Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  “You’re our police chief’s daddy, right?” he said, waving Keith in. Tyler’s voice was deep and with a little gravel. Maybe the Tom Waits hat was catching.

  “I am,” Keith said, as the shop owner locked them back in. “I’ve stopped in a few times, just to browse. But we haven’t met—you’re Tyler Dale, right?”

  “Right. Christopher said somebody would be around to talk to me. You’re it, huh?”

  “I’m it.”

  “More I’m it, as in tag. Come along, would you, Mr. Larson? While I lock up in back?”

  Like many of the stores on the west side of Main, where the buildings fell to North and South Commerce below, Galena’s Own Artworks took up a narrow space that seemed to go on forever. The bright, cheery gallery sported beautiful hardwood flooring, brick walls, and a vintage tin ceiling painted silver-gray. The central space was given over to spinner racks of hip greeting cards, the walls home to high-riding framed paintings and prints and low-riding white shelving of craft items. Near the front register was a long display case of funky jewelry, and here and there were bins of unframed, plastic-covered art. The overall effect was fun and eclectic, the wall art a mix of landscapes and more free-spirited styles.

  Locking up the rear entrance, Tyler said, “Shall we talk in my office? Or I could treat you to a beer at the Log Cabin, if you don’t consider that a bribe. I don’t have much help working with me, this time of year, and I could use it. . . a beer, I mean.”

  “Beer sounds fine,” Keith said. “But I’m buying.”

  They walked back through the colorful shop, pausing at half a dozen paintings of various ’80s rock stars depicted with heavy black outlines and bright, unrealistic colors.

  “What do you think of my latest mini-exhibit?” Tyler asked.

  “Very good,” Keith said, not giving away that he’d noticed the artist’s signature was that of his host.

  “They’re mine,” the flattered artist said. “The Galena landscapes sell better, though. We did sell quite a few of Bowie and Prince, right after they died. Then things slowed down.”

  “For them especially,” Keith said.

  Tyler smiled at the darkly comic remark. His mouth was somewhat Jagger-ish and he had pockmarked cheeks that lent him a rough-hewn charm.

  They strolled one block south on Main to the Log Cabin, a steakhouse with the faux-rustic trappings its name implied and a Rat Pack feel like walking into 1960, including signed celebrity photos up front. The horseshoe bar, beyond which was a dining room, was a favorite of locals. About a third of the stools were taken as a dark-haired waiter of maybe thirty-five, clean-cut in a crisp white shirt with black-and-white-striped tie, was over tending to regulars with cheerful familiarity.

  Keith and Tyler found a spot with no one immediately nearby, ordered their beers; this was a Greek steakhouse, so they both had the Hillas. The bartender poured for them as Keith set his phone on the counter.

  “I’ll be recording the interview,” he said.

  Tyler seemed to find that off-putting. “What am I, a suspect? I didn’t even know that Astrid what’s-her-face.”

  “You’re not a suspect. You’re not even a person of interest.”

  Tyler shrugged a shoulder. “Some people find me interesting.”

  “I’m not surprised. But you were at the reunion Saturday night, and while Chris isn’t a suspect either, he did know Astrid. He took her under his wing, encouraged her, when she was a student of his.”

  “From what I saw of her,” Tyler said with a smirk, “she didn’t look like she needed much encouragement. Not with those looks, and that poise.”

  “Agreed. But it sounds like you did notice her well enough to make that observation.”

  Tyler’s voice lowered to a whisper, barely audible above Dean Martin singing “An Evening in Roma” on the Greek restaurant’s sound system.

  “Well. . . I’ll tell you something,” he said, nodding to the phone on the counter, “if you turn that thing off.”

  Keith said, “All right,” and paused the app.

  Tyler sipped beer, then looked sideways at Keith. “I don’t have any reason to think that Christopher ever did anything inappropriate with a student, okay? I want that understood.”

  “All right.”

  Now he looked right at Keith, still barely audible. “But what you almost certainly do not know. . . because it’s personal, and private. . . is that Christopher, before we got together, over a dozen years ago now. . . had a few relationships, sexual ones, with women.”

  “He’s bisexual.”

  Firmness came into Tyler’s voice, though not volume. “No. He’s gay. But when he was younger, he hadn’t come to terms with that. So when he’d talk fondly about this Astrid person, I never really read anything sexual into it. He was proud that someone he’d seen potential in had gone so far. He thought she’d make it as an actress, and wasn’t he right? Isn’t the news just another venue for pretty people who don’t stutter to perform in?”

  Keith sipped beer. “No offense meant, but you almost sound jealous.”

  Tyler laughed silently. Had his own sip of the Hillas. “I think anybody in a relationship is always at least a little jealous when their lover talks with dewy eyes about. . . look. All I’m saying is, I’d heard all about how special Astrid Lund was, so I scoped her out. Watched her when we first got to that reunion. That’s all.”

  “Did you notice Astrid talking to anyone in particular? Maybe arguing with someone?” Keith had seen one such instance himself that night, when Astrid and David Landry seemed to be exchanging heated words down the lodge corridor.

  But Tyler only shook his head. “No. She didn’t mind being the center of attention at the affair, only I don’t think she enjoyed being crowded. She wasn’t courting that, certainly. I didn’t make her for stuck-up, either—just somebody who, once she got there, wished she could duck under the radar and maybe enjoy herself a little.”

  “Really? Dressed to the nines like that?”

  Another single shoulder shrug. “She wanted people to know she was successful. Nothing wrong with that. Human nature, right?”

  “How closely did you observe her?”

  He batted the air. “Oh, not really all that close. Well, a little, but just when she first came in and got rushed on by the huddled masses. Christopher had a good number of these aging kiddies come up and fawn over him, too—he is a teacher who really likes his students, and they like him back, boys and girls. I think he realized I was getting bored or maybe had my nose out of joint, and he grabbed me and yanked me out on the dance floor. We danced and danced, and I suddenly didn’t give a damn about his precious former students, and I don’t think he did, either. All in all it was a pleasant evening.”

  But not for Astrid Lund, as it worked out.

  “Okay,” Keith said. “That’s all I have about that.” He indicated the phone. “Mind if we start recording again?”

  “No. Go right ahead.”

  Keith un-paused it. “Do you remember what you did and where you were the second week of August last year?”

  Another Jagger-esque smile. “Christopher said you’d ask about that. I hear another classmate of your daughter’s got killed much the same way as La Lund. Is that right?”

  “Yes. In Clearwater, Florida.”

  He shuddered. “What a terrible place to die. Well, we were in Atlanta, at a teacher’s conference. There’s a town.”

  “How long were you down there?”

  “At the conference? Oh, four days.”

  “Could you tell me what airline you took? The particulars of the travel?”

  “Well, we took Christopher Hope Airlines! That is, we went by car. We have an Audi. Left the kids with Christopher’s folks.”

  “You drove all that way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we like to. We had friends we dropped in on and stayed with, and fun cities along the way. Clubs, music, and so on.”

 
Keith frowned a little. “Isn’t August your gallery’s busy time?”

  “From spring through early fall it’s busy. But I have plenty of summer staff and it’s not unusual for me to take a couple of weeks’ vacation around then. Gotta take advantage of Christopher being on summer vacation. Didn’t he tell you we’d taken two weeks?”

  “No,” Keith said, and he wasn’t happy with himself or Krista. This showed how superficial their first round of interviews had been.

  Keith said, “Chris’s colleague, Ken Stock, was also at the conference. Did he travel with you?”

  “No. I assume he flew.”

  “Did you see him there?”

  “Yes, any number of times. We didn’t socialize particularly. . . oh, I guess we had lunch once. We’re certainly friendly—he’s no homophobe. It was a big conference, probably a thousand in attendance from all over the country.” Tyler had one last sip of the Hillas. “Is there anything else, Mr. Larson?”

  “No.” He had finished his beer, too, and the interview.

  Keith thanked the gallery owner for his cooperation, and frankness, though much of it had been off-the-record and unrecorded. That teacher’s conference needed some looking into. Atlanta to Clearwater and back was not exactly a round trip to the moon.

  Just before six they exited the Log Cabin, the world already all but dark, Main Street a ghost town; the two men paused in the reddish blush of the old-fashioned hanging neon (the place had been around since the ’40s).

  Tyler said, “Let me know what else you might need.”

  “How about a Blondie painting?”

  The gallery owner grinned. “I’ll give you my special discount, reserved for police chiefs and their old men.”

  “Take you up on that.”

  Snugging on his porkpie hat, Tyler headed left with a big nod and a little wave, turning the corner, likely hiking down to Commerce, where many shopkeepers and employees parked.

  Keith started up the sidewalk of the slope that was Hill Street, past the Kandy Kitchen, heading to Bench Street. Behind him came the throaty purr of a car with a good-size engine, making him turn his head and frown—Hill Street was a one-way and this vehicle, bright headlights bearing down on him, was going the wrong way.

  The car swung over, just missing a mailbox, and a man quickly emerged from the front rider’s side, the engine still going, a vague dark form staying behind the wheel. The lights were so bright as to be almost blinding, but Keith made the car as a familiar pearl Lexus, and recognized too the shape and the BEARS sweat suit even before the Cro-Magnon shelf of the guy’s forehead, his blob of a nose and thick scarred lips identified him as Sonny Salerno’s guy, Bruno, from Alex Cannon’s house on Sunday.

  Like the former football player he likely was, Bruno rushed at Keith and slammed him against the brick side of the Kandy Kitchen. They were on an angle and Keith’s back was literally to the wall.

  Big hands took hold of his sport coat and bunched the cloth—so much for dry cleaning and pressing—and a face unleashed garlic breath on Keith in a cloud of human exhaust, thanks to the cold.

  “You’re on the wrong track, asshole,” the sandpapery voice advised.

  “Let go,” Keith said calmly.

  Bruno didn’t let go. Instead he shook Keith like a naughty child, then pushed him back hard against the brick. “Mr. Rule and Mr. Salerno and Mr. Cannon, they got nothing to do with anything. Got it?”

  Keith reached down with his open hand in a cupping motion and, gripping between his assailant’s legs, squeezed hard and twisted. The assailant’s head went back, his eyes going wide and skyward, and he howled like a werewolf hit by a silver bullet, reflexively letting go of Keith, who slipped to the right and grabbed at the brute’s back, taking two handfuls of sweat suit and shoving him hard into the brick wall, face-first.

  The guy didn’t go down but just staggered back a step and stood there, his face bleeding, his nose mashed even more than before, and Keith did what any brave man would do in such a situation.

  He ran.

  Ran up the sidewalk, with Bench Street beckoning. But footsteps on the pavement echoed from behind him, and somebody tackled him. Facedown on the sidewalk, Keith felt strong hands grip him, then flip him over. A new cast member glowered down, younger, with long dark hair and wide-set eyes in a round face that didn’t go with a trimly muscular fat-free build, in jeans and a CUBS sweatshirt. Just in case he hadn’t figured out from whence these two came.

  Bruno, bloody but unbowed, came lumbering up toward them, footsteps slow and heavy on cement, telling Keith things had taken a very bad turn.

  “I’m a cop, damnit!” he sputtered at them.

  “Yeah, we know,” the new guy said.

  And started kicking him.

  Where Keith had fallen left room for the guy whose family jewels he’d briefly confiscated to start in kicking on the other side, getting it in the ribs from both men on both sides. For a guy still in pain, Bruno made a pretty good showing. His kicks damn near kept pace with the new guy’s.

  In between kicks, they offered advice: “Stay out of Chicago, ya bastard!” was the general theme.

  Keith was just wishing he could pass out when headlights washed over him again, this time from the top of Hill Street, coming around from Bench. A siren started and the kicking stopped. He heard but didn’t see his attackers scramble for their waiting Lexus, their heavy quick footsteps like scattered gunfire.

  Then more footsteps and voices: “Police! Hold it right there! Get those hands up!”

  Keith wondered if gunfire would follow, but it didn’t. He closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when Booker’s voice said, “We have your friends. This should be a pretty story. Meantime, an ambulance is comin’ for you. You need a checkup, son.”

  “What. . . what are you doing in uniform?”

  “My turn to ride patrol. We all got to take a turn, except for your child. She’s special.”

  “I. . . I always thought so,” Keith said.

  Another siren was screaming.

  So were his sides.

  Then everything went blessedly black.

  TWENTY-ONE

  You are not anxious to do this.

  Well, that’s not exactly right. You are anxious, in the sense that anxiety is a low fluctuating hum beneath your surface calm. You are prepared to do this only to protect yourself. You really have no wish to hurt her. The memories with this one are too fresh. Too sweet. Too vivid.

  But you will probably have to do it.

  And, you tell yourself, several other important functions may well be served. Confusing the issue is one. Throwing suspicion elsewhere is another. Sentiment cannot be allowed to defeat self-preservation.

  First, you must check on the person to whom you hope attention will be drawn. Is he at home tonight? That could prove a deciding factor. If he is with her, or is planning to meet her when she gets off work, you would have two people with which to deal, simultaneously. . . and that would not do.

  Your hope is that he will be at home, that is, the home of his parents, in the basement apartment they have provided him. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac on Bluffwood Drive, barn-shaped but with modern touches against a wooded backdrop. You park down the street, walk to where two houses have no lights on and then cut between them, to work your way through the trees and around to the barnlike structure’s nicely landscaped backyard.

  Staying low, you are able to peek in a window into the finished basement. There’s a massive wall-screen TV, and a big open area with comfy chairs and a couch arranged for viewing. But against the far wall is a single bed and a dresser; also a desk with a computer on it. Seems to have been a family room until it was turned into this studio apartment.

  Its inhabitant is sitting on the couch with his feet on an ottoman. He has a can of beer in hand, wears a T-shirt and jeans, no socks. Next to him is an open bag of Sterzing’s potato chips. He would appear to be in for the evening.

  Good.

  Even
better is that the rest of the lights are off in the house and there’s no car in the drive or the garage. The parents and their Chrysler are nowhere to be seen.

  Perfect.

  You drive back to downtown Galena, park on Commerce, and walk up the slope of Washington Street to South Main. It’s after eight and, with the stores closed and few restaurants or bars at this end of Main, things are very quiet. Not many cars parked on the street; traffic’s light.

  And it’s only going to get quieter.

  You take the old concrete stairs by the narrow closed-off cobblestone street, to the right of which is a modest park-like area, and go up to the patio of Vinny Vanucchi’s. No one around, but lights are on in the restaurant. They don’t close till nine.

  You go in. Take a left to go down the short hall to the restrooms. You duck into yours, relieve yourself, wash your hands. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s you. Normal. Nothing shows. You check your hair, brush it back in place, and smile at your reflection. Not pushing it. Just friendly.

  Walking past the little unattended deli counter, you find the greeter, the thirtyish assistant manager who you know a little, leaning at the station where he seats guests. Another deli counter, also unattended, is at right, its low electrical hum a manifestation of your anxiety.

  The restaurant is fairly empty. Dean Martin is singing “Sway.” Somebody in white is working in the kitchen. The sunken wine-cellar nook at left that you pass has both its tables empty. Up the stairs your host pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the main dining room, from which there is no noise at all. You are taken into the cozy dining area that you like best and are seated by the faux fireplace in the corner. By the window onto Main, a middle-aged couple are having a late dinner. They are the only other diners.

  Jasmine appears to be the entire waitstaff at this hour, late in a slow day. She comes over, looking surprised to see you, her expression falling, but then picking itself up into something pleasant that could be called a smile.

  “Alone tonight?” she asks.