Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  He sat next to her, handing her a slip of paper. “That’s the info about my car. Actually, it’s my folks’ car. I don’t have one right now. But then you know that.”

  “I do. But thanks for this.” One of the two officers working the security center would be in to collect more of these slips when needed.

  “I could use a favor,” he said, his smile uneasy.

  “I thought I just gave you one,” she said, hating that she still found him attractive.

  He scratched his fashionably scruffy chin. “I want to talk to you about, you know. . . media coverage.”

  “Hasn’t been any yet.”

  “I didn’t think so. How about cutting me a break so I can get a story over to the Telegraph Herald? And after that, keeping me in the loop?”

  Did he know when he tilted his head forward like that and looked up with those big brown eyes, it made her want to reach over and fiddle with his curly dark hair? And then slap him? The trendy beard would cushion it.

  She said, “Let’s start with a few questions.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Why should it be a problem?

  “I obviously don’t need your name and address and phone number.”

  “No. Obviously.”

  “State them anyway.”

  “Oh.” He did.

  “Now I need to know about last night, Jerry—what time you left here. And what’s the name of that young girl you were with?”

  “Okay. The young woman’s name is Jasmine Peterson.”

  “You were here at the resort, in the lounge, after the reunion?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  He shrugged. “Till last call. Two. Talking old times.”

  Not with Jasmine, surely.

  “Can you tell me exactly who you talked old times with?”

  “Sure.” He rattled off half a dozen names, then thought awhile, and rattled off four more. “She drove us home, by the way. Jasmine. Designated driver. Do you want her contact information? She works at Vinny Vanucchi’s.”

  “If you know her phone number and address that would be helpful.”

  “You’re going to talk to her?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave Krista the info.

  She asked, “Did you talk to Astrid at all?”

  He frowned, shook his head. “Awful. So awful. Such a talented young woman.”

  Was he trying too hard?

  “Did you talk to her last night?”

  “Just said hello.”

  “Really, that’s all? You were something of an item back at GHS, as I recall.”

  “Are you going to bust my. . . chops over that?”

  “No. I’d just like to know if you stayed in touch with Astrid.”

  “Not really.”

  “That doesn’t sound like ‘no.’”

  He sighed. Thought for a bit. “You really probably do need to know this, though I doubt it has anything to do with anything.”

  “Why don’t you tell me and I’ll decide?”

  “She called me about a week ago. From Chicago. She wondered if I was interested in helping her out on a story.”

  “What story?”

  “She wasn’t super specific. It was about men taking advantage of women. In a sexual way, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “We were going to get together. . . today, actually. This afternoon. She was going to tell me what it was about, and could I do some interviews for her, and so on. She said there was a local angle. . . not local Chicago, local Galena. . . but she wouldn’t be able to spend enough time here, and needed some ‘help on the ground.’”

  “So is this workplace-related?”

  “You now know what I know. Are we cool?”

  She laughed faintly. “Sure. We’re cool. Go write your story. And file it.”

  “You make that sound like an insult.”

  “You writers. Always looking for subtext. Thank you, Mr. Ward. Would you mind sending Frank Wunder and his wife up?”

  Frank and Brittany came unenthusiastically over. He was in a brown jacket, tan slacks, and yellow shirt; she was in a black lacy thing that cried out for tattoos. Her husband’s expression couldn’t make up its mind whether it was a smile or not, and Brittany’s blonde boredom was coming off her in waves.

  He sat opposite Krista, and couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he’d been duct-taped to the chair. His short brown hair looked like he’d slept on it funny and the normally attractive green eyes, crowding his football-badge-of-honor broken nose, were bloodshot.

  Brittany tossed Krista a slip of paper with their license plate number and car make/model. Frank was staring at the cell phone on the table like he’d never seen one before.

  He asked Krista, “Are you expecting a call?”

  “No. I’m recording us. Is that all right?”

  Brittany asked, “Do you need our permission?”

  “Not for the basic information, names, address.”

  Frank said, “You know our names. Where we live.”

  “I do know your names, but state them for me, would you? And I don’t know your phone number or numbers, or your street address, off the top of my head.”

  Brittany rattled all that off. She had the expression of someone who would feel contempt for you if she only had enough interest.

  Krista asked them about the evening before. Like Jerry, they had after-partied in the Lake View Lounge. Krista asked Frank who he’d seen there and specifically who he’d talked to. He told her. The list was similar to Jerry’s, though not exactly.

  “Brittany,” Krista asked, “is there anyone Frank has left out?”

  Brittany shrugged. “They’re not in my class.”

  Which sounded a little ambiguous.

  “Frank,” Krista said, “you and Astrid were something of an item at one time.”

  Interceding, Brittany said, “Is that a question?”

  “No, but—”

  “I started going with Frank not long after he broke it off with her. They were only together a couple of weeks.”

  That could be an eternity in high school time.

  “Of course,” Brittany said, “she dated a lot of guys for a couple of weeks. Popular ones like Frank.”

  “Did either of you talk to Astrid last night?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “You didn’t even say hello?”

  “No. Astrid and me, we didn’t. . . you know, part on good terms.”

  “How not good were those terms?”

  Frank shrugged. “Oh, you know that was years ago. But some time passing doesn’t make me somebody she wanted to talk to now, and me her either.”

  “What about you, Brittany?”

  “I never talked to her at GHS and she never lowered herself to talking to a sophomore. If you’re looking for somebody to shed tears over that skank, find somebody with less mascara at risk.” She leaned forward and spoke to the cell. “This is Brittany Wunder speaking, in case there’s any doubt.”

  Krista asked, “Were you in town in August, you two? Did you go anywhere? Vacation maybe? Either of you?”

  Frank looked at Brittany and Brittany looked at Frank.

  Then Brittany shook her head, saying, “No. We were both right here in glorious Galena. Why?”

  Krista didn’t tell her.

  After a few more questions, Krista thanked them and said they were free to go. That there might be follow-up.

  Frank, already on his feet, looked startled. “Why would there be?”

  Krista smiled and said, “I don’t know. Should something come up.”

  “Why should it?”

  His wife took him by the arm, a little thing hauling the big lug away, saying, “Come on, Frankie baby. Don’t question a hall pass.”

  Krista mulled for a few moments. Frank seemed really thrown by Astrid’s murder—the Buick dealer for once hadn’t ragged her about not driving American.

  She glanced
over at the other officers and Booker, at their respective tables, talking to other classmates of hers. She doubted they’d get anywhere—none of the subjects were from Astrid’s crowd.

  Then she glanced over at Jessica and Josh’s table, among the closer ones, and quickly caught Jessy’s eye. Smiled and nodded at her, and Jessy gathered her purse and her husband and joined Krista at the table.

  Jessy, petite and curvy in a navy pantsuit and cream-colored silk blouse, sat across from Krista. Josh took the seat beside his wife; he unbuttoned his brown sport coat over his cranberry polo, both a little small for him. He was one of those slightly overweight guys who couldn’t face up to reality. Still, he was handsome enough, his dark blond hair combed, his dark blue eyes not at all bloodshot, and for once she detected no scent of caramel corn.

  Jessy leaned over, batting her big brown eyes, and touched Krista’s hand. “You are doing so well, sweetie! I’m proud of you. And you always said you were shy! Going out for that musical really paid off. Standing up there, you were. . . honey, you were commanding.”

  “Right,” she said. “Thanks. Do you have your vehicle info written down?”

  Josh handed the slip to her.

  “I’m recording this,” Krista told them. “Would you each state your name and would one of you give your address and any phone numbers?”

  They did that.

  Jessy sat forward, smiling tightly, her purse on her lap. “Honey, we were here last night, like a lot of people, till well after two. First, in the bar. Then we sat by that fireplace, the sitting area in the lobby? You want to know who we saw, who we talked to?”

  “Yes,” Krista said.

  Jessy told her.

  “You know,” Jessy volunteered, “Josh went with Astrid for a while. But I mean, what guy on the Pirates didn’t? The backfield, anyway. Backfield in motion, like they say.”

  Behind all that chatty chatter, she knew, Jessy was a nervous wreck.

  Why?

  Again, with no prompting, Jessy started in. “I said hello to Astrid, talked to her for about two seconds. Told her how cool it was she was doing so well. That was it. That was early, before the band started. I don’t think she stayed very late. Josh? Did you talk to her?”

  He shrugged. “Said hi. I was standing right next to you, sweetheart.”

  Krista said, “You were gone in August, I remember. Something to do with your sister?”

  “Right, yeah, we visited her and Gary. Right, Josh?”

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “They got a cabin. On Timber Lake. Real nice.”

  Krista asked, “Would either of you know anything about Astrid that might be helpful?”

  Jessy shook her head. “We haven’t stayed in touch, honey.”

  “What about something dating back to high school?”

  “Well, just the rumor mill. There’s always that!”

  “Any specific rumor?”

  Her eyes fell to the phone. “If you turn that off, maybe.”

  Krista paused the recording. “Off the record.”

  “. . . Well, I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t even know if it’s true.”

  “That’s what makes it a rumor.”

  Jessy leaned very close. “You know, the girls, some of them, always said Mrs. Bragg, the coach’s wife? Well, she’s a coach, too, girls’ basketball. They always said Mrs. Bragg took a real interest in her girls. The girls on her teams and all. A real interest. Follow?”

  “I follow.”

  Jessy shrugged. “It’s probably just high school b.s. Some girl, maybe, got a bad grade in gym and made up some wild dumb thing to get back at teacher.”

  “Such as what?”

  She sighed. Drew even closer. Whispered. “Such as somebody saw Mrs. Bragg in the shower, soaping Astrid’s back. And they were naked.”

  “Wouldn’t they be?”

  “It was way after hours. And Mrs. Bragg was. . . well, Astrid was soapy all over. I didn’t see it! I don’t believe it. She’s married. She and Coach Bragg, they’re such a cute couple. I don’t buy it.”

  Maybe Jessy didn’t buy it, but she sold it pretty good.

  “Okay,” Krista said. “Thank you. I’m turning this back on.”

  She un-paused the phone, asked them both a few more questions, then told them they could go. They might hear from her later, and if either of them had to go out of town, please let her know. They scooted out the nearest door.

  David Landry came over. “Things going all right? Any way I can help?”

  “You can sit down here. I have to question you like everybody else, no matter how generous a host you are. Is your wife here?”

  He sat in the chair Jessy vacated. “No, I’m sorry. She’ll make herself available to you, obviously. But this was a workday for me, and Dawn had plans to see her mother over in Dubuque. We’ll set something up for you two to talk.”

  “Fine. You’re aware we’re recording this.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Tell me about your post-reunion doings.”

  “Surely. I was circulating some, mostly in the Lake View Lounge, but also at several small parties in suites. So I made the rounds. You want the names? Approximate times?”

  “That would be helpful.”

  He gave her all that.

  Krista said, “Astrid apparently left fairly early. But did you see her at the event? Speak to her?”

  “I did. We. . . I guess you know Astrid and I dated for, oh, several months senior year. For her, and for me, admittedly, that was a long run. When we broke up it was emotional and pretty rough. It was. . . my idea. I was jealous. She was getting friendly with. . . Josh Webster, I believe.”

  “You’re not sure? I think you’d remember.”

  He grinned, busted. “Yeah, it was Josh. But they didn’t last as long as Astrid and I did!” He shook his head, his eyelids at half-mast. “This is just so. . . it’s unspeakably sad. I wish. . . nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I wish I had spoken to her last night, more than just to say hello and welcome home and so on. To let her know how much I admired her, and all she’s accomplished.”

  “Would you happen to know where you were the second week in August?”

  He frowned, blindsided. “Well, that’s a very busy time for us. I was right here. Will I need to prove that?”

  “Possibly. Not right now. And you have no trips planned in the coming weeks?”

  “No. We have several conventions coming in. I have to be here. Getaways come rarely when you run a vacation wonderland.”

  She asked him a few more questions and he remained unfailingly helpful and even charming.

  “Okay, David. Thank you. For everything you’ve done for us here today.”

  “Happy to help.”

  That took care of everyone she wanted to zero in on, so Krista pitched in and interviewed other attendees until, by midevening, all of the locals had been released. The out-of-towners were a different matter, because some checking up would need to be done, particularly on their alibis for the Sue Logan homicide.

  Dog tired, she took a break in the Lake View Lounge herself. She was slumped in a booth, sipping ginger ale, when Booker lumbered in. That sharp suit of his looked a little bedraggled.

  He plopped down next to her. “Can I be officially off damn duty?”

  “Sure. Get yourself a beer.”

  “I was thinking more a Jack on the rocks.”

  “. . . Who’s stopping you?”

  He went over and got that and returned. They compared notes. Neither felt they had learned much, and she wasn’t ready to share the rumor about Kelly Bragg.

  “David Landry,” she said, “has been very helpful.”

  “Suspiciously helpful?”

  “Maybe. But his alibis for both crimes are likely to hold up.”

  “So what?”

  She frowned. “So what?”

  Booker chuck
led. “David Landry has spilled more money than you and me will ever see. You don’t think he could afford to hire somebody killed? Some fancy way that makes it look like some psycho did it? Or somebody with a hell of a grudge, so it doesn’t look like a hit job?”

  She was too tired to have an opinion. But she filed that away for when she was rested.

  SIXTEEN

  If he’d thought to bring a topcoat, Keith would have hoofed it. From the Drake Hotel to WLG-TV on West Washington was only a half-hour walk, and he might have enjoyed it, if February hadn’t decided to turn cold on him, that lake wind earning its reputation. After all, this was a part of the Loop he knew well.

  He and Karen had often spent getaway weekends here, the Drake their lodging of choice. They’d leave Friday, after she got home from teaching, or earlier during her summer vacation, if his work schedule allowed. They would check into the Drake, dine right there at the hotel, then have what married people sometimes refer to as “a romantic evening.” On Saturday she would shop the Miracle Mile while he and his cop pal Barney would take in a ball game at Wrigley Field or at the Cubby Bear bar, after which he and Karen would go to Second City on North Wells and eat somewhere in the neighborhood. On Sunday they would take in a matinee of a play or musical, and have deep dish pizza at Gino’s East before heading home.

  They had done that so many times, it was now a sweet, pleasant blur.

  But the Drake had not been a good idea. Oh, it was still a lovely old hotel, fairly recently restored. Only this was his first time there without Karen. Warm memories only went so far. Getting to sleep in a hotel room so like those the two of them had often shared, well, that hadn’t been easy.

  Last night—this was Monday morning—he had checked in with Krista, calling her cell (no landline anymore at the old homestead), and found her just getting in.

  “We’ve talked to everybody,” she said, “except the teachers. And I’ll be doing that tomorrow. They have an in-service day, I’ve been told, so I won’t have to pull anybody out of class, or look them up at home.”

  “Small breaks,” he told her, “are still breaks.”

  He was in his T-shirt and boxers, propped up on the bed with pillows behind him and a John Wayne western (one of the old Warner’s “B” ones, pre-Stagecoach) on the TV, muted. He listened to her fill him in on what she’d learned, which chiefly came from those who were already her favorite suspects.