Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Keith knew it was hard to do anything about the latter-day mob, because they had, over the years, wormed their way into unions and legit businesses, restaurants, pizzerias and bars, where they could hide money.

“They still back crews pulling scores,” Barney was saying. “Home invasions and robberies and such. So the Outfit isn’t dead. But hardly thriving — only when their front businesses start accidentally being profitable. It’s like that movie, The Producers — where did we go right?”

“So is that the case with Rule?”

“I know the guy a little. From what I see, he’s just a very successful construction guy, who not surprisingly’s had to swim in some dirty waters now and then, to get the job done. Garbage collecting, real estate, and, yeah, construction are more than fronts — they’re going concerns.”

“Maybe you see why I think it’s suggestive that Rule and Salerno both met with their attorney yesterday.”

“Why is that suggestive? Why would those two want the Lund woman dead?”

“You tell me.”

Barney drank some beer. “Think maybe the Lund woman was investigating Rule and any mob ties he might have?”

“Or her old classmate, Alex, and his mob ties.”

Barney smiled and sipped. “Cannon’s a defense attorney. That’s not just legal, it’s the American way. Everybody gets their day in court, and hired guns like Alex Cannon give it to ’em, if they can afford it. Now, if Lund was getting too close to something...”

“The story she was working on was about sexual misconduct.”

“What flavor?”

“Well, I don’t know... I assume sexual harassment in the workplace, on up to actual sexual assault, though I have no idea in what context. But it’s not exactly Family Secrets.”

That was a notorious case, ten years ago or so, hurting the Outfit, tying major LCN figures to numerous professional killings.

Barney was shaking his head. “This thing doesn’t sound like a contract killing. You have these two homicides...”

Keith had filled Barney in on the phone.

“... half a country apart. The tie-in, besides a near identical MO, is both young women bein’ in the Class of ’09 at Galena High. Both are literally hacked to death. That looks like a psychopath, not a hit.”

“Maybe that’s what it was supposed to look like.”

Barney sipped beer, mulled that. “Maybe. Maybe. What do you want me to do?”

“I’m not somebody who knows this city, not well anyway, and I’m not authorized to work here. Oh, I can flash my Galena badge around, and if it’s not laughed off, somebody might want to know what my official status is.”

Barney smirked at him. “Which is consultant. To your daughter, who’s a small town police chief? Yeah. You got a problem.”

“Solve it for me.”

“How?”

“We have a banquet hall full of potential suspects to sort out back in that small town. Astrid made a lot of enemies in high school, ten years ago — maybe not worth getting killed over, but tell that to who killed her. This Chicago lead could be important. But I’m not the ideal one to chase it down.”

Barney nodded slowly. “So I talk to Rule. Talk to Sonny. Rattle cages some.”

“Yes. You’ll know, just talking to them, if there’s anything to this.”

“You mean if my Spidey sense starts to tingle?”

“Something like that. Will you do it?”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Go back to Galena. Give me a couple days.”

“Fair enough. I’ll even pick up another round.”

“Yes, you will.”

They talked some more, mostly about Barney and his family — wife and two grown kids and half a dozen grandkids — and promised each other to go to some Cubs games together this summer. The third round was on Barney.

Before Keith left the Coq D’or, he made a reservation for tonight with the bartender.

Back in his room, Keith called down to see if he could have his coat and pants dry-cleaned, and get them within a couple of hours. That proved possible. With three beers in him, he decided to have a nap while his clothes were tended to. At his age, he was entitled.

At a little after six o’clock, a knock awoke him, obviously his pressed clothes, and he went to answer it wearing the shorts, T-shirt, and socks he’d been sleeping in.

He didn’t open the door wide, of course, but wide enough for Rebecca Carlson to get a good look and have a good laugh. She slipped in past him.

“That’s a charming greeting,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “I’d hoped to catch you, so I asked the desk for your room number.”

He just looked at her. She was tall, particularly in the heels, and still curvy but maybe working too hard at staying slender for the camera. A black wool coat over one arm, she wore skinny blue jeans and a white long-sleeved blouse with lacy touches. Her golden-brown hair bounced at her shoulders; her model-like loveliness would have been breathtaking even if he’d been wearing clothes.

“I got to shopping, then met a girlfriend for a drink,” she said in a rush, “and didn’t have time to go back to my apartment and dress properly... although if we’re going to be this casual, I guess I’m overdressed.”

She handed him her coat to hang up and went over and sat on the bottom edge of the double bed. “How do you feel about room service?”

“In general?”

A knock at the door proved to be a bellman with the dry-cleaned clothes. Keith traded him a five for them, and signed the bill.

Now that they were alone again, he took a few steps deeper into the room, carrying the plastic-bagged clothes by their hanger. “You mind if I put these on?”

“Up to you, Detective Larson.”

“Why don’t you call me Keith? I’m starting to feel like we’re getting to know each other.”

“Before you do that,” she said, meaning put on his clothes, “find me the room service menu, would you?”

He did, then got a fresh sport shirt from his bag on the luggage rack, before slipping into the bathroom with the dry cleaning. He ran some water, brushed his teeth, washed under his arms, used deodorant, gargled, spit, turned off the water, and got into the clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed the remains of his hair. No time to shave, but...

Good to go, he thought.

He emerged a new man, with the sudden realization he was in a hotel at the Drake with a new woman. Her purse was on the made bed — he’d slept on top — and she was on her feet, reading the menu.

“You can’t go wrong with the Bookbinder soup,” she commented.

“You really can’t,” he said. The stuff was delicious — tomato soup with sherry and bits of red snapper. Karen had loved it.

“Would you share a salad with me?” she asked. “I like the chopped but I could be talked into the Caesar.”

“Chopped is fine. So we’re eating here in the room?”

“I think that’s best. I think talking murder in public, particularly if you’re a journalist, which is what I claim to be, is in bad taste. And some of what we might discuss about the late Ms. Lund... well, let’s just make it the two of us, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel about a burger?”

“Sure.”

“Anything to drink?”

He shrugged. “Does wine go with burgers?”

“If we say so. Merlot?”

“Sure.”

“Shall I make the call?”

“Please.”

She did.

An area opposite the bed had a coffee table and two modern but fairly comfy chairs. She took one and he took the other.

“It’ll be a while,” she said of the food. Then, as if little or no time had passed since their earlier meeting, she said, “So. Astrid Lund. You think this story she was working on, about sexual harassment, may have gotten her killed.”