“So why does he still have a job?” A.L. asked.
“Excellent question. I inherited Steven from another VP who, quite frankly, isn’t willing to address performance issues. Over the last six months, I watched him closely and took every opportunity presented to me to coach him on his work. And when that didn’t have the desired effect, I started with the bank’s formal corrective action process. Steven Hanzel has received several written notices that his performance is lacking. Quite frankly, he’s on his last leg here.”
“Seems like a lot of work for somebody who isn’t doing the job.”
“Steven suffered a pretty severe hearing loss when he got sick in college. Mono? Meningitis? I can’t remember the reason. All I know is that it meets the definition of disability. Which complicates the issue for us. The bank doesn’t like to get sued by former disgruntled employees. When we do, we want to make sure that we win the case easily. Good documentation is our friend. But just as importantly, from my perspective, is that I’ve earned a reputation here as somebody who gives people a chance. I’ve turned around poor performers. I really wanted him to succeed. But he just gets in his own way.”
“How’s he do that?”
“I’d be speculating and I don’t want to do that.”
A.L. shrugged. “I won’t think less of you. In fact, right now, I’m thinking that you’re pretty smart and talented and that you’re a high performer, which is how you got to a VP position at what seems to be a fairly young age.”
She smiled. “I have worked hard.” She drummed a perfectly polished index finger on the table. “The bank does preemployment drug testing and four years ago, Steven Hanzel passed his. We only conduct ongoing testing when the work performance is such that we suspect that alcohol or drugs are affecting performance. I want to test him, but thus far my human resources department has put the brakes on that.”
“You think he’s a drug user.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. My ex-husband was an addict and I see some of the same behaviors.”
“Like?”
“Steven is a smoker so he makes a beeline outside every break and lunch hour. He stands near the south entrance, smoking and talking on his phone. Twice now, when I’ve walked by on my way to a midday meeting off-site, he’s stopped talking. Not stopped as in listening. He was midsentence both times that he saw me and boom, he goes silent. I think he’s making drug deals. But I’ve been told to manage him out of the bank based on his performance. So I’m biding my time.”
Steven Hanzel was on thin ice and he knew it. It made A.L. wonder if he’d shared that information with his best friend, Troy Whitman. And while it could not be disputed that it was a good thing to get the fund-raising going, perhaps Steven would have been better served to focus on his job.
“Do you happen to know the balance of the fund-raising account?” A.L. asked.
“I saw Steven in the employee break room yesterday. He couldn’t wait to tell me it was close to $160,000. I wish he watched his own numbers so closely.”
That was real money. People were very generous. “I appreciate your time, Ms. Federer.”
“I hope you find Emma and the person who is responsible for this.”
“Me, too.”
He left the bank and called Rena from the car. Filled her in. First on the fact that Shana Federer thought she’d seen Kara Wiese in the bathroom prior to 7:30. “Are you going to ask Kara about it?”
“Not just yet,” he said.
She didn’t ask why, probably figured he had a reason. After all, by Shana’s own admission she thought it was her but she didn’t really look at her. It just felt like something he wanted to hold in his pocket for now.
Then he told her about his conversation with Hanzel’s boss.
“Didn’t you say he was sort of an exuberant guy, kind of loud?” she asked. “Is it possible that’s a well-honed defense mechanism? Act confident and like you’re a winner and people will think you are. It’s a little like Chief Faster.”
That made sense. Both Steven Hanzel and Faster set his teeth on edge.
Talking to Rena made him remember that he had yet to order flowers for Tess. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“I’ll call once I’ve talked to Melissa Wayne,” Rena said.
A.L. hung up the phone and made a quick right-hand turn. Three minutes later, he pulled up in front of Petal Poof.
There was a young woman behind the counter who had probably been hired to take Jane Picus’s spot. Five minutes later, he’d purchased a forty-dollar bouquet of fresh flowers with a fall theme. Whatever the hell that was. He’d been assured the bouquet would be delivered today.
“Do you want a special message on the card?” the woman asked.
Maybe don’t pay attention to my crazy ex-wife, I never do. “No. Just A.L.”
“Al?” she asked.
“No. Never mind. Sign it Able.”
* * *
Rena rolled into Dover at 8:45. She had Melissa Wayne’s address plugged into her GPS. The woman’s house was a two-story with white siding, green shutters, a brick driveway and well-tended flowers in big pots. Nice, she thought. She knocked on the door. A woman wearing scrubs answered the door. She wasn’t very tall and Rena could easily look over her shoulder. She didn’t see or hear anything that made her think a five-year-old was in the house.
“Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
The woman shook her head. “She’s not home. Can I help you?”
Rena pulled her badge. “Detective Morgan, Baywood Police Department.”
The woman briefly studied her badge. Then lifted her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Can you tell me where I might find Melissa Wayne?” Rena asked.
“She’s at her shop.”
“Shop?” Rena repeated.
“She owns the Brighter Day Salon on Parke Street,” the woman said. “They open at 7:30 on Saturdays.”
“May I have your name, please?” Rena said.
“Candiss Lake.”
“And your relationship to Ms. Wayne?”
“Personal,” Candiss said, her voice edgy.
“Thank you,” Rena said. She pulled a business card from her pocket. “If I happen to miss Ms. Wayne, would you give this to her and let her know that I need to talk with her?”
“Of course.” Candiss slipped the card into the pocket of her top.