Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Krista thought for a moment, then said, “She’s not from the Class of ’09.”

He shrugged. “She was at the reunion.”

“But we think the motive of the killings lies in the past. And the first murder was six months ago. Was Jasmine a cold-blooded, coldhearted attempt to throw us off the track? To muddy the waters with...”

“Blood,” he finished. “Maybe. And to provide us with a good suspect in Jerry Ward. My suspicion? This is a premeditated killer. He or she will have established that Jerry would be home without an alibi. That the parents would be away, stranding Jerry without a car. The lack of a car, however, was something we might well dismiss — a killer can always find a way to get to a killing.”

“But Jerry’s mom and dad double-crossed our killer,” she said. “They came home early. They in fact spent the evening with their son, and are not likely types to cover for him in a situation like this.”

Keith frowned, shook his head. “Was trying to frame Jerry enough of a motivating reason? Certainly confusing the issue alone, to maybe throw us off some, wouldn’t inspire it.”

She leaned toward him. “What made the killer, so careful, so controlled in the planning of these acts, suddenly take a risk like striking in public? On Main Street of all places?”

“That’s the only silver lining in this very dark cloud,” he said, with a tight smile. “It means we’re getting close. It means the investigation has lit a fire under our quarry.”

Krista’s eyebrows went up. “So who was Jasmine in all of this? What marked her a victim?”

“When we answer that,” he said, “we’ll know who we’re looking for.”

Their tea came.

Krista smirked humorlessly and said, “Don’t you think we can rule Chicago out? And even if we’re wrong to do so, we’re covered — your friend Barney is networking with Booker. With luck those two creeps who jumped you will sell out who hired them.”

“Don’t count on that,” he said. “Even today, the Outfit is scarier than anybody in law enforcement.”

He sipped the tea. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Speaking of Chicago,” he said, looking at the caller ID.

REBECCA CARLSON.

He excused himself and went outside.

“Hi,” he said. His breath was visible in the cold; he didn’t care.

“Hi yourself. Are you okay? Are you in the hospital? Did you break anything important?”

“Yes. No. And nothing important except your heart.”

She laughed at him. “Heal up and come see me.”

“How did you know about this?”

“You’re in the news and I am the news. Listen, my news is that I’ve connected with a researcher of Astrid’s.”

“On the sexual predator story?”

“No, the Daniel Rule Meets the Mob exposé. My pretty nemesis had some good stuff. I’m picking up where she left off, and my ex has agreed to let me, and to air it when I’m done. Of course, I’ll need to talk to you, since the two Salerno guys sitting in the Galena jail are your handiwork.”

“Maybe, but my bruises and broken rib is theirs. Don’t get yourself killed like Astrid.”

“You don’t really think the Chicago end of this is what caused that, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Neither does my daughter, and she’s smarter than both of us. But people have been known to die in Chicago under sketchy circumstances.”

“Really? I try not to cover unhappy news like that. Ciao.”

“Did you really just say ‘ciao’?”

She laughed. “I did. Aren’t I just the worst?”

Rebecca clicked off. He smiled at the phone and clicked off, too.

When he got back to their corner, the chili had come. He broke some crackers up and dropped them in. Had several spoonfuls of the stuff. Great. The simple act of eating something that tasted good seemed like such a privilege, suddenly.

Krista, between spoonfuls, asked, “So I need to call the big boys in, huh? Like Eli says?”

“No, and not the big girls either. Not today. This is a key time for you, honey. This is the first big thing that’s come along since you made chief.”

Obviously surprised and pleased by this, she said, “Right, and I don’t want to screw it up. Many more dead bodies on Main Street and they’ll take me down on littering.”

He dropped his spoon and took her hand. “You need to step up. We’re close. Very close. If we haven’t wrapped this up by tomorrow this time, yes. By all means. Call Major Case Assistance. Call whatever cavalry you want. But right now, we have another shot at this.”

“We do?”

He nodded. “Have your people assemble all the suspects. Do it at the Lake View Lodge, in the banquet hall again, if it’s not in use — Landry will cooperate. And I want his wife there — she’s been slippery. We need Frank and Brittany Wunder. Your friends Josh and Jessy. The Braggs. Everybody else has alibis that seem to hold. But if we don’t shake the killer out of this bunch, we can try again with the others — Jerry, Chris and Tyler, Ken Stock and his wife, Alex Cannon and the entire Chicago Outfit. Can you make that happen, honey? Can the chief of police gather the suspects?”

“Like Charlie Chan?” she asked.

“Just like Charlie Chan.”

She shrugged. “Okay, Pop,” she said, and started in on the rest of her soup.

Krista found David Landry not only cooperative but eager to please, again maybe trying too hard. At any rate, the Lake View Lodge manager had the banquet hall set up as she’d instructed — at the far end where the band had played, four round tables were arranged with as much space left between them as possible. At the other end were two more tables, one at far left, the other far right.

Each table had plastic water glasses and a pitcher of ice water. No alcoholic beverages would be served this time around.

As Krista and her father stood facing their guests, Frank and Brittany Wunder were seated at the far left table; the Braggs at the next; then Landry and his wife, Dawn; and, at far right, Josh and Jessica Webster.

With dusk approaching, the tall windows onto the lake were letting in not streaming sunshine but the gloom of a dying overcast day, the skeletal vastness of trees blotting out the horizon.

Their guests wore the apparel of business or home — Frank in his Buick salesman mode, a sport coat and tie, Brittany in an oversize pink sweater and black leggings; the Braggs still in their coaching togs; David in a gray suit with darker gray tie, Dawn almost matching in a gray skirt with white blouse; Josh in his blue sweatshirt hawking his popcorn shop and Jessy in a navy suit and light blue silk blouse.

Krista and her father made a slightly off-key pair, she in her standard police chief uniform, Glock 21 on her hip, he in sweatshirt and jeans.

No need for many preliminaries. Krista had decided to call them personally, since these were all friends or friendly acquaintances. She’d again said they’d be recorded, but that this was voluntary, and informal. She would stop recording anytime they wished to go off-the-record. They could refuse now, or accept the invitation and leave at their own discretion.

Now, as she faced the group — each couple at their own table to discourage conversation — Krista felt she should repeat something she’d already made clear on the phone.

“You are not suspects,” she said, technically true. “You are not even what we would call persons of interest. Everyone here is aware of just how many people were in this room on reunion night, who will all have to be talked to several times, in increasing depth.”

Her father, looking from table to table, said, “We are only in day four of the Astrid Lund investigation. Consider this exercise part of our process of elimination.”