“Where do you hope to wind up?”
Astrid shrugged, the blonde hair shimmering. “A network, or one of the cable news outlets. Certainly something national. At my age, I need to get moving.”
“Your age?”
“They turn them out young these days. And as big a market as Chicago is, there’s still something small-time about it. Office politics, you know. And it’s a scary town, too.”
“Scary how?”
“Well, all the clichés are true. Crooked politicians, mob stuff. And a reporter who does investigative reporting, the way I’ve been doing, building a reputation on it? Let’s just say when the phone rings, and it’s a political call? They aren’t always looking for donations.”
“You don’t mean. . . threats?”
“Oh yes. Even death threats.”
“Death threats?”
“Comes with the job,” Astrid said matter-of-factly. She leaned in. “Say, maybe you could help me with something for a story. Being law enforcement and all.”
“Well. . . I’ll try to.”
“Is there a statute of limitations on sexually oriented crimes?”
Krista, blindsided, glanced at her father; but he was still wrapped up in the band, who were playing “Makes Me Wonder.”
“Sexually oriented crimes,” Krista said, as if she had to run that phrase through her mental computer before she could answer. “Like what?”
“Rape, for example.”
“That varies state to state,” Krista said, a little surprised a reporter wouldn’t know this. Or just ask Google about it. “Ten years in Illinois. Only three years, if it hasn’t been reported by then. But evidence collected at the time would be crucial. Be tough to prove a case without that.”
Judging by her manner, Astrid might have been inquiring about movie times. “What about sexual assault, short of rape? Or even sexual harassment?”
“It’s criminal in Illinois if it involves sexual assault, stalking, or any threat of sexual misconduct.”
Suddenly Pop said, “Two years to report.” Then he turned to the two young women. “No restriction for a civil suit. Ms. Lund, I’m retired now but I was a police officer for a long time. I would be glad to talk to you about this.”
Astrid, staying very cool, said, “I may take you up on that, Mr. Larson.”
“Ms. Lund,” he said. “Is this really for a story or is it something personal?”
Astrid stood. For the first time her smile seemed nervous. “It’s really for a story. So wonderful to see you both. . . See you tomorrow morning, Krista.”
And the Girl Most Likely was gone, swallowed up in her admirers.
NINE
Keith turned to his daughter and said, “Astrid seems very nice. She sounds sincere.”
Krista nodded. “Of course, she hasn’t made it this far in the broadcast business without learning how to manipulate people. But I take everything she said at face value.”
“Well, I do, too. . . almost.”
Her eyes locked on him. “Why almost?”
“The idea that she’s doing a story about sexual malfeasance just as a general topic of interest. . . no. Something personal’s behind it.”
Krista nodded again. “Yeah. I got that, too.” She glanced past him. “Now that we’ve talked to the Girl Most Likely, here comes her male counterpart.”
Heading over with a lovely woman on his arm was the classmate who’d made it all possible, including this free evening of food and entertainment. David Landry—with dark impeccably barbered hair and dark eyes and a Rob Lowe smile—looked six feet tall, but Keith caught the Italian heels right off.
The rest of their host’s tailored apparel was more in tune with a successful executive on a night out—a notch-lapel number in dark gray, beautifully tailored. Keith had an idea his somewhat similar gray suit cost maybe a tenth of what Landry’s had. No school colors for their host—his patterned tie was the same light blue as his shirt. Keith had heard his daughter refer to Landry having a trophy wife—not from their class, at least in the high school sense—and the vision drifting over with him was almost certainly her.
Her wavy long dark hair, with golden highlights, disappeared behind her shoulders, her face with its luminous brown eyes and bold, well-shaped eyebrows worthy of a fashion model. Like Krista, the apparent Mrs. Landry wore stylish black, but this form-fitting frock was nonetheless conservative-looking, high necklined, sleeves stopping at the wrists, hem almost to the floor.
Then he noticed the slit starting at her thigh.
Suppressing a gulp, Keith rose as Landry came over with his hand outstretched. The two men shook. They’d met in his daughter’s high school days, when Landry and Krista had briefly dated.
“Mr. Larson,” he said, in a well-modulated second tenor, “I’m so pleased you’re here tonight.”
Addressing him as “Mr. Larson” was a throwback to Landry thinking of him as a parent, the kind of respect grown adults would often show when running into his wife, who’d been their third-grade teacher—Mrs. Larson! How are you?
“You might as well call me Keith,” he said. “Because I’m going to call you Dave. Unless you prefer David?”
“Dave is fine. This is Mrs. Landry.” He gestured with his free hand, his other arm still being held on to by the lanky beauty.
She smiled, her mouth so lipstick red it was almost black, a wide, nicely toothy smile. “But you can call me Dawn. . . if I can call you Keith.”
“Deal,” he said. “This is my daughter, Krista, an old classmate of your husband’s.”
Krista was standing now, too. “No older than he is, of course.”
“Oh, Dawn knows all about you,” Landry said, coming around the table to Krista. “You’re the one who got away.”
Mrs. Landry’s frown was barely perceptible, but Keith could spot the tiny daggers in the glance she gave her husband.
Krista nodded toward Astrid, caught between tables by a gaggle of admiring classmates. “Aren’t you confusing me with somebody, Dave?”
Landry ignored that and, eyes going from Krista to Keith and back again, asked, “Do you mind if we join you for a moment?”
“You have your nerve,” Krista said. “Think you own the place?”
Everyone laughed at that a little, and as they all sat, Landry said to Krista, “I’m just the manager of the joint. And even my father has some co-owners.”
Krista touched her hand to Landry’s. “Do I have to say you’ve been incredibly generous?”
“Listen,” he said, “I’m glad to do it. Having so many of the ol’ GHS gang in one place, it’s really my pleasure.”
Next to him, Dawn was smiling—a strained smile, Keith thought.
Krista removed her hand from Landry’s and said, “I just had a nice talk with Astrid. She really seems to have her head on straight. You should talk to her.”
Keith wasn’t sure what that was about, but then Landry gave him a rough idea.
“It ended badly,” he said, making a comic “ouch” face. “I think we probably ought to keep our distance, Astrid and I. But I’m happy for her. She’s making a real success of herself.”
Krista flipped a hand. “Why not tell her that?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “We’ll see.”
A slow song started in. Sounded pretty sappy to Keith, but at least it didn’t remind him of a one-man band falling down fire-escape stairs.
Dawn stood up and her eyes were laser beams on her husband, and her smile had something bloodcurdling about it. “Oh, that’s ‘Thinking Out Loud’—Ed Sheeran! Come dance with me, sweetheart!”
Landry nodded his assent, but kept his attention for the moment on Krista, saying, “Did I see Jessica Webster and her husband sitting with you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to thank Jessy for everything she and the committee did.”
“If you’re headed for the dance floor, I’m sure you’ll find her there. And she’ll have plenty of thanks to heap
back on you.”
Landry and Krista exchanged smiles, and the couple headed for the dance floor, the host waving at, and exchanging quick pleasantries with, grateful classmates as they ran a cheerful gauntlet.
Alone again in the crowded hall, Keith said to his daughter, “He seems decent enough.”
“Dave’s a good guy. I mean, what he’s doing for the class tonight is incredible, and he’s done a great job out here at the lodge.”
“You didn’t date him long, as I recall.”
“No. He was. . . no. Just didn’t work out. And you know me, I’m not one to hold a grudge.”
Keith knew enough not to ask why she might hold a grudge against Landry, but he did say, “No. You’re not one to hold a grudge. You’re one to caress a grudge. Nurture it through the long cold lonely nights.”
Her smile made her chin crinkle. “You’re a very bad man, Pop.”
“And you’re a terrible daughter. Really, just awful.”
A girlfriend of Krista’s (in the “friend” sense only) stopped by and asked her to dance. They’d been on the basketball team together. Krista excused herself and went off with her pal.
Keith had noticed a table of teachers—all still on staff at Galena High—and took the opportunity to go over and say hello.
“Nobody get up,” he said, leaning in. “Just wanted to come over and see who was taking advantage of the free meal.”
His hand was on the edge of a chair where Bill Bragg, longtime coach of Galena Pirates football, sat next to his wife, Kelly. Both were in their early fifties, Bragg a husky guy, undeniably handsome despite a butch haircut, thick wild eyebrows, and an eternal five o’clock shadow; Kelly an athletically slender gal with short brown hair, pretty hazel eyes, and a million-dollar smile. Bill was in a blue sport coat and a gold necktie—vaguely school colors—and Kelly a tan turtleneck sweater and tweed slacks.
English teacher Ken Stock, a more quiet kind of handsome but always somewhat dashing, wore a blue blazer with a red pocket square and a white shirt with no tie, while his wife, Mary—an art teacher, with short golden-brown hair, brown eyes, and an almost-under-control weight problem—wore a navy dress with a turquoise Native American necklace.
“Sit, sit,” Bill said, gesturing to an empty chair beside him.
“Aren’t Chris and Tyler sitting there?”
“Why,” Ken said dryly, “are they invisible?”
Smiling, shaking her head, Mary said, “From the second the music starts up, those two are on the dance floor.”
Keith sat. “I hate to give you reprobates any encouragement, but I guess you should know what a kick these grown-up kids get out of having their favorite teachers do them the honor.”
“You said it yourself,” Bill said, an arm around the back of Keith’s chair. “It’s a free meal.”
Kelly said, “These are wonderful young people, really. Class of ’09, always one of my favorites. Your daughter was a wonderful point guard.”
The gym teacher also coached girls’ basketball.
“Well,” Keith said, “she was disappointed she didn’t land a scholarship offer. Just not tall enough for college ball.”
With a wry grin, Ken said, “So what do you think, Keith? Are you happy to have Krista join the family business?”
“She’s a good cop,” Keith said, “and she’s making an excellent chief. She has a real sense of what Galena is about—that you have to keep the tourists safe and happy, but never forget about the local community.”
“Karen must be so proud,” Mary said. His late wife and Mary had been good friends, working together on several local charities, often through First Methodist.
“I’m sure she is,” Keith said, though he hadn’t been to church since Karen’s death, and always harbored only the vaguest belief in an afterlife and a supreme being. For him this world was enough to deal with.
Serious now, Ken said, “You know, Krista was a good writer. One of my best on the school paper. I hope she’s keeping a hand in.”
Keith shook his head. “I know you tried to encourage her, but I think writing reports is about it.”
Ken cocked his head. “Hasn’t she been going with Jerry? I thought maybe they’d make a two-person writers’ colony. He’s very serious about his work.”
“No,” Keith told the English teacher. “That ship sailed or sunk or however a writer would put it. Look around—Jerry’s here somewhere, with a girl who may be one of your current students.”
Bill’s shaggy eyebrows rose and he grinned like a friendly bear. “Yeah, I saw him with Jasmine.”
“Jasmine Peterson?” Mary asked, frowning. “Isn’t she a senior?”
“She graduated last year,” girls’ basketball coach Kelly said. “She’s waitressing right now, saving up to go to college. She’s a bright girl.”
Keith smirked. “Not if she’s dating Jerry Ward she isn’t.”
Everybody smiled at that.
Bill said, “You tell Krista we’re proud of her.”
Ken said, “I’ll second that.”
“Hear, hear,” Mary said.
And Kelly was nodding.
Keith stood. “Can I stand you folks to a drink?”
Ken smiled. “Can you stand us, period?”
More smiles, but they accepted the offer. Keith took orders—pinot noir and chardonnay respectively for Mary and Kelly, a couple of Blue Moons for the guys.
The cash bar (their host wasn’t that generous) had a line, so Keith took the opportunity to find the men’s room. It was down a side hall. He was just about to go in when he noticed two figures down a ways, a pretty blonde in a red dress and a dark-haired handsome man, in heated, animated conversation.
Astrid Lund and David Landry.
Not close enough for Keith to hear anything, but the heat of it carried, all right.
When he emerged after a brief visit, neither Astrid nor David was around. Perhaps a momentary flare-up was over; or maybe he’d caught the tail end of a more protracted one. . .
Just outside the banquet hall, a short male figure in a dark well-tailored suit, which may have cost even more than David Landry’s, approached Keith with a smile. If this was one of his daughter’s classmates, the guy certainly looked older than most—he was bald on top and graying at the sides. His gray-blue eyes behind black-and-gray designer-framed glasses conveyed a seldom-blinking confidence.
“You don’t remember me,” he said. His voice had a radio announcer resonance.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Are you sure you remember me? I’m Keith Larson.”
“Krista’s dad,” he said, nodding. “I’m Alex Cannon. I was president of the Young Democrats.”
Nodding back, Keith said, “I do remember you.” Ten years ago, young Alex Cannon had dark hair down to his shoulders.
Cannon said, “Krista was my vice president one year.”
Keith offered up his least smiling smile. “Yes, Alex, but I’m afraid you were too radical for her tastes.”
He chuckled. “I’ll leave it to others to decide whether I was ahead of my time or behind it. Anyway, now I’m an attorney in—”
“Chicago,” Keith said. “I’m well aware of you and how successful your career has been. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. You were always friendly to me, although I’m pretty sure you thought I was a little creep.”
“Nonsense,” Keith said, although that was spot-on. It was Karen who had been supportive of whatever her daughter’s interests were, even when they had drifted briefly into radical politics.
“Well,” the attorney said, with the kind of smile he no doubt gave a client right before billing him outrageously, “I just wanted to say hello.”
The attorney was just going when Keith said, “We have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Cannon.”
“We do? And I’m still Alex to you, Mr. Larson.”
Keith didn’t offer his first name in return, saying, “I have a buddy on the CPD Homicide Bureau who collared a client of yours.�
��
The rarely blinking eyes narrowed. “Your friend’s name would be. . . ?”
“Barney Davis. Used to work with me over on the Iowa side. Your client was named Salerno, as I recall.”
“. . . That’s right. I got him off. He was found not guilty.”
“Which isn’t the same as innocent.”
“True. But the bottom line, Mr. Larson? I would appear to be a better defense lawyer than your friend is a homicide detective.”
The smile, polite now—barely so—was followed by a nod, as Cannon shot into the banquet hall.
The line at the bar had thinned, and Keith made two trips, conveying the drinks to the teachers’ table, including another Diet Coke for himself. For another fifteen or twenty minutes, he spoke to the educators about local sports and next year’s prospects. Then some well-intentioned reminiscing about Karen, sparked by Mary Stock, made him uncomfortable.
He waited for the right moment, found it, and excused himself.
At their table, Krista was sitting alone, looking a little lost.
“You all right?” he asked, not sitting, just leaning in, a hand on the back of her chair.
With a pleasant smile and aching eyes, she said, “I think I’ve had all the frigging fun I can take.”
“Where are Jessy and Josh?”
“On the dance floor, trying to be sixteen again.”
“They’ll pay in the morning. What about Frank and what’s-her-name? The one who somehow makes ‘sexy’ annoying?”
She laughed. “They, too, are recapturing their youth. Me, I’ve been asked to dance once. . . by a female. Also, my father refuses to dance with me.”
“Sounds like a jerk. You want to get out of here?”
She nodded. “Please.”
Outside, as they headed for the Toyota in the nearby side lot, the temperature had dropped, their breath visible. They both added not wearing coats tonight to their lists of regrets. Krista was shivering as he got behind the wheel.
He asked, “You okay, honey?”
“Yes. I just. . . I’d so been looking forward to seeing those people, and I was happy to see them, even the ones I wasn’t happy to see.”
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