Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

She watched through the window onto the bullpen as her dad paused to say hello to the officers at their desks in their collective U joined by Plexiglas. Pop was in his tan sport coat, brown slacks, and yellow-and-brown tie, all of which looked surprisingly fresh, considering that was what he’d been wearing Sunday, when he took off unexpectedly for Chicago.

As he approached, he waved at her through the window and she smiled and gestured for him to come on in.

He opened the door and shut it, came over and gave her a smile — a kiss, even between father and daughter, seemed inappropriate here — and pulled up a chair to the near side of her desk.

“You either made good time,” she said, “or you left pretty early.”

It was about eleven thirty.

“Little of both. I only grabbed juice and a Danish, though, so maybe I could treat you to lunch.”

“That’s a deal. But I fill in for Maggie, as dispatcher, while she takes lunch, at noon. We couldn’t do that till she gets back at one. You too hungry to wait?”

“I’ll survive. Maybe we can quickly bring each other up to speed.”

“Good idea.”

They did.

“So,” she said, “you had dinner with Rebecca Carlson. Sounds like a date!”

“No, just a regular interview.”

“Where did you eat?”

“At the hotel. I, uh, didn’t record any of that interview. It was just some off-the-record info about what Astrid was working on.”

Krista frowned, just a little. “Well, from what you said, this Carlson woman had her own grudge against Astrid. What was her alibi?”

“I, uh, didn’t exactly ask her.”

She just looked at him. “For either Saturday or the second week of August?”

He shrugged. “No, I don’t consider her a suspect.”

“Well, maybe you should. You mind following up with her?”

“Not at all.”

“Otherwise, that app I got you for your phone? To record field interviews? You used that?”

He nodded, sat forward. “Yes. Why don’t we trade phones, and I’ll duck into the conference room and listen to your interviews from Sunday night, and Monday at the school.”

They swapped.

He said, “Chris Hope’s partner, Tyler — we haven’t talked to him yet, have we?”

“No.”

“Want me to take that?”

“Please.” She gestured to the landline phone on her desk. “I spent the morning making calls, confirming various alibis of my favorite persons of interest. That teacher’s conference in Atlanta that Chris, Tyler, and Ken Stock attended? It’s legit, and all three were there, all right. And I have two officers checking alibis of less likely suspects.”

Her father nodded, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “Have you looked into that cabin of the Braggs’? All summer and occasional weekends, huh?”

“I’m sending Officer Cortez to Prairie du Chien to scope that out. And I have the name and contact info of a coach pal of Bragg’s who they say was staying with them the second week of August. He lives in Fargo. Probably just call him to confirm. Maybe talk to the Fargo police, too.”

Pop nodded. “You called Astrid’s parents with the death notification?”

“No. I considered it, since Astrid was a friend, and a classmate, and they know me. But procedure is to inform the family in person. Which in this case would be Naples, Florida. And obviously I couldn’t do that.”

He nodded again. “So you called the police down there to have them do it. That was the right thing.”

She sighed. “Glad you agree. I did speak to Astrid’s mom yesterday. Had a nice visit, considering, but of course they are devastated. She was their only child, you know.”

“And so much promise. So accomplished. Heartbreaking. When’s the service?”

“Saturday. Furlong Funeral Home. They’ll be coming up for it, her folks, of course. She’ll be buried here. It all seems so... I just don’t quite believe it.”

Her father was gazing past her. “Wouldn’t it be sweet to find the son of a bitch before then, and give those poor people some closure?”

“Yes. But I don’t have to tell you... closure doesn’t come so easy.”

“No,” he admitted, looking at her now. “It doesn’t.”

He summoned a smile and went off to listen to the interviews.

Just after one, her father returned and gave her back the phone, saying, “Interesting stuff. Didn’t get through it all — I’ll come back for more this afternoon. Has anybody talked to Jasmine Peterson?”

That was the young woman who’d accompanied Jerry Ward to the reunion.

“No,” Krista said. “But I called over to Vinny Vanucchi’s and she’s working today. How does Italian sound for lunch?”

“Molto bene,” her father said.

Soon the Larsons were walking down Main. The day was cold and Pop could have used a topcoat. She was in her thermal jacket with its chief of police patch. A Tuesday this time of year could be awfully dead, but a few hearty tourists were afoot. Most stores were open for the season now, a handful waiting for March.

Main Street in Galena was a crafty combination of old and new, the nearly one hundred storefronts of the redbrick buildings, often dating to the Civil War, housing modern boutiques, art galleries, antique shops, and restaurants. One of their favorites of the latter category was Vinny Vanucchi’s.

Up several outdoor flights of aged concrete stairs hugging the building, past a closed-off cobblestone street, then winding through a brick patio of tables with their umbrellas closed, Krista and her father went into the cozy restaurant, where music by Sinatra, Dino, Darin, and the like met you at a deli counter. This floor was mostly kitchen, with a second deli counter around the corner at right, a friendly greeter at his post to lead you through the racks of wines and shelves of salad dressings for sale.

The uppermost floor of Vinny’s was expansive, the lowest a sunken nook, past which a short flight of stairs took the Larsons to their preference, an intimate dining room of ten tables with traditional red-and-white tablecloths. All around were winery posters and framed pictures of old-time Italianos, the air nicely heavy with the tangy aroma of marinara.

As luck would have it, Jasmine waited on them, the pretty, slender brunette wearing the white blouse and black trousers of all the waitstaff — “all” being around three, as business wasn’t brisk on an off-season weekday.

Pop asked for Auntie Gracie’s Sausage Ragu, and Krista, Joey Z’s Shells — what they always had — with two iced teas.

Jasmine was smiling throughout, very efficient, but once the order had been made, she dropped the smile and said, “That was so terrible, Saturday night.”

It might have been a review of the reunion as entertainment, from a nonclassmate’s point of view; but she obviously meant Astrid’s murder.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” the waitress said, “do let me know.”

Krista smiled pleasantly if not warmly. “Actually, there is. You’re one of the few attendees of the reunion who hasn’t been questioned.”

“Oh, I’m not a classmate. I was...” She obviously knew Jerry and Krista had a history, and had to work for the right words. “... you know, I was just along.”

That was suitably vague and even tactful.

Pop said, “We’ll be kind of lingering over the lunch, Ms. Peterson. When things get slow, perhaps you could join us. You might tell your manager so he won’t think you’re slacking.”

He had done that in a low-key, nonthreatening way; but she was clearly a little thrown anyway, like most people who offer to help and are then, unexpectedly, asked to actually do so.

“Of course,” she said. “Anything.”