Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Another single shoulder shrug. “She wanted people to know she was successful. Nothing wrong with that. Human nature, right?”

“How closely did you observe her?”

He batted the air. “Oh, not really all that close. Well, a little, but just when she first came in and got rushed on by the huddled masses. Christopher had a good number of these aging kiddies come up and fawn over him, too — he is a teacher who really likes his students, and they like him back, boys and girls. I think he realized I was getting bored or maybe had my nose out of joint, and he grabbed me and yanked me out on the dance floor. We danced and danced, and I suddenly didn’t give a damn about his precious former students, and I don’t think he did, either. All in all it was a pleasant evening.”

But not for Astrid Lund, as it worked out.

“Okay,” Keith said. “That’s all I have about that.” He indicated the phone. “Mind if we start recording again?”

“No. Go right ahead.”

Keith un-paused it. “Do you remember what you did and where you were the second week of August last year?”

Another Jagger-esque smile. “Christopher said you’d ask about that. I hear another classmate of your daughter’s got killed much the same way as La Lund. Is that right?”

“Yes. In Clearwater, Florida.”

He shuddered. “What a terrible place to die. Well, we were in Atlanta, at a teacher’s conference. There’s a town.”

“How long were you down there?”

“At the conference? Oh, four days.”

“Could you tell me what airline you took? The particulars of the travel?”

“Well, we took Christopher Hope Airlines! That is, we went by car. We have an Audi. Left the kids with Christopher’s folks.”

“You drove all that way?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because we like to. We had friends we dropped in on and stayed with, and fun cities along the way. Clubs, music, and so on.”

Keith frowned a little. “Isn’t August your gallery’s busy time?”

“From spring through early fall it’s busy. But I have plenty of summer staff and it’s not unusual for me to take a couple of weeks’ vacation around then. Gotta take advantage of Christopher being on summer vacation. Didn’t he tell you we’d taken two weeks?”

“No,” Keith said, and he wasn’t happy with himself or Krista. This showed how superficial their first round of interviews had been.

Keith said, “Chris’s colleague, Ken Stock, was also at the conference. Did he travel with you?”

“No. I assume he flew.”

“Did you see him there?”

“Yes, any number of times. We didn’t socialize particularly... oh, I guess we had lunch once. We’re certainly friendly — he’s no homophobe. It was a big conference, probably a thousand in attendance from all over the country.” Tyler had one last sip of the Hillas. “Is there anything else, Mr. Larson?”

“No.” He had finished his beer, too, and the interview.

Keith thanked the gallery owner for his cooperation, and frankness, though much of it had been off-the-record and unrecorded. That teacher’s conference needed some looking into. Atlanta to Clearwater and back was not exactly a round trip to the moon.

Just before six they exited the Log Cabin, the world already all but dark, Main Street a ghost town; the two men paused in the reddish blush of the old-fashioned hanging neon (the place had been around since the ’40s).

Tyler said, “Let me know what else you might need.”

“How about a Blondie painting?”

The gallery owner grinned. “I’ll give you my special discount, reserved for police chiefs and their old men.”

“Take you up on that.”

Snugging on his porkpie hat, Tyler headed left with a big nod and a little wave, turning the corner, likely hiking down to Commerce, where many shopkeepers and employees parked.

Keith started up the sidewalk of the slope that was Hill Street, past the Kandy Kitchen, heading to Bench Street. Behind him came the throaty purr of a car with a good-size engine, making him turn his head and frown — Hill Street was a one-way and this vehicle, bright headlights bearing down on him, was going the wrong way.

The car swung over, just missing a mailbox, and a man quickly emerged from the front rider’s side, the engine still going, a vague dark form staying behind the wheel. The lights were so bright as to be almost blinding, but Keith made the car as a familiar pearl Lexus, and recognized too the shape and the BEARS sweat suit even before the Cro-Magnon shelf of the guy’s forehead, his blob of a nose and thick scarred lips identified him as Sonny Salerno’s guy, Bruno, from Alex Cannon’s house on Sunday.

Like the former football player he likely was, Bruno rushed at Keith and slammed him against the brick side of the Kandy Kitchen. They were on an angle and Keith’s back was literally to the wall.

Big hands took hold of his sport coat and bunched the cloth — so much for dry cleaning and pressing — and a face unleashed garlic breath on Keith in a cloud of human exhaust, thanks to the cold.

“You’re on the wrong track, asshole,” the sandpapery voice advised.

“Let go,” Keith said calmly.

Bruno didn’t let go. Instead he shook Keith like a naughty child, then pushed him back hard against the brick. “Mr. Rule and Mr. Salerno and Mr. Cannon, they got nothing to do with anything. Got it?”

Keith reached down with his open hand in a cupping motion and, gripping between his assailant’s legs, squeezed hard and twisted. The assailant’s head went back, his eyes going wide and skyward, and he howled like a werewolf hit by a silver bullet, reflexively letting go of Keith, who slipped to the right and grabbed at the brute’s back, taking two handfuls of sweat suit and shoving him hard into the brick wall, face-first.

The guy didn’t go down but just staggered back a step and stood there, his face bleeding, his nose mashed even more than before, and Keith did what any brave man would do in such a situation.

He ran.

Ran up the sidewalk, with Bench Street beckoning. But footsteps on the pavement echoed from behind him, and somebody tackled him. Facedown on the sidewalk, Keith felt strong hands grip him, then flip him over. A new cast member glowered down, younger, with long dark hair and wide-set eyes in a round face that didn’t go with a trimly muscular fat-free build, in jeans and a CUBS sweatshirt. Just in case he hadn’t figured out from whence these two came.

Bruno, bloody but unbowed, came lumbering up toward them, footsteps slow and heavy on cement, telling Keith things had taken a very bad turn.

“I’m a cop, damnit!” he sputtered at them.

“Yeah, we know,” the new guy said.

And started kicking him.

Where Keith had fallen left room for the guy whose family jewels he’d briefly confiscated to start in kicking on the other side, getting it in the ribs from both men on both sides. For a guy still in pain, Bruno made a pretty good showing. His kicks damn near kept pace with the new guy’s.

In between kicks, they offered advice: “Stay out of Chicago, ya bastard!” was the general theme.

Keith was just wishing he could pass out when headlights washed over him again, this time from the top of Hill Street, coming around from Bench. A siren started and the kicking stopped. He heard but didn’t see his attackers scramble for their waiting Lexus, their heavy quick footsteps like scattered gunfire.

Then more footsteps and voices: “Police! Hold it right there! Get those hands up!”

Keith wondered if gunfire would follow, but it didn’t. He closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when Booker’s voice said, “We have your friends. This should be a pretty story. Meantime, an ambulance is comin’ for you. You need a checkup, son.”