“What charge?”
“The charge of setting a destructive device with the intent to kill or injure.”
The mayor gestured with her left hand. “By all means sit. We don’t have much time.”
Distant sirens—but not terribly distant—seemed to confirm the mayor’s words.
Krista sat, her elbow on the arm of the chair, the Glock in hand, nose slightly lower, but ready to snap into position.
“All right,” Krista said. “Do you have something on your mind?”
“Yes.”
“I have to remind you of your rights first.”
“Go ahead.”
After getting out her cell and starting to record, Krista did.
The mayor nodded curtly at the end of this formality, then began: “I want you to know I feel no guilt. I admit to killing Rick Jonsen, Dan Davies, Donna Jonsen, and Rory Michaels. Rick was a monster, Dan and Donna tried to blackmail me, and Rory was a conscienceless arsonist. Society should thank me. I admit setting that bomb at the Music Fest. Perhaps I went a step too far, there, because only Rod and Steve needed to go. Brian and Phil would have been . . . incidental. Unfortunate but necessary. I hope no one in the crowd would have died, but I really couldn’t help myself. Something was done to me when I was a girl, barely of age. I was drugged . . . whatever a ‘roofie’ is, it was something like that . . . and I was under the influence of alcohol.” She grinned and it was terrible. “Drunk on my ass, is what I was.”
“Your Honor . . . you don’t have to say anything more. You should really talk to your lawyer.”
“Good advice. But I want you to know, Krista. You’re a nice girl who sometimes has to encounter not-nice things. You need to know about this one. Stop recording.”
Krista did.
The mayor went on: “They called it . . . maybe rock musicians still call it this, I’d imagine the biker gangs still do . . . ‘pulling a train.’ They all had me, except for the gay one. He ran the camera. Video camera.”
“That was what you were looking for. A videotape.”
“Rick had a copy, Dan the master, Donna a copy. I found those tapes and I destroyed them. And I assume Steve and Rod have copies, too. With the two of them gone, I would still’ve had to find their copies, at their homes, and destroy them as well . . . but with everything I’ve been forced to deal with, and with all I’ve accomplished, that seemed a small-enough task.”
Krista frowned. “Even if Chloe Penniston became ‘incidental’ during a home invasion? Or Holly or Lisa Pike? And what about Maria, Tom Paulen’s widow?”
The woman shook her head. “I ruled the Paulens out. If Tom had a copy of the tape, he certainly didn’t share it with Maria. And, anyway, if she’d found it, after Tom passed? She’d have surely destroyed it, to protect his memory . . . and her son’s high opinion of his father.”
“You really thought it through, didn’t you?”
The mayor shrugged. “I am generally an organized person. But this has, well . . . I guess you’d say it’s just been one darn thing after another, and I’ve had to plan as I go.”
“So this was revenge?”
“On some level I suppose,” she said with the tiniest head toss. “More, it was what I stood to lose. My standing in the community, of course. Did you know I’ve been approached to run for the state legislature? My husband, my late husband who I loved, who I love, very much, I’d be a stain on his memory. On our very successful business. I have two grown children who I love and who respect me.”
“Why are you sharing this with me?”
Her smile was barely perceptible. “Because you are a decent girl, Krista. A decent woman. If you know why I did this, perhaps you can take what I’m about to do at face value, and perhaps . . . perhaps have the decency to protect me. Anyway, you have a stake in it.”
The sirens were very loud now.
“What stake is that?”
“Brian’s father, Tom, helped . . . ‘pull’ that train. Would you like that burden on your boyfriend’s shoulders? What good would it do any of us? If Rod or Steve or both have a copy of that tape, you might advise them not to damage their own reputations—Rod has a reputation, anyway. Suggest that they keep what happened, one pathetic night, a long time ago, hidden from the world.”
“It’s all going to come out at the trial, Your Honor.”
“No. No ‘honor’ about it. Make it Rhonda, please.”
And her right hand came to her face and a handful of pills went into her mouth, and she quick washed them down with the glass of water.
Car doors were slamming in the parking lot.
Krista, having lurched to her feet, watched helpless, knowing that the twitching dance would be over in seconds and Rhonda Rector would trade a few awful minutes of suffering for years of shame, disgrace, and prison.
Perhaps that was why, falling forward onto her desk, the mayor wore a frozen smile.
TWENTY-FOUR
Keith and his daughter sat in the unmarked Impala in the parking lot of City Hall, while personnel in various uniforms scurried in and out of the building, the night painted blue and red by the lights of other, more openly official vehicles parked at odd angles all around them.
She had already told him, in broad strokes, about the meeting with the mayor that ended in the woman’s suicide.
After they’d sat in silence awhile, Keith absorbing everything he’d heard, Krista said, “So much to do.”
“Gonna be a long night,” he agreed.
“How is Rick Reynolds?”
That was the officer the mayor had pushed from the bridge.
“Medical Center says two broken ribs is the worst of it. Should be fine. Ground was soft near the river.”
Krista sighed, relieved. “Pop, you need to hear this.”
She played for him the recording of the confession, and filled him in on what had been said after.
He let air out. “I don’t envy you dealing with the media.”
“Well, I’ll be consulting with the city attorney to release only the specific relevant information. The city manager is our media relations guy, but I have to approve all press releases.” She shuddered. “Maybe you can put in a good word for me with Rebecca Carlson.”
“See what I can do. You’re locking this down for now, the mayor’s suicide?”
“That’s the idea. Won’t stay a secret for long.”
“No. But Booker will do the best he can.”
She had left her detective in charge of the City Hall crime scene. No need to call in the Illinois State Police and Crime Scene Services on this one.
Silence, not as long this time.
“What now?” he asked her. “Stay on the ground and move to where you’re needed, as you’re needed? Or coordinate from the station?”
“Drive me over to Bench Street, would you? I need to get hold of Homeland Security and advise them about what’s happened, and see if they feel the need to come out. The city council needs to meet in emergency session, but not at City Hall—maybe the station. To make the call about whether or not to go on with the festival tomorrow.”
“Surely not!”
“Canceling will be my recommendation.” She shook her head. “Just so much on my plate, Pop. Why didn’t you talk me out of this damn profession?”
“First,” he said with a smile, “I knew you’d be good at it. And second, I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”
She managed a smile, too. “Where are the band members?”
“I believe they were taken to the command post vehicle for safety. Maybe they’ve been released by now.”
Krista got on her radio and found out. The musicians were still at the command post. She said to send Phil Deeson and Brian Paulen home, but to have Rod Penniston and Steve Pike brought over to Bench Street.
“Tell the two of them it won’t take long,” she said to the dispatcher. “A few things need clearing up.”
She clicked off and looked at her father. “That’s where I want to
start.”
“Good call.”
Krista sat across from Rod Penniston in interview room A, while her father did the same with Steve Pike in interview room B.
Krista told Rod, simply, that the mayor had set the explosive device, and had been responsible for the other killings, killing herself less than an hour before. She did not go into Rhonda Rector’s motives.
Rod—still in the Sun Records T-shirt of his aborted stage performance—took the news with quiet shock. The narrow, well-carved face with the trim mustache had always seemed ageless to her; but suddenly he looked all of his fifty-some years. His eyes were wide and unblinking for what seemed an eternity and was probably around fifteen seconds.
“She . . . she was a fan,” he said. “Used to follow us, like your dad and your mom did. Back in the day.”
Somehow Krista knew that her dad and mom hadn’t followed the Pistons in quite the same way as Rhonda and some other young girls had. Back in the day.
Rod was saying, almost to himself, “She came to Arnolds Park, you know.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, in his chair across from Keith, arms resting on the table. He was in the black bowling shirt with red collar he would have performed in. “She was there that night, at the induction concert, when we got into the Hall of Fame. Funny thing.”
Keith said, “Funny in what way?”
Steve shrugged a shoulder. “Well, when she first moved back to Galena, I don’t know, ten years ago? When she and her husband opened their real estate business? I didn’t even recognize her.”
“She was still a good-looking woman.”
“Oh, sure! Really foxy for her age. But, man, when she was, you know, barely legal? She was really something. Always tight jeans or hot pants or short skirts. Cute little figure.”
“So when you saw her at the concert at Arnolds Park, that was when you put it together? Recognized her?”
Steve pawed the air. “No, I put it together before that, but it took a while, ’fore it came to me. I mean, I’d smile and nod and stuff, on the street? She’d do the same. But I didn’t really know her.”
“But you knew her back when the Pistons were touring, huh?”
“Well, you didn’t really ‘know’ girls like that.”
Except in the biblical sense, Keith thought.
Steve shrugged. “They were, just . . . you know . . .”
“Groupies?”
He made a face. “We didn’t call it that. This was the ’80s, not the ’60s, man. Just fans. Big fans. Little girls who dug the band.”
Rod said to Krista, “When Rhonda moved back, I recognized her right away. I thought it was . . . you know, great.”
“Great in what way?”
“That she’d grown up and got all that wildness out of her system and was leading a constructive life. And I felt bad for her, when her husband died . . . good man, nice man, pillar-of-the-community-type guy.”
“So you were friends, you and Rhonda.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t put it that way. Just smiles and little waves and occasional friendly words.”
“No talk of the old days.”
“No. But I’m sure she looked at me and felt the same way.”
“In what sense? In what way?”
“That I had grown up and got myself on a constructive path.” He sat forward, his expression almost painfully earnest. “Look, I’m very proud of the way my life has worked out. If you ask me what regrets I have, the only one I can think of is that Chloe and I never had kids. We tried. But I guess I’m just one of those teachers who has scores of great kids in his life. Has helped a lot of young guys and gals along the way. And I got to do music, too, right? My show choirs have racked up more trophies than all the sports teams at GHS put together.”
Something about that speech seemed to Krista to try a little too hard.
“No other regrets?” she asked.
Steve shook his head. “No, I don’t remember that. That doesn’t sound right. All of us? Taking turns with her? I don’t think so. Wouldn’t I remember that?”
“One would think,” Keith said.
“Look. Except for weed, and I admit that was mostly me, we weren’t users of anything but booze. We got very damn wasted in that way, let me tell you. And I told you before, man, I don’t remember half of what went on back then. I didn’t back then, either!”
Keith shifted in his chair. “When Dan was killed, Rhonda searched his place. And she did the same at Donna’s apartment. Appears she was looking for something that we think may have been a videotape.”
Steve reared back. “Yeah? Of what?”
“Of what do you think?”
Shook his head emphatically. “I don’t have any memory of that.”
The thing was, Keith believed him.
Rod was slowly nodding. “I do vaguely remember Dan having one of those handheld video cams—like people used to use at their kids’ concerts, sports events, holiday gatherings.”
Krista asked, “Do you remember Dan having it the night the whole band partied with Rhonda? Her name wasn’t Rector then, was it?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what it was?”
“No. She was just . . .”
“Just another girl? Fan of the band?”
Rod sighed. “Hey, that was a bad night. I mean, as I recall, she was into it . . . she was having a good time, or anyway was taking the ride. Rick brought cocaine in and that was never our scene. But I admit . . . it all kind of sickened me. Like a bridge too far, you know? For days I felt nauseated. And, really, that led to the breakup of the band.”
“Immediately?”
“No. I suppose it was our second album stiffing that really did that. But I was already seeing Chloe and I knew something better was out there for me. And, frankly, when ‘rock star’ as a career option had clearly passed me by? I decided to be a grown-up.”
Krista let that sit for a moment, then quietly said, “Rhonda thought you and Steve had copies of the ‘party’ tape.”
“What?”
“Rick had one. He told her that you boys had been invited to a screening at Arnolds Park.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “I remember him saying something about . . . having something he was going to show us that would ‘take us back.’ Wanted us to get together the day after the Hall of Fame show, at the cottage he rented. I figured it was footage of a gig. Of course, he died and we never saw whatever it was he had for us.”
“You don’t have a copy of the tape?”
“Of course not! I didn’t know it existed.” He sat forward, frowning. “I thought this was supposed to be informal. A fact-finding exercise! Do I need my attorney?”
“You do,” Keith told Steve, “if you’ve been obstructing justice.”
“How the hell would I be doing that?”
“If you did recall the ‘party’ and that it had been recorded for posterity, and realized that Rhonda Rector was a prime, obvious suspect in these killings . . . and didn’t share that with us? You might even be an accessory. Before and after the fact.”
That accessory stuff was b.s., Keith knew, but he figured it was worth a shot.
“Hey, ol’ buddy! You haven’t even read me my rights!”
“Would you like me to?”
Steve got up and stormed out.
Rod jumped to his feet. “If you want any more information, Chief Larson, I’m afraid it will have to be in the presence of my attorney.”
Krista rose as well. “I should tell you that I’m recommending that the second day of the festival be canceled.”
“Actually, I think that’s wise.” He went to the door, but before opening it, he said, “I made a mistake, agreeing to this reunion at all. Arnolds Park should have been enough.”
Especially, she thought, after your randy lead guitarist died in that hot tub.
“I should have been satisfied with my life today,” he said, “without trying to relive those ‘glory days.’ I didn’t know R
honda carried a grudge, much less hated us. If you’d seen her in the audience at Arnolds Park, you’d understand. She was trying to relive those days, too . . . but selectively. She really loved Rick Jonsen, in the way a young girl can love, and he must have done something the night he died to earn a grown woman’s loathing.”
Keith slipped into the chair across from Krista that Rod Penniston had vacated in interview room A.
They compared notes, then Krista said, “Rhonda was after tapes that didn’t exist.”
“In Rod’s and Steve’s case, yes—unless they each know how to lie convincingly to a Larson.”
His daughter closed her eyes awhile, then opened them and said, “What happened back then was consensual. Rhonda was of age.”
“She may have been drugged,” Keith reminded her. “And how is one young girl, overwhelmed by four or five grown men, taking advantage of her at a party, really consensual?”
“No argument. She was a victim. The first victim. But it doesn’t justify her actions in the here and now.”
“The here and now is shaped by the back then,” he said. “Those once-and-future rock ‘n’ rollers bear their share of responsibility.”
“For their own deaths?”
“No. For using that young woman like a roach or a bottle they were passing around.”
They briefly sat in silence.
Then Krista, looking at her father carefully, said, “You worked Homicide for a long time, Pop. What’s my responsibility here?”
His eyebrows went up, then down. “To handle the mayor’s death like the suicide it is, with her confession as a kind of oral suicide note. I don’t think it’s necessary to elaborate about what she told you after you stopped recording. But that’s up to you.”
“What about Rick Jonsen? Dan Davies? Donna Jonsen? Even Rory Michaels?”
He thought for a few moments, then said, “Jonsen’s death was officially declared a heart attack. Davies has been declared a probable suicide. The state police crime lab did not deem Donna’s death a homicide. Rory Michaels died in Wisconsin, not your jurisdiction. Anybody in law enforcement comes looking, obviously cooperate. But leave it to the true-crime writers and podcasters and investigative reporters to figure it out, if they are so inclined.”
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 23
