “I forgot about that.”

“Forgot about what?”

“You’re making me remember stuff.
That Christmas party I was talking about. It was just one of those things
happened real quick and nobody else sees it, you know? I forgot it was Brett
Parris until just now, because we’re talking about him.”

“Forgot about what?” Karen
repeated.

“I was walking through the crowd,
trying to go get my coat to go home. Mr. Holland was one or two people ahead of
me, walking this way”—she motioned with her hand to suggest that Holland was
crossing her path from left to right—“and the Parris guy, Brett, was walking in
front of him, holding his camera in his hand. His right hand, because I could
see it. I remember Mr. Holland reached out and hit him from behind on the
elbow, like this”—she made a movement with her hand, as though to hit something
with the heel of her palm—“and the guy dropped his camera on the floor. It fell
hard and a couple people kicked it by accident before he could get it again. He
was real upset about it. He was scared his camera was broken. It looked real
expensive.”

“Son of a bitch,” Karen said.

“Yeah. When he got his camera back
he looked around, but Mr. Holland had already gone. But I remember Brett looked
at some other guy and swore at him for doing it, and called him Holland, like
he thought the guy was Mr. Holland. It was weird. That’s all I remember. I got
out of there pretty soon after that because I hate those things and leave as
soon as I can.”

“Son of a bitch,” Karen said
again, looking at Hank. Peggy Kelly had mentioned an incident at a Christmas
party, and even Holland himself had joked about it. Brett had gone into one of
his paranoid Fregoli delusions about Holland, and Walter Parris had been forced
to hustle him out of there. Now here was a witness telling her the thing had
been triggered by Holland himself for malicious fun.

Paranoid schizophrenic or not,
Brett Parris apparently had good reason to think that Richard Holland was out
to get him.

31

The city of Glendale was
configured in a hub-and-spoke arrangement, with Midtown district as the
downtown hub and the other districts as the spokes radiating out from the
center. Springhill district, the southwest spoke, was formerly a separate
municipality that had amalgamated with the greater municipality when
consolidation was seen by Glendale as a way to increase its tax base and by Springhill
as a way to streamline costs.

Springhill still had its own
airport, business section, and affluent suburbs. It also had its own decayed
industrial core, housing projects, and middle-class suburbs that had fallen on
hard times and seen wholesale foreclosures as a result of the economic
downturn. As they drove down Harmans Avenue on their way to Mary Holland’s address,
Hank and Karen saw that for every three houses with a vehicle in the driveway
and kids on the front lawn there was another that was abandoned, front lawn
uncut and mailbox overflowing with yellowed advertising flyers and unpaid bills.

Fourteen thirty-six Harmans Avenue
was a small, two-bedroom bungalow with an attached garage. It had a low-pitched
tar-and-gravel roof, a stained stucco exterior, and awning-style windows that
were supposed to pivot outward but looked as though they hadn’t been opened in
decades. Heavy, dark curtains prevented passersby from seeing inside. The grass
on the tiny front lawn had recently been mowed, but the paved driveway was
cracked and chipped.

It was a far cry from Granger Park
and its mansions.

Hank walked up the three cement
steps and rapped on the front door. Karen followed, looking around. He turned
and caught her eye. She nodded and went back to her survey of the neighborhood.

The front door opened. Hank held
up his identification and badge. “I’m Lieutenant Donaghue. This is Detective
Stainer. Are you Mrs. Mary Holland?”

“Yes, I am.” She ran a hand down
the side of her knee-length flowered dress. “What do you want?”

“We’re investigating the death of
Mr. H.J. Jarrett. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t see how I could possibly
help you. Did you talk to my son? He works for Jarrett.”

Hank saw the resemblance in the
small blue eyes and the hair that had once been blond, but Mary’s chubby cheeks
had collapsed into jowls and slight plumpness had taken a postmenopausal turn
into heaviness. “We’ve talked to your son, but we have a few other questions
for you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t see how I could help.”

“We won’t take very much of your
time.”

She stepped back and gestured them
inside. On the left was a doorway into a combined dining room and kitchen. On
the right was a small living room with a sofa, armchair, rocking chair,
television set, component stereo system with a turntable, cassette tape deck,
and speakers, and a small shelving unit with paperback novels on the upper
shelves and vinyl long-play records on the lower shelf.

“Please, sit down,” she said, moving
to the sofa.

“Thanks.” Hank sat down in the
rocking chair. Karen wandered past the television set and ran her hand
carelessly across the top. It was warm. She’d probably turned it off when she
heard them at the door.

Hank took out his notebook and
pen. “We understand that your late husband, Mr. Gerald Holland, worked for the
Jarrett company before his death. Is that right?”

“Yes, it is. If you’ve been
talking to them, you’ve already heard the story.”

“Them?”

“The Jarretts.” She waved a
dismissive hand. “The Parrises. All of them. It’s part of the folklore around
there.”

“We’ve heard something about theft
from the company. That your husband was forced to leave. Which he did.”

“It wasn’t that simple. Gerry was
a good man.” She looked at Karen, who’d picked up a framed photograph from the
top of the shelving unit. “We were married at All Saints Episcopal, downtown.
That was taken in front of the church right afterwards. The tenth of June, 1968.”

“You look pretty,” Karen said,
putting the picture back down.

“I was twenty. Gerry was
twenty-five.”

“He worked for Cross Bandage at
that time?” Hank asked.

“When we were married? Yes. I was
a nurse. I’d just finished my courses, and I was working at Angel of Mercy when
we met. He was selling bandages and supplies. Two years later he was promoted
to sales manager. That’s when Jarrett bought the company and Gerry went to work
for him.”

“This was before Richard was born,
I take it,” Hank said.

“Yes.”

Karen held up another framed
photograph, this one of Richard Holland. It was his college graduation photo.
“He looks just like you.”

“Yes.”

Karen put the photograph down. She
walked over to the armchair and sat down on the edge of the cushion, folding
her hands between her knees.

Hank watched as Mary Holland looked
Karen over. He saw her eyes take in Karen’s gun, her jeans, her cowboy boots,
her tailored jacket. He thought about her one-word responses to the last two
statements.

He said, “Did you know your
husband was stealing from Jarrett’s company, Mrs. Holland?”

“No. Gerry handled all the
finances. I mean our finances. But Jarrett had his own accounting system, and
it didn’t match up to what Gerry was used to with Cross. They accounted for
things differently. There were totals Jarrett was looking for that he didn’t
have to show at Cross, and there were things he’d accounted for at Cross that
he couldn’t figure out how to show at Jarrett. He used some of the cash that
Cross considered discretionary for a down payment on a car for us, and a few
other things, like our winter vacation. He shouldn’t have, but he said he
thought they wouldn’t know the difference.”

“But they did.”

“Yes. Herb told him he could
either quit or be arrested and fired. So Gerry quit.”

“And took his own life shortly
after.”

“Yes.”

“How old was Richard when this
happened?”

“Two.”

“It must have been terribly
upsetting for you, with a child that young.”

She didn’t respond.

“How well did you know Mr.
Jarrett?”

She brought her eyes slowly around
to Hank’s. “Herb? He was a hard man. Unforgiving. He took what was his and
didn’t make compromises.”

“Did he attend your husband’s
funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him after that?”

She shook her head. “Not very
often.”

“It must have been hard on
Richard,” Hank said, “growing up without a father.”

Her brow creased defensively. “He
did all right. He had some problems in school, but then most boys do.”

“Poor grades?”

“Oh, no. His grades were always
excellent. Top of his class. No, just a few behavioral issues we had to work
through.”

“Bullying?” Hank guessed.

“Yes.”

“He went to Jesper Logan,
correct?”

“That’s right,” she replied.

“What did you do for money after
your husband died?”

“I went back to nursing.”

“Do you own this house, or rent?”

“Gerry and I bought this house
when we were married. It’s paid for.”

“The reason I ask,” Hank said, “is
I’m wondering how you could afford to send Richard to Jesper Logan on a nurse’s
salary with all your other bills to pay as well.”

She looked at him, looked at
Karen, looked back at him. “Herb helped out.”

“Jarrett? He paid for Richard’s
tuition at Jesper Logan?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that, Mrs.
Holland?”

“He felt … responsible.”

“Responsible for your husband’s
death, or for Richard?” Karen cut in.

“He wanted to make sure Richard
was taken care of. That he had a decent education.”

“Why would he give a damn about
that, Mrs. Holland?”

Mary Holland shrugged. “He was
Richard’s father.”

Karen looked at Hank. He raised an
eyebrow.

“His natural father, you mean?”
Karen asked.

“Yes.”

“You had an affair with Jarrett? When
did it start?”

“In, uh, I guess it was 1972.
There was a social event for the company. We went because we were supposed to.
He forced himself on me. Told me he liked my looks, and that he’d come around
to see me from time to time. He did. Eventually I became pregnant with Richard.
After that, he dropped me. The thrill was gone, I imagine. I was just as glad.”

“So you’re saying Jarrett was Richard’s
natural father and that’s why he paid for his schooling. Because he was the
natural father and he was obligated.”

“He said he was glad to. That he’d
make sure Richard grew up having every opportunity to get ahead in life.”

“Do you own a firearm, Mrs.
Holland?”

“A what?”

“A gun,” Karen repeated,
irritated. “Do you own a gun?”

“Well, yes. It was Gerry’s. It’s
still in his desk.”

Karen stood up. “We’d like to see
it.”

“I guess it would be all right.”
Mary stood up and led them across the hall into the combined kitchen and dining
area. “Gerry kept this as a little office,” she said, gesturing to the desk and
a couple of small, cluttered bookshelves in the corner of the room.

“The gun?” Karen prompted.

“It’s in the middle drawer,” Mary
said.

“May I?” Karen pulled out the
chair.

“Yes. The drawer’s locked but the
key’s in the big drawer right in front of you.”

Karen sat down. She removed a pair
of latex gloves from her jacket pocket and put them on.

“Why are you doing that?” Mary
asked.

Saying nothing, Karen pulled out
the big drawer and saw a set of two identical keys on a ring in the built-in
tray in the drawer. Taking a pen from her pocket, she fished out the keys by
the ring, grasped one of the keys by its edges, and tried it in the lock above
the three drawers on the right side of the desk. It turned. She slipped the pen
inside the handle of the middle drawer and pulled it open. Inside the drawer
was a red box with the Ruger logo printed on the lid. She looked at Hank, who
nodded. Gingerly she removed the box from the drawer, set it on the desk, and
used the tip of the pen to open the lid.

The box was empty.

Karen looked at Mary. “Is this
where the gun's usually kept?”

“I don't understand. It should be
there.”

“Uh huh. When was the last time
you saw it?”

“Not for a while, now. I don't
bother Gerry's things at all.”

“Got any documentation for it,
Mrs. Holland? Something with the serial number of the gun on it, for instance?”

“Gerry's files are in the bottom
drawer. There might be something there.”

Karen used the pen to open the
bottom drawer. She looked at a neatly-labeled set of file folders. She used the
pen to sort through the tabs until she found one labeled “Ruger.” She took hold
of the corner of the tab with finger and thumb and gently tugged the file out.
She put it on the desk and used the pen to flip it open.

Hank bent over her shoulder, and
they looked at an instruction manual for the Ruger Mark 1, Target and Standard
Model, a warranty certificate, and a sales receipt dated October 14, 1973, that
was made out to Gerald Holland at this address.

“Is this when your husband bought
it?” he asked.

“Yes. We'd had a break-in just
before. Gerry wanted to make sure we had some protection in the house.”

“Who else has access to this
desk?”

“No one. Only Richard, but he
hates guns.” She paused. “I did have a break-in last year. Maybe the person
took the gun then.”

“Did you report it?” asked Hank.

Mary shook her head. “Several of
us were broken into. I talked to one of the neighbors, and she said she wasn't
going to report hers, either, because people said it was gang members looking
for prescription drugs and guns. If we reported it, she was afraid they'd come
back. So we didn't say anything.”

“What else did you notice was
missing?”

“Some of my mother's jewelry, from
my bedroom. My blood pressure pills. A few other things like that.”

“Uh huh.” Karen had been looking
at the other file tabs, and now she pulled out a folder labeled “Richard” that
had been misfiled at the back. “This one of your husband's files, too?”

“I put that there.”

“Mind if I look at it?”

“I don't see why you'd be
interested in Richard.”

“Just trying to understand him
better,” Karen said casually.

“All you'll find there are some
doctors' records from when he was in school.”