Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

“... Where in Florida is the time-share?”

“Saint Petersburg. That’s close to Clearwater, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Very.”

He sat forward. “But my in-laws, they can vouch for us. We were with them every day, every evening that week. Just ask them.”

“I will,” she said.

Her phone vibrated in her pants pocket. She answered it: “Yeah.”

Booker again. “We have another one.”

“Another beating?”

“No. Another one. A murder. That waitress. Jasmine Peterson.”

Her stomach fell. “... Same MO?”

“Pretty much. You know that little park off Main? She was killed and dragged there. She got off at nine and that’s close to her work. So it must’ve been around then. It’s, what... ten-something now.”

“On my way.” She clicked off.

Josh was just sitting there, apparently oblivious.

She asked, “Were you waiting long for me, Josh? Out front?”

He shrugged. “Maybe half an hour. That’s okay. I was collecting my thoughts.”

So even if Josh was the killer, she didn’t figure she was in immediate danger — his presence here might mean he was establishing an alibi.

“I have to go,” she said.

Josh chugged the rest of his beer and went to the door, opened it for her.

“After you,” she said.

Keith was riding in the front seat — which was a good thing, since the back was caged in — of a Dodge Ram four-door pickup, white with GALENA POLICE markings. He was in clothes his daughter had sent over, a CUBS sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes, and lined jacket. Behind the wheel was Patrol Officer Cortez, a short, sturdily built attractive young woman in her midtwenties.

This was Wednesday morning, cold and clear, and Keith had been picked up by Cortez (sent by Krista) at Midwest Medical Center, after a long wait for a doctor to look him over and a nurse to have him sign all the necessary release documents.

He’d been required to be taken by wheelchair to the front door and out to the waiting vehicle. He thought about bitching, then decided to enjoy the ride. He was a little high from the pain meds and didn’t mind at all.

“Officer Cortez,” Keith asked the pretty police officer, “what is your first name?”

“Maria, Mr. Larson.”

“Make it Keith. Maria is a nice name. Did you ever see West Side Story ?”

She nodded, her eyes on the road. They were in fast-food alley now. “Yes. It’s a little racist, don’t you think?”

Keith winced inwardly. Political correctness would be the death of them all.

He said, “It’s of its time. But ‘Maria’ is a lovely song.”

She shrugged. “Your daughter... Chief Larson... wanted me to fill you in on some things.”

He was glad she had identified Krista as both his daughter and the chief, otherwise he might have been really confused.

“Please do,” he said.

“I was in Prairie du Chien yesterday,” she said. “Checking out the Braggs. Their alibi?”

“Yes?”

“Something funny there. Not ha ha funny. Strange. Odd.”

“Which is?”

“Mr. Bragg has a cabin, all right. Or at least there’s a cabin at that address. A gentleman is living there, a Mr. Clauson, who is also a teacher, but not a coach. He teaches art at Prairie du Chien High. I spoke to him, after school. At the cabin. He was evasive at first.”

Keith smiled. “But you persisted.”

“I did. He invited me in after an unproductive session on the porch. He gave me coffee and, I think, the truth. The cabin belongs to Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson. Coach Bragg lives with Mr. Clauson during the summer months, school vacation. Did I mention the cabin is not in town, but a few miles outside?”

“No.”

“Well, it is. A few miles outside of town.”

They were driving through a residential area now, nicely wooded, with bed and breakfasts popping up like friendly rustic mushrooms.

“The coach joins Mr. Clauson,” she said, “on occasional weekends during the school year and during various vacations and breaks.”

“I see. Where does Mrs. Bragg fit in?”

“She lives elsewhere. With a woman in Dodgeville, which is nearby. The woman’s name is Melissa Adams. She’s a gym teacher, too. Girls’ gym, like Mrs. Bragg. When I say they live together, Mrs. Bragg and Ms. Adams, I mean in the summer months and weekends and such, like Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson? I believe what’s going on is clear.”

He raised a hand. “So do I. Officer, please keep this information to yourself.”

“I will, Mr. Larson.”

“Keith.”

“I will, Keith. The chief, who I informed of this, has already instructed me likewise. Your daughter?”

“Right. I know.”

With the bridge over the Galena River up ahead, Cortez took the left onto Main Street.

“Also,” the officer said, “I should mention I’ve attempted to interview Dawn Landry, David Landry’s wife?”

“‘Attempted’ sounds like you haven’t got it done.”

“No I haven’t. I just was unable to connect with her on Monday and was in Prairie du Chien on Tuesday. I’ll be following up today. She’s the last of the first round of interviews.”

Keith thought for a moment. “Hold off on that. I’ll handle that interview.”

“I’ll have to get that okayed by the chief.”

“Do that. She’s my daughter, you know.”

When they rolled past the Jasmine Peterson crime scene, the area nearest the minipark (already bordered with a red “no parking” curb) was closed off and crime scene tape was posted from there to the edge of the grass. Several yellow evidence markers were in place. A chalk outline indicated where the young woman had fallen, and died. Three CSIs in blue jumpsuits were packing up their toolbox-like kits. Several of Krista’s officers were still on the scene.

At the station, Cortez dropped Keith off and he went in the front way, through the reception area, buzzed through by clerk-dispatcher Maggie Edwards.

From her chair at the reception window, Maggie looked over and pointed past him. “Your daughter’s in interview room A. She said to tell you to duck into the observation booth.”

“Who is she interviewing?”

The redheaded dispatcher smiled. “That ex-beau of hers — Jerry. He’s such a nice boy.” The smile vanished. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

“Hmmm. If they’re in there patching things up...”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think she’d want me watching.”

Maggie looked startled for just a moment, then smiled big. “You are a bad man, Keith Larson.”

“Not the first woman to make that observation, Maggie.”

In the shallow, unlighted nook behind the one-way mirror, Keith stood and watched. The eight-foot-by-ten interview room was home to a rectangular pine-topped table with chairs for four, light green walls, a window with its blinds shut, a big-screen TV over some low-slung cabinets, a clock, and a wall locker for officers to stow weapons during the interview.

Only two chairs were in use. Jerry — his unbrushed dark curly hair and extra-scruffy beard as if he’d been hauled out of bed and dragged here — wore a pale blue shirt and pale white expression. His hands were folded and he was leaning forward, his body posture suggesting he was begging police chief Krista for his life.

He kind of was.

“I was home last night,” he said, sounding pitiful. “I was watching a movie! My folks went out for dinner. They took the car! I don’t have a car right now — you know that.”

Keith had apparently missed the part where Jerry was upset that his latest girlfriend had been murdered.

Krista, businesslike, asked, “You were home all evening? By yourself?”