Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  “Now can you tell me,” David said, perhaps a shade of irritation in his voice, “what exactly is going on?”

  “Astrid Lund,” Krista said, “was murdered last night. At her parents’ home after the reunion. It was a brutal crime and we’re dealing with an unknown party who is dangerously violent.”

  David’s mouth had dropped open and his eyes were almost comically wide; the blood had drained from his face. He was not likely to surprise easily, she supposed, considering the kinds of things he faced in his job. But this was a rather special circumstance, wasn’t it?

  “My God,” he said. “Oh my God. She was so. . .”

  “She was a lovely girl,” Krista’s father said. “We thank you for what you’ve already done. But we need more.”

  “Any way I can help,” David said, “you’ve got it.”

  Krista asked, “You wouldn’t happen to remember when Astrid left the reunion?”

  “I do, actually. The band was just starting a break and I glanced at my watch as Astrid was making a few goodbyes near the door. Right around ten thirty.”

  Not long after she and her father had left.

  Krista gestured toward the connecting hallway to the convention center. “Let’s walk and talk. The sooner I can get in front of our. . .” She almost said “suspects,” then considered “witnesses,” before finally settling on: “. . . classmates, the better.”

  They walked, David between her and her father, Booker bringing up the rear.

  Krista said, “We’ll need access to your security-cam footage.”

  “Anything you need,” David said.

  Her father asked, “Where are your cameras?”

  “We have one that captures perhaps the front third of the parking lot, another on the entrance. All of the halls are monitored. Front desk. Indoor pool.”

  “How about the side parking lots?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Anything on the various sides of the building?”

  “Just the entrance, I’m afraid.”

  Krista said, “What you do have will be helpful. As I recall, your bar closes at one a.m., right?”

  “Normally. But with the reunion, we extended to two.”

  That was another nice break. Her dad had told her the time of death—though hardly official—was around midnight. And by tomorrow they’d have something more definitive from the coroner.

  Krista said, “We’ll need all the bar receipts that were charged to rooms. I assume your generosity didn’t extend to giving everybody free bar tabs?”

  David let out a little laugh. “No. We lowered our room rates rock bottom, but we required credit cards at check-in, for incidentals, as usual. We provided food and entertainment last night, and the breakfast buffet today. But as you’ll recall, that was not an open bar last night, and this morning we’ve taken orders for mimosas, Irish coffees, Bloody Marys, and champagne cocktails.”

  Behind them, Booker said, “You’re makin’ me thirsty, Mr. Landry.”

  Krista smiled back at him. “Too bad you’re on duty.”

  David brushed back dark hair that didn’t need it. “How long do you think you’ll be wanting the out-of-town guests to stay around?”

  “With luck,” Krista said, “we’ll be able to thin this group considerably by tomorrow some time.”

  “So just one night.”

  “Yes. Except for any who might become persons of interest.”

  “Suspects you mean?”

  “Not necessarily. We just have some checking to do before we can clear them.”

  Her father said, “And some won’t be completely out of the woods. We’ll have to make sure they know—if they go back to their homes elsewhere in the state, or out of state—that they may still be hearing from us.”

  “I can tell you right now,” David said, “that a few people who were here last night did not come to the brunch.”

  Krista asked, “Do you know specifically who that might be?”

  “Oh, yes. The free brunch was offered only to our GHS 2009 classmates and significant others. For nonclassmates, it was only ten dollars. But the handful who weren’t in our class mostly took a pass—the table of teachers, for instance.”

  Her father shrugged and said, “They’re all local. Easy enough to find.”

  “As I mentioned,” Krista said, “this is a thinning process.”

  David nodded as they walked along the sun-flooded hall with its wall of windows at left. “Is there anything in the city budget to allow for lodging these, uh, persons who may prove to be of interest?”

  That locution made Pop smile. “No, Mr. Landry,” he said, “I don’t believe there is. Your out-of-town guests are a captive audience for us and the lodge.”

  David was frowning in thought. “Look, we’ll comp them for a few days, if need be. It’s off-season. Maybe that’ll help you out some.”

  “That would be great, David,” Krista said.

  Behind them, Booker said, “You got a spare whirlpool room I could use? Just so I got somewhere to work out of.”

  Krista looked back at him, amused. “We only have your services for today, Sergeant, as I recall. Your court date tomorrow?”

  “Earliest I’ll testify is afternoon. Maybe I can help tomorrow morning. Lotta folks to sort through.”

  Krista told the resort manager, “Sergeant Jackson will be sleeping at home tonight, David. He’s just kidding.”

  On the square.

  David’s forehead frowned though his mouth smiled a little. “Well, I’m sincere about the offer—for extending stays and comping anybody you need access to.”

  Her father said, “Very generous, Mr. Landry. I think we can move this along quick enough to not wear out our welcome.”

  They were just outside the banquet hall now.

  David asked, “Anything else I can do?”

  Krista said, “Do you know of anyone who checked out early?”

  “I don’t think anyone did, but I can look into that.”

  “Please.”

  “You mean. . . now?”

  Her father gave David a single nod.

  “Uh, anything else you need?” The resort manager was just starting to look like maybe they were pushing it.

  Her pop said, “Yes. Keep taking drink orders. It’ll help us both.”

  David grinned, nodded, and headed back the way they’d come.

  When the trio entered the open-beam-ceilinged banquet hall, all eyes went to them, none very friendly. Many attendees were still eating. The tall windows onto the lake were streaming sunshine, but the murmur among the guests was like the rumbling that threatens thunder. Again, tables for six were scattered around the room. Everyone seemed to have dressed for the church services they skipped.

  Krista positioned herself before them and said, in a loud, clear voice, the murmuring cutting off as if a switch had been thrown, “Please go on with your breakfast. We’ll be with you shortly. Thank you for your patience, and your cooperation.”

  The murmuring switched back on, perhaps a little softer.

  Booker was already at the breakfast buffet. She and her father joined him. The big man was piling on the scrambled eggs, French toast slices, hash browns, and sausage links. Krista took a bagel and a dollop of cream cheese, then got a small orange juice and some coffee. Her dad took the same as Booker, only about a fourth of the quantity. He got himself some iced tea.

  Booker led them to the only remaining empty table, just inside the door. Krista was happy not to be stuck in that bright sunshine. This might be technically a beautiful day, but not really.

  As they ate, her father asked, “Have you got in touch with Astrid’s parents yet?”

  She shook her head, using a butter knife to spread the cream cheese on the bagel. “No. I don’t have their number in Florida. Maybe the forensics team will find it on her phone. I’m hoping someone in this crowd has it right now.”

  His tone went fatherly. “You don’t want them to hear it from the inte
rnet or anything.”

  She sighed. “They may already have.”

  She’d had to make such calls—in person—to the parents or wives or husbands or children of accident fatalities. Nothing in her job had ever seemed tougher. Now she faced something even worse—telling the parents of a talented, lovely, successful young woman with an incredibly bright future ahead of her that all of that had been snuffed out, like a candle on an altar.

  “And,” her dad said, “you still have the media to deal with.”

  “Jerry’s date may not be here,” she said, glancing toward the table where her ex had just joined two couples, “but he is. He can give his scoop to the Dubuque paper.”

  “Yup,” Booker said, spearing a sausage for what looked to be one bite. “Galena Gazette is a weekly. That don’t cut it.”

  A waitress in black bow tie, white shirt, and tuxedo pants stopped by to see if the constabulary wanted a mimosa or one of the other breakfast cocktails. All of them wanted something. None of them ordered anything.

  Her father was poking at his small plate of food. He asked Krista, “How many of your people can you pull in here?”

  “We only have two shifts of a single patrol car today,” she said. “That leaves everybody else.”

  “Let’s get them out here,” he said. “The sooner we can thin this crowd to our best suspects, better off we are. We need two pairs of eyes on those security tapes, and everybody else asking questions.”

  She was glancing at the dozen tables in the big room. Nobody seemed to be eating now but the cops, who were almost done, even Booker. Waiters were out there busing. It was time.

  His plate empty of everything but syrup traces, Booker seemed about to get up but she put an arm on his sleeve.

  “No seconds for you, young man,” she told him.

  He made a face but it turned into a smile. “Yes, Chief Larson. I will struggle by on a single serving.”

  “Stay here, you two,” she said to her pop and her sergeant.

  Krista rose and positioned herself at the front of the room, with the buffet at her back, the opposite end from where the Cover Band had played. She looked across at the many faces where confusion and irritation were mounting.

  “I think you all know me,” she said, in a loud, businesslike, but not unfriendly voice. “It was a pleasure last evening to spend some quality time with old friends. I’m sure you all agree.”

  Forced and/or uneasy smiles met her.

  “But it is my unpleasant, and official, duty to inform you that last night our classmate Astrid Lund was murdered.”

  The murmuring came back in, mixed with high tones of alarm.

  She raised a palm, as if directing traffic. “The crime was a brutal one, and the situation—for us and for you—is obviously serious.”

  From about halfway down the room, Jessy Webster—sitting with husband Josh and the Wunders, Frank and Brittany—called out, “Krista, does this have anything to do with Sue Logan?”

  She could have done without the prompt, but she said calmly, “It may well have. As many of you know, late last summer, in Clearwater, Florida, our classmate Susan Logan was also a homicide victim. Some elements of Sue’s death mirror Astrid’s.”

  Hands went up, here and there, as if this were a big classroom. And, in a way, wasn’t it? She ignored them.

  “The only other thing I am at liberty to tell you about Astrid’s death,” she said, “is that very preliminary findings indicate the crime occurred around midnight.”

  Whispering, muttering. Some tears and sobs from the women.

  Krista’s hand again came up. “Because of the reunion that brought us all together,” she said, in that same loud but calm tone, “I must ask you to cooperate as my officers and I talk to you this afternoon, doing our best to determine who among you might add something of value to our investigation. If you have photos on your phone from last night that include Astrid, we’ll want to see them. Any posting about the reunion you need to share with us.”

  A male toward the back yelled, “How long are we going to be here?”

  “We will move as quickly as we can,” Krista assured them. “You are required to answer a few brief questions, provide identification, contact information, and so on. We will ask you to cooperate further by way of a more thorough interview. If you refuse, you will be free to go. . . but we will wonder why.”

  Silence blanketed the big room.

  “Wonder why,” she continued, “you wouldn’t want to help us determine who murdered your classmate.”

  The murmur threatened to become a clamor.

  She spoke over it: “Though you may decide only to provide minimal cooperation, remember—I have a limited number of officers and this is a large group, and many here will cooperate in full. We will likely be here, some of us at least, well into the evening. And, possibly, into tomorrow.”

  She let them chew that over. It got loud. Nobody was happy. That included Krista, but she seemed to be the only one keeping it to herself.

  As the din decreased to an undertone, she said, “In that event, those of you from out of town may have to stay the night. . .”

  Some other male blurted an expletive, loud enough to get some spontaneous nervous laughter.

  “. . . but in that event, your generous host, our classmate David Landry, is going to comp you on your rooms.”

  The hum of conversation that followed seemed almost positive.

  “For those of you who do cooperate fully, we request that you stay until we say go. This is a murder investigation. We would like the opportunity to clear you.”

  Suddenly the faces wore surprise, some even seeming stunned, as everyone here realized what they were.

  Suspects.

  “For example,” Krista said, “we will be checking security footage that may demonstrate that your car was in the lot all night.”

  Whispering between significant others made it sound like the entire hall was shushing her.

  Again she spoke over it: “What I pledge to you as your friend, classmate, and chief of police is that we will move this as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

  “What about meals?” another male cried out.

  The women, she noted, seemed more accepting of the inevitable.

  “Your lodging is being taken care of,” she reminded them. “Paying for any meals and beverages, in particular alcoholic ones, seems a nice way to say thank you to your already generous host.”

  David’s voice came from her right—she hadn’t seen him step in. He said, almost yelling, “You will dine as the lodge’s guests this evening! We’re preparing a limited but complimentary menu.”

  Sudden applause and even a few whistles and “Yay, Dave!” came up.

  Krista said, giving the group a small smile, “Better not bring up tomorrow.”

  That got both laughs and moans, the latter louder.

  “Again, we mean to get you out of here quickly, back into your homes and your lives. You can help us in the meantime by writing down your license plate numbers—to help us check security footage for your cars. That will help us rule you out.”

  Or identify you, she thought.

  “Also,” Krista said, “if anyone has contact information for the Lunds in Florida, I need that ASAP. And please, please, stay off social media. I don’t want Astrid’s parents hearing this news the wrong way.”

  As if there were a right one.

  “In addition,” she went on, “gather your thoughts about last night. Were you in the bar? How late were you there? Who did you see? Did you gather in rooms or in the lobby sitting areas with friends?”

  She didn’t use the dreaded word “alibi,” but it hung in the air.

  “Try to have any relevant information ready for the officers,” she said. “We’ll begin soon.”

  The assemblage went back to its murmuring, and the waitstaff began doing a land-office business.

  David came up to her and said, “I have some information that might be helpful.�
�

  “Good. Share it with my investigators, would you?”

  She walked the resort manager over to the table where her father and Booker sat.

  They looked up at David as he said, “One guest checked out already—very early this morning. Around five a.m. Alex Cannon. From Chicago?”

  Her father got to his feet.

  Krista blurted, “Where are you off to?”

  “Not the buffet,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  Keith got to his destination by late afternoon. He’d made only one stop, outside Rockford, for gas and a restroom break, and finding the Naperville address on Gatesfield Drive had been easy, thanks to the Toyota’s GPS.

  The lawn was vaguely green, like cloth after a few washes too many, with one small bony tree but many house-hugging evergreens, a tall central pine nearly reaching the three-peaked roof of the two-story redbrick Georgian, one peak over a three-car garage. This was less than a mansion but had surely cost its owner more than half a mil.

  Two cars were in the wide drive, side by side: a pearl Lexus and a dark gray BMW. Keith pulled in front of the house and got out, wishing he’d brought a topcoat—February was turning cold again. He’d had the chance to grab something, when he stopped back at the house to pack a small bag, just in case this turned into an overnight. But he hadn’t.

  He crossed some brittle grass to get to the sidewalk and up to the one-step porch and rang the bell by the inset front door.

  A second ring wasn’t necessary—the door behind the glassed-in screen opened halfway, and a pretty brunette looked out, lip gloss her only makeup, her longish hair beautifully styled. She was maybe twenty-three, slender but curvy in a camel turtleneck sweater and dark skinny jeans. Her eyes were big and brown, and a plastic surgeon had given her a nice if overly carved nose. She looked vaguely familiar.

  Her rather neutral expression blossomed into a smile of recognition and she opened the door wider. “You’re that police chief’s father!” she said, her voice on the soprano side.

  He smiled tentatively. “Yes, my daughter Krista is Galena’s chief. Do you know her? Have we met?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t, we haven’t. But Alex pointed her out, and you, as well. Said you were a police officer, too, or used to be.”