Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Keith was nodding. “And you only have the one investigator — not counting yourself, of course.”

“Not counting you. I want to enlist you for this investigation. As a consultant. Perfectly within bounds, considering you’re retired law enforcement.”

His eyebrows went up. “You think the city council will put up with nepotism like this?”

“Since you won’t be paid anything, that’s not a problem. This is strictly pro bono.”

Eli was approaching them from the van, now in running shoes. “Hate to interrupt a family meeting, but Keith? You want the tour?”

“Yeah. Give me a minute.”

Eli nodded and headed in.

Keith said to Krista, “I’m going to guess you don’t want to accompany me inside.”

“I will if you want.”

He shook his head. “If I see something that needs calling your attention to, I’ll come get you. Are you... are you doing okay?”

“You already asked me that. On the phone?”

“Astrid was your friend. You didn’t come here as a cop, you came as a classmate, ready to have a scone or something. Talk old times. This can’t have been easy.”

“Pop,” she said, “Astrid and I weren’t that friendly.”

“Don’t call me Pop.”

She grinned. Actually grinned. “That’s what Charlie Chan said to his number one son.”

“And his number two and number three. Okay, at home you can still call me ‘Pop,’ but honey — how are you doing? How are you holding up? Every cop who finds a dead body doesn’t call their daddy, you know.”

“They would if you were their daddy.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “When I found myself in the middle of a crime scene, I stopped being friend and turned cop. It’s where my head immediately went and where it still is.”

He patted her hand on his shoulder. “Good girl,” he said.

They both withdrew their hands. He let her take the lead and followed her back onto the porch, where Booker came over.

“Keith,” the investigator said, “man, I wish I could do more, but I’m up to my ass in alligators. And they’re hungry.”

“Just give us today,” Keith said, “and we’ll be fine. If I might suggest?”

“Suggest away,” Booker said, as Krista fell in alongside him.

“Chief,” Keith said to his daughter, “if you haven’t already, call David Landry at Lake View Lodge and tell him there is a serious police matter that we need his help dealing with.”

Her eyes were narrowed. “Not tell him about the homicide?”

“No. Do you think it’s got to social media yet?”

“Probably not. Although the neighbors know something serious has happened, obviously, and that much may be out there. Probably is.”

Keith nodded. He glanced from his daughter to Booker and back again, pulling them both in. “Tell Landry all the guests are to be held. Have him announce, in no uncertain terms, that no one who attended the reunion will be allowed to check out by order of the Galena Police Department.”

“Got it,” she said with a nod, already getting her cell out.

“And,” Keith continued, “have Landry tell them that, after the brunch, we’ll be gathering all of them in that same room... assuming the brunch is in the banquet hall at the convention center... for ‘informational purposes.’ Don’t tell him in regard to what. His guests are to be told ‘a serious police matter,’ nothing more.”

She nodded again and walked off to make the call from the other end of the porch.

“You, my friend,” Keith said, patting Booker on the shoulder, “will give us this afternoon, and we’ll call it square, me covering for you the rest of the week.”

Booker gave a single nod. “Fair trade.”

Keith smiled and nodded back. He paused at the front door and from his coat pocket withdrew the pair of latex gloves he’d thought to bring along. Then he glanced over at Booker and asked, “How long have the CSIs been here?”

“Half an hour maybe. Show’s hardly started.”

That was an understatement. Ahead would be photographing and videoing the scene, including all possible routes of exit and entrance, diagraming and measuring any footprint, accessing any spatter, smear, or drop of blood, recording exact position of each. For the three CSIs present, as many hours of work lay ahead, and that didn’t include recovering items for lab work or even dusting for fingerprints.

Keith opened the front door and went in. Eli was in the kitchen, facing away, as if he were showing off the bold CRIME SCENE TECHNICIAN logo on his back, the words curving above and below the state police seal. The CSI was at the kitchen sink, and when he half turned, in the blue rubber gloves, he looked like he was about to do the dishes — especially with the two cups and saucers down in there.

“What do you make of this?” Eli asked Keith, who came over.

The cups had been rinsed, but traces of brownish liquid lingered.

“Somebody,” Keith said, “had a cup of tea. Actually, two somebodies.”

“We have one victim,” the CSI said. “And two teacups. Nobody else living here, right?”

“Well, this is the parents’ house, but they’re Florida snowbirds.”

“So maybe the victim had a visitor before she went to bed?”

Keith thought about that. “Astrid Lund likely came straight here from an event out at Lake View Lodge. It’s possible somebody stopped by for a chat over tea.”

“Came straight from what kind of event?”

“Class reunion.”

Eli let out a hollow laugh. “You ever been to a class reunion, Detective?”

Felt funny being called “Detective” again.

“A few,” Keith said.

“And how many beers or drinks or whatever did you throw down at those reunions?”

“More than a few.”

“After all that alcohol, you ever go have a cup of tea with one of your buddies?”

“No. But maybe women are different.”

“There’s a theory to run with. I’m just wondering if...”

Keith said, “If the perpetrator was a friend or anyway friendly acquaintance who turned out to be... not so friendly.”

The blue-jumpsuited shoulders shrugged. “Of course, this tea might’ve been from earlier in the day.”

“Might have.”

Keith looked around, spotted a lidded wastebasket. He looked inside. Two used tea bags lay at the bottom of the black plastic bag lining the wastebasket. Nothing else.

“For the sake of argument,” Keith said, “assume the Lund woman, who lives in Chicago, drove straight to the reunion, and came here to sleep in her family home afterward. That there’s no other refuse here — knowing the parents are living elsewhere for now — would indicate this tea was consumed when she came here after the reunion.”

“Reasonable,” Eli said.

“Any indication of a blood trail?”

“Luminol says blood was dribbled from the victim’s bedroom down the back stairs and trails off here in the kitchen.”

“When you spray that sink, see if it doesn’t light up like Christmas.”

Eli frowned. “You think the killer cleaned up after himself?”

“Or herself, I do.”

Eli frowned some more. “How does that play out? The victim and her guest drink tea, then go upstairs, the victim climbs in bed, and the killer stabs her repeatedly?”

“No,” Keith said, and led Eli through the living room and into the entry area. He opened the door. He took a close look at the front door latch.

“I don’t see anything, except maybe a bit of sticky residue,” Keith said. “But I bet you find evidence that this door latch was taped not to lock.”

Eli had a closer look. “Real possibility. You think a friendly cup of tea was followed by the guest leaving, but on exiting, making sure he... or she... could easily get back in?”