Keith knew Steve was into that years ago, but was unaware the drummer still partook. They did not hang out, after all. And he found almost comical Steve’s obvious unease at having ended up sitting next to a cop. With medical marijuana in Illinois legal, and recreational legislation in the works, ex-cop Keith could not have cared less.
Still, he filed the information away. If Steve had staged that suicide, and shaken down Dan’s apartment, might he not choose to chill out before band practice?
For now, though, this was Krista’s show.
They waited till Donna delivered the mugs of Blue Moon on tap and Krista suggested the bar owner pull up a chair and join them, which she did.
“I have sad, troubling news,” Krista said, and she shared it with them.
Keith admired the way she did it—very matter of fact without seeming cold, no extraneous detail, just that Dan Davies had apparently hanged himself at his shop and been found shortly thereafter by a customer. He was dead at the scene.
They all reacted about the same—goggling in disbelief, words of dismayed surprise tumbling out, often laced with profanity. Their collective shock, Donna included, seemed very real. If one of them was a murderer, that murderer did well.
Sociopaths, Keith knew, were expert at imitating human emotion.
Rod, sitting forward, said, “This is crazy. You’re not saying Danny killed himself because of what happened last night? Over that stupid argument? And him quitting?”
Steve, the redness of his eyes giving him a vaguely demonic look, said, “I was surprised he didn’t show up today! Keith, you were around the band in the old days. You bump heads. Have blowups. Then it’s forgiven, forgotten.”
Sitting up, Phil said, “I didn’t know Danny as well as the other guys. I’m the newbie. But this can’t be about that . . . can it?”
Frowning, Brian said, “I think something else was bothering him. He was fine at Arnolds Park. He had a great time. He played great.”
Donna, who’d not said a word yet, and who had reacted the least, just staring, finally said, “He’s a troubled soul. Was one. Always.”
Rod turned toward her, holding back emotion, maybe anger. “Why, because he was gay? We didn’t care about that. Nobody in the band did.”
Donna shrugged, her mouth twitching something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Really? Rick did. Rick always ragged him about it.”
Steve was shaking his head. “That was just kidding around.”
“Kidding,” Donna said, “on the square.”
“Well,” Brian said reasonably, “Rick can’t be to blame. Rick’s dead, too.”
That stopped the conversation.
Again, Keith could only admire the way his daughter was handling this. She had let them talk. She had sat back and listened and taken in their reactions. His little girl was a cop, all right.
And she didn’t have to prime the pump to get them going again, either.
Rod sighed. “Starting to feel like the Pistons are under one hell of a dark cloud.”
“What the hell!” Steve said. “Are we freakin’ cursed or something?”
Phil said sarcastically, “You think maybe somebody’s got a little shelf of voodoo dolls, sticking pins in them? These things happen.”
Brian didn’t like that. “These things happen?”
“They do,” Phil said. “No offense, but this T-shirt’s older than you, son. We been around the block, us old farts. One day you’re breaking hearts, and then you blink and it’s decades gone and your heart attacks you. Or you’re a gay man in his fifties who spent a lot of years in the closet and, surprise, surprise, he’s depressed. Something small like what happened last night can trigger something big.”
“So,” Rod said, “we caused this.”
Phil shook his head. “Life caused it.”
Steve said, “Maybe we should bail. Just throw it in. Meaning no disrespect to you, Brian, or you, Phil . . . there’s only two original Pistons left. What kinda reunion is that?”
“Hey!” Phil said, lurching forward. “I played in the Pistons longer than any of you guys!”
“Funny,” Rod said, “I don’t remember you ever being at any of the recording sessions.”
Holding up his hands, Brian said, “Guys. I’m not an original member, hell, I was probably conceived at one of your gigs. Well, after one of your gigs. I stand in for my dad, here. This is his legacy. And yours, Rod. Yours, Steve. And even you, Phil. This is a legit version of the band, agreed?”
Nobody disagreed.
Brian went on: “We’ve been playing four-piece for, what? An hour and a half? And it sounds good. Very damn good. Don’t you think?”
Keith could only be impressed by his daughter’s boyfriend. Brian was coming off as the voice of reason, levelheaded, strong but not pushy.
Rod sighed and said, “You’re right, Bry. It’s coming together fine. I think we sound cleaner and, with some work, we can be even tighter than before. Okay. I’m for going on. Krista?”
“Yes?”
Rod found a grin, even if it didn’t last long. “Or maybe I should say ‘Chief Larson’—you’re involved in this fest. Do you think the city will want us to go on with the Hot Rod reunion?”
“I don’t know,” Krista said with a shake of her head. “I’ll have to speak to the mayor and maybe the city council. But my guess is that, yes, they’ll want to go on with the show. We have posters up, ad time bought on radio stations, and the media boosting us. It’s the kickoff of our summer events, and you are all Galenians, so you know what that means to this town.”
Rod was nodding. “If the other guys want to go forward, I’m in.”
“I’m in,” Steve said.
“Me too,” Phil said.
“And me,” Brian said.
Rod said to Donna, “Are you okay with this? Do we have your blessing? This club is kind of a shrine to the Pistons, and we do still need a place to rehearse. We might need to start working in morning rehearsals, too.”
“Glad to have you,” she said. She turned to Keith and Krista. “I’ve been bringing the kitchen help in early so I can give the boys lunch before they start in.” Her gaze traveled to the musicians, gliding over their faces. “I’ll keep doing that, until you tell me you’re sick of the fare.”
Rod said lightly, “She’s not Joan of Arc or anything, Keith. She’s charging us off the menu.”
Everybody, including Donna, laughed a little, except for Keith and Krista, who merely contributed smiles.
Keith said, “A few more things you should all know, before you go into a group hug.”
The band and their hostess looked at him curiously.
“As far as Dan leaving the band,” Keith said, “maybe leading to him taking his own life? That’s highly unlikely. He had a recent traumatic breakup and that’s where his depression came from.”
Steve, the red eyes slitting, said, “He was living over his shop with that Lee Jeffries. A waiter someplace. Hotel, I think. Younger than Danny.”
Rod said, “You said there were ‘a few things’ we should know.”
“There’s a possibility,” he said, “that Dan’s suicide was something else.”
Steve, his red eyes big now, said, “What else could it be?”
Krista said, “Homicide.”
The intake of air from every band member, and Donna too, added up to a collective gasp.
“This is not,” Keith said, “for public consumption—understood?”
Nods and serious expressions all around.
He said, “That nasty breakup involved some violence. Dan had three broken ribs that came from Jeffries kicking him in the side.”
The musicians talked over each other, every one immediately angry that their former bandmate had suffered this. It almost seemed to hit them harder than news of his death.
Rod said, “That’s why he stood there onstage like a statue last night! He was in pain!”
Krista said, “We haven’t talked to Jeffries yet. W
e will be shortly, of course. Like my father said, this is to be kept to yourselves.”
Keith said, “But obviously that’s a possible homicide motive. There could be others.”
He and Krista had agreed not to mention the apparently successful search for something hidden in Dan’s apartment.
“And then,” Keith said, “there’s the matter of Rick’s death.”
Rod’s forehead was tense with thought. “You’re not suggesting what happened to Rick might also be . . . murder?”
Firmly, Krista said, “We’re not suggesting anything. But we are looking into it.”
Rod tilted his head as if he were having trouble understanding. “Including Rick’s heart attack?”
“Including Rick’s heart attack.”
Keith said, “Before Chief Larson here goes to the mayor and recommends that the reunion concert proceed as planned, she needs all of you to understand that it’s possible . . . possible . . . that all of you might be in danger.”
“Particularly,” his daughter said, “the two original members.”
Rod and Steve exchanged looks.
And Phil did not mention voodoo dolls this time.
But a moment later, Rod was looking at the chief of police and her father and saying, “Again—I am still in, if the other guys are.”
He looked at his fellow Pistons and everyone was nodding. Slowly. But nodding.
Then the leader of the group turned to Krista and asked, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” she said. “What time did each of you get here today?”
TEN
The second floor of the Bench Street police station—a rough-hewn limestone-block two-story building—was as modern as its exterior wasn’t.
In interview room A, Krista sat on one side of the rectangular pine-top table with Lee Jeffries seated opposite. Her father was watching from the unlighted nook behind the one-way mirror. She felt having him observe was permissible based upon his experience and his past work as a consultant with the Galena PD.
Jeffries, who’d given his age as thirty-eight, was in a black polo with the logo of the Green Street Tavern, where he worked as a waiter. Diminutive, with black hair, dark eyes, his features rather boyish despite a close-trimmed mustache and beard, he sat slumped, his expression hangdog. His hands were folded and he was not looking at the chief.
A plastic water pitcher and two Styrofoam cups were on the table. So was a box of tissues. The blinds were shut on the sole window in the eight-foot-by-ten room, with its pale green walls, big-screen TV, clock, low-slung cabinets, and wall locker for cops stowing weapons during interviews.
The subject had been told by Officer Reynolds, who brought him over, that he was needed for questioning in the death of Daniel Davies. The waiter hadn’t protested and had come willingly, and quietly, although Reynolds reported that Jeffries had been weeping in the back seat as they drove over here.
“You understand, Mr. Jeffries,” Krista said, her hands folded prayerfully before her, “that you are not being formally detained, but your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”
The dark eyes were large and searching. “How . . . how did Danny do it?” His voice was a rather strained second tenor. “The officer didn’t say. Wouldn’t say.”
She saw no reason not to tell him. “He apparently hanged himself.”
“Oh my God.” He covered his face with a hand and sobbed.
“He left no note,” she added.
Krista pushed the box of tissues toward him, and waited for him to collect himself. It took a while.
“We . . . we had a bad breakup.”
“So we understand. When was this?”
“We were together a long time. Five years, almost.”
“When did you two split up, Mr. Jeffries?”
“About . . . three weeks ago.”
“Was it amicable?”
“No. God, no.”
“Could you elaborate?”
He sighed. He blew his nose with a tissue, then held them in a clenched hand. “It got kind of rough.”
“Again, could you elaborate?”
“It got physical.”
“You both did?”
“. . . Yes.”
“In what way did it get physical?”
“Slapping. Pushing. Shoving.”
“Kicking?”
He swallowed. Nodded.
Krista poured him some water. He sipped at the Styrofoam cup.
She asked, “Are you aware that Mr. Davies went to the hospital after the altercation? That three of his ribs had been broken?”
He gulped air. Nodded again.
“Mr. Davies told a departmental consultant . . .” Her father. “. . . that the injuries were a result of you kicking him in the side. Repeatedly.”
He began to weep again.
She waited.
More tissues.
Krista asked, “When did you go in for work this morning?”
“Ten thirty. We open at eleven.”
“And you were working there till Officer Reynolds brought you here?”
“Yes.”
“Was it busy at the restaurant?”
“Spotty. Picked up a little around noon. Very slow up to then. It’s the time of year. But Saturdays are always at least . . . okay.”
“How large a waitstaff was working?”
“Five, including the bartender.”
“You were working all that time?”
“Took a bathroom break. A smoke break, too. Outside the building, of course.”
“When did you take the smoke break?”
“I think . . . around eleven thirty. After that, lunch gets going, and taking a break is iffy. Like I said, Saturdays, even in off-season, are pretty busy.”
Krista rose and said, “Excuse me a moment. Sit tight, if you would. Your cooperation is appreciated, Mr. Jeffries.”
He said nothing, not looking at her.
Krista joined her father in the booth. “What do you think?”
Her father was watching the seated subject through the smoky glass. “He’s obviously really upset. But that could be the legitimate reaction of someone who murdered a lover.”
She was shaking her head. “But if so, it was no crime of passion. Staging a murder scene is about as premeditated as it gets.”
His eyes met hers. “The staging took calculation, but not necessarily in advance. If Davies was strangled in, yes, a crime of passion, the cover-up would be cold-blooded. And consider that apartment—shaken down but good. Any need to sell Dan’s death as suicide took a back seat to finding whatever the killer was looking for.”
She sighed. “If there was a killer. If it wasn’t suicide. Like Booker said, we might be getting ahead of ourselves.”
He smiled a little. “Are we? Tell me under what circumstances that apartment getting turned over like that wasn’t related to the ‘suicide’? Who did go through that place like the Tasmanian Devil, then? Why? Surely not Davies before he killed himself!”
She sighed again, deeper. “What the hell is going on, Pop?”
“No damn idea. But Dan’s ex in there kicked him in the side till three ribs busted. That makes him worth looking at—hard.”
She opened a hand. “Being at work at the time, with four coworkers and who knows how many customers, is a pretty fair alibi.”
“Send one of your officers over to Green Street Tavern and question the rest of the waitstaff, right now. See if it’s possible he could have slipped out longer than usual for his smoke break or that bathroom visit.”
Her eyebrows went up. “He would have at least had to take half an hour to give him time for all that—a murder, staging a suicide, turning that apartment upside down. Even then . . .”
“I know. But that antiques shop of Davies’s is just around the corner, a block down. If he exited in back of the hotel building for his smoke break, that would likely put him on Green Street. Footsteps away.”
She went out and got on her
phone and caught up with Booker. “Where are you?” she asked.
“The Illinois crime investigation team is working the scene. Eli Wallace is in charge, and you know how thorough he is. I’m just babysitting.”
“Clemson still there?”
“Yup.”
“Leave the hand-holding to him.” Krista told the detective what to do over at the Green Street Tavern.
Then she added, “And maybe come back to Bench Street and work on getting that information out of the Arnolds Park people.”
“Already working on that,” he said. “Rather than twiddlin’ my thumbs while Wallace does his thing, I been putting my smartphone to good use. When you’re not smart, y’know, it sure helps when your phone is.”
She smiled at that and said, “I feel that way about having a smart detective on board. Let me know what you find. I’m interviewing Lee Jeffries now.”
“Your dad sitting in?”
“Eavesdropping in the booth.”
“With Keith for advice, you don’t need a phone smarter than you.”
“I agree. Just don’t tell him.”
She reported back to her father, who said, “I’d like to hang around this afternoon, till Booker’s had a chance to gather his Arnolds Park intel. That okay, honey?”
“It is as long as you don’t call me ‘honey’ in front of anybody.”
“Is ‘number one daughter’ okay?”
They exchanged grins. That was a reference to the old Charlie Chan mysteries they sometimes watched together, wherein the detective’s offspring called him “Pop,” like she did him. When she squirmed at the stereotypical portrayal of Asians, Pop would remind her a brilliant Chinese sleuth was the hero in a pop culture era not noted for diversity.
She settled in again across from Jeffries, who looked more composed but also decidedly morose.
She said, “You lived for a time in the apartment above Antiques A Go Go.”
“I moved in with Danny maybe . . . six months ago?”
“Did he keep valuables in his apartment?”
He thought about that momentarily. “We had . . . he had, I didn’t own any of it, really . . . a lot of things of value. Very collectible furniture and lamps and framed vintage prints. Midcentury modern, it’s called. Fifties deco.” He frowned in confusion. “Is it all right for me to ask a question?”
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 10
