Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  Now he realized he’d seen her at the reunion last night, with her hair up and more makeup, but hadn’t realized she was married to Alex Cannon, who he was here to see. Lodge manager Landry hadn’t mentioned a Mrs. Cannon checking out with her husband, perhaps thinking it unimportant, since this lovely young woman was not a classmate.

  Keith got out his wallet, flipped to the badge, held it up casually, not wanting to alarm her. “I’m working with my daughter as a police consultant. Something unfortunate occurred last night, after the reunion, and I’m hoping to chat with your husband.”

  A crimson-nailed hand gripped the edge of the front door. “Oh. What unfortunate something?”

  “Death of a classmate. I need to inform Alex.”

  That should be vague enough to make it sound important but not overly troubling. And mentioning her husband as “Alex” should help.

  Her frown wore worry not irritation. “I’m sorry, but a client of his dropped by and I think they’re—”

  “Excuse me!”

  The voice was male but not Alex Cannon’s, whose wife disappeared behind the open door, like a mouse scurrying to its hole. In her place was a big guy in his thirties in a navy orange-trimmed BEARS sweat suit, looking like maybe he’d once played tackle for them, judging by his Cro-Magnon forehead, oft-busted nose, and thick scarred lips. His hair was blond and short and his eyes blue, like some ancient Viking ancestor of the Larson family.

  Only Keith was not getting greeted like a member of the family.

  “You need not to be here,” the BEARS sweat suit guy said, his voice breathy, the words almost ridiculous—but not quite, considering the belligerent face they were emanating from.

  Keith silently blessed his daughter for giving him that badge, which he held up to show the guy, who squinted at it with a scowl.

  Badge still aloft, Keith said, “I need to see Alex Cannon. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “That says Galena.”

  “Right. Galena, Illinois. This is Naperville, Illinois. Would you like to see some badges that say Chicago on them? Like Barney Davis’s maybe?”

  Davis had busted an LCN (La Cosa Nostra) client of Cannon’s and, though the mobster had gotten off, put him through a world of trouble. Of course, Barney knew nothing of the Astrid Lund murder, but the BEARS sweat suit guy didn’t know that, and—after some painful-looking thought transpired—backed away and disappeared.

  Mrs. Cannon reappeared and offered up a nervous, embarrassed smile as she held the door all the way open and gestured Keith in.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Alex doesn’t usually do business here, but a few of his clients find it more convenient to, uh. . . anyway, I’m Ashley Cannon.”

  “Mrs. Cannon,” he said with a nod.

  Keith kept his billfold with badge in hand as he stood in the foyer from which open stairs rose. To his left was a formal living room with gleaming hardwood floors and expensive but bland maple furniture, somewhat countrified to go with views onto the forest preserve. Down a hall to the right of the stairs, the BEARS sweat suit guy was talking to someone Keith had never met, but recognized.

  He was Sonny Salerno, grandson of Salvatore Salerno, who had been a Sam Giancana crony back in the bad old days. Sonny’s father was widely thought to be the current Chicago mob chief. This later edition Salerno was small, dark, and almost handsome, also wearing a sweat suit, but a blue-and-red CUBS one. Keith had been similarly dressed earlier and now for some reason was glad he wasn’t.

  “It may be a few minutes,” Mrs. Cannon said, leading him into the living room. “Something to drink? Beer, pop, coffee?”

  “Diet anything would be great, thanks.”

  He slipped his billfold with badge in his back pocket, happy not to linger in that foyer. He had noticed that the guy’s BEARS outfit had a lump where the sweatshirt covered his pants waistband and might be a revolver tucked away.

  They moved through the living room, which had the staged look of a Realtor’s open house, and into the kitchen with its shining silver stove and refrigerator and a wealth of maple cabinetry. She sat him at an island on a tall maple chair and served him a Coke Zero in a can.

  “Big place,” he said. “Lovely,” he added, not exactly meaning it. He knew he would never live in a house worth half this kind of money, but had no desire to, either.

  She leaned over the other side of the island, as if she were working the counter at a diner. “We haven’t been here long. Alex and I were only married last year.”

  “Place this size,” he said, “would be perfect for a family.”

  “That’s the plan,” she said.

  An awkward silence fell as she found herself a chair down from him, leaving one between. She was having coffee.

  Between sips, she said, “Do you mind my asking who died? I met quite a few of Alex’s classmates last night.”

  “You may have met her then, or possibly already had, right here in the Chicago area. Or know of her, certainly. Astrid Lund.”

  Her eyes got even bigger. “Astrid?. . . not? Oh, no! I did know her. Everybody in Chicago did, from TV! She’s a celebrity in this part of the world. But I knew her as, you know. . . a person.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  She shook her head, sending her brunette hair flying, but losing none of its shape settling back down. “I only knew her from Alex’s work.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, WLG-TV, that’s one of Alex’s clients. Or his firm’s, but Alex is the partner who represents them.”

  “How does someone as young as Alex become a partner at a major Chicago law firm?”

  Her shrug, accompanied by an open hand, was casual. “He was top of his class at Loyola. And, well, his best friend there was the son of one of the partners. Alex admits that helped.”

  “He’s a lucky man.” Then with a little smile that conveyed his meaning, “In a lot of ways.”

  She smiled back. “You’ve known Alex a long time? Through your daughter?”

  He nodded. “They were in the Young Democrats together. I knew him when he had more hair than Jennifer Aniston.”

  She laughed a little, and from behind them came a male voice—not the BEARS sweat suit guy this time.

  “Now, that’s unkind,” Alex Cannon said, his courtroom baritone delivering the words in a good-natured way.

  Keith slid off the chair as the two men met each other halfway across the big kitchen and shook hands. Alex betrayed neither surprise nor annoyance with this unscheduled visitor; he wore a dark gray polo and stonewashed jeans. His running shoes were gray, too, like his gray-framed glasses.

  “I don’t have the evidence with me,” Keith said, “but I can produce my daughter’s high school yearbook, if a judge demands it.”

  They both laughed a little, politely. Ashley was looking from her husband to Keith and back again, wondering what was really going on.

  “Ash,” Alex said, “I’m going to take our guest back to my study.” He said to Keith, “We usually order pizza Sunday night, if you’d care to join us.”

  That may have been a veiled dig at the time of day Keith had chosen to drop by.

  “No, that’s generous, Alex,” he said. “But I’m probably heading back to Galena after we talk a bit.”

  “Understood. Bring your Coke along. I already have a beer going.”

  As Alex led him out of the kitchen, Keith smiled at Ashley, said it was nice meeting her, and she, still seated, said the same.

  Soon, Keith and his host were in a modest study with a bookcase filled not with law books but with legal thrillers, from vintage Erle Stanley Gardner to current John Grisham. The desk, like the bookcase, was again countrified maple, though its swivel chair was black leather and pricey-looking. No filing cabinets were on hand to make it more a work space, or TV/sound system to make it a den.

  This was strictly where a client could confer with his attorney out of the Chicago Loop and, in the case of a Sonny Salerno, away from prying ey
es, whether human or video.

  Alex closed the door as Keith settled into a less expensive but comfortable black leather chair across from his host. The desktop was uncluttered, really nothing but a phone, a pack of Parliament Lights, an ashtray, and a nearly empty bottle of Blue Moon on a coaster.

  “I apologize,” Alex said, “for the less than warm welcome.”

  “I came unannounced,” Keith said with a shrug. “But I have had warmer ones.”

  Alex twitched a smile. “Well, Bruno has his merits. I was meeting with a client who has specific needs, including heavy security. And discretion. Did you notice who it was?”

  “I did. Never met the man, but for all his discretion, his face is well known among law enforcement professionals.”

  Alex reached for the Parliaments. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No.” The smell of tobacco already hung in the air.

  “I wasn’t aware,” his host said, “that you were still a law enforcement professional. I heard you retired.”

  He’d probably heard it last night, asking about Keith at the reunion.

  “I retired from the Dubuque department, yes.”

  “Was that after your wife’s passing? I was sad to hear about Mrs. Larson. She was a wonderful teacher. I had her in third grade. And when Krista and I were in the Young Demos, her mom was always so gracious, so friendly.”

  Yes, he’d been asking about Keith at the reunion.

  The attorney was lighting up with a silver horsehead lighter. “So what brings you to Naperville?”

  “Astrid Lund was murdered last night.”

  The cigarette suddenly hung slack in his mouth. “What? Jesus. No. . .” He shook his head. Set the cigarette in the ashtray. “Oh, that’s awful. I know her well. Knew her well. I represent the station where she works, as you may know.”

  “I didn’t, but your wife mentioned it.”

  Alex took a moment to retrieve his cigarette, a pause that told Keith the attorney was wondering just what Mrs. Cannon had said to their guest.

  “This is terrible,” the attorney said, sighing smoke. “What are the circumstances, anyway?”

  “She was stabbed in her sleep, repeatedly, presumably with a butcher knife. If she slept through her death, that would be a blessing. But I think it’s doubtful. She likely suffered, though not for long.”

  Alex swallowed. His surprise seemed genuine enough, if slightly guarded. “When was this?”

  “Too early to know precisely. Likely around midnight.”

  “Do you have any idea who. . . ?”

  “No. You asked about law enforcement—I’m helping my daughter out on this. As a pro bono consultant. This is the first homicide she’s had since taking over.”

  “I grew up in Galena,” he said, the gray-blue eyes tightening. “I don’t remember there ever being a murder. . .”

  “Twenty years ago, I’m told, was the last previous.” He sipped the Coke Zero. “You left first thing this morning, I understand. Very early.”

  Alex’s eyebrows flicked up and down. “Yes. I wanted to get back.”

  “For the meeting with Mr. Salerno?”

  “No,” he said too quickly. “That was something that just came up. I wanted a quiet Sunday with my wife, is all. I have a busy week ahead.”

  “Seems a little funny.”

  “What does?”

  “Leaving first thing, like you did. Beautiful weekend for this time of year. So much to do in Galena on a Sunday. Bet your wife would have loved the shopping, so many fun little boutiques.”

  He let some smoke out. “All right, I did have a meeting scheduled, here at the house. Informal, but a meeting. Not with Mr. Salerno.”

  “Do you mind my asking with whom?”

  His first frown. “What do you think? A client.”

  “What client?”

  He sat up. “Really, I don’t think that’s pertinent. Anyway, you people may have heard of client confidentiality back in Iowa, and Galena, too, for that matter.”

  Keith smiled. “We have. We know that it applies to communications between an attorney and his client, not the identity of his client.” He sat forward. “I didn’t drive three hours to have a nice conversation with your lovely wife, though it was pleasant. And the Coke Zero is appreciated. I’m here representing the Galena Police Department. There was a murder last night of someone attending the same class reunion you and your wife came to Galena for. A lot of other classmates from out of town were also staying at the Lake View Lodge. You and Mrs. Cannon were the only guests to check out before the final event of the festivities, a free buffet breakfast. You have a work connection to the victim. So I will ask you again, and perhaps spare you a trip back to your old stomping grounds, where you would be held as a material witness.”

  The attorney’s face was blank now. “Not for long.”

  “No. And if your wife comes, maybe you can take in those boutiques before you head back to Naperville. But I want to know right now who your client is.”

  “Daniel Rule,” he said.

  “The construction contractor.”

  Alex nodded.

  “How many schools and hospitals has his company built, in the greater Chicago area, do you suppose?”

  “Many.”

  “Isn’t he contemplating a run for mayor this year?”

  “He is.”

  “How do you think that will go?”

  “Very well, I hope.”

  “Still interested in politics, Alex?”

  “Yes. And still a Democrat.”

  “So is Krista. I haven’t voted for a while. Call me an independent, because next time it’s going to be for the man.”

  A nasty little smile. “Or the woman, Mr. Larson. Stay with the times.”

  “Good advice. But some old-fashioned things never change.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as people in the construction business in Chicago sometimes being known to have disreputable ties. Would you mind answering a few questions about the reunion? There’s also another date I need to clarify.”

  “All right.”

  Keith reached into his pocket for his phone. “Do you mind if I record this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes I may record this. . . ?”

  “Yes I mind, and no you can’t. But I’ll answer your questions as I did the earlier ones—informally.”

  The attorney did. He and his wife had gone right to their room after the Saturday event, knowing they’d be leaving early. And in the second week of August, they were vacationing in Cancún.

  Then Alex stood. Smiled that same barely polite smile he’d given Keith before disappearing into the banquet hall last night. “Thank you for dropping by, Mr. Larson. I’m sure my wife enjoyed meeting you. Safe journey home.”

  Keith stood. “Thank you.”

  On his way out there was no sign of Mrs. Cannon. And the pearl-colored Lexus was gone. As he got into his daughter’s Toyota, he was glad he’d taken the time to stop by the house to pack that small bag.

  Because he was definitely not heading back to Galena.

  Not just yet.

  FIFTEEN

  By nightfall, the reunion attendees—whether viewed as witnesses or suspects—had been considerably narrowed.

  Krista had brought in her two lieutenants and two patrol officers to help out. No one was needed at the Lund house now, so Officers Cortez and Clemson, after an unproductive canvass of the North High Street neighborhood, took over for two officers who had been at Lake View Lodge all afternoon, dealing with the out-of-town attendees.

  The other two officers from the now processed crime scene, Reynolds and Deitch, relieved two others who had been doggedly going through the security-cam footage in the resort’s modest security center, matching license plate numbers and models or makes of vehicles belonging to the attendees. Those officers now had the unenviable duty of going on patrol. Yet another was scouring Facebook and Instagram.

  But with only twelve on her sta
ff, including herself, Krista knew her people were getting stretched to the limit. Maybe overtime would take out the sting.

  The nonlocals were sent back to their rooms and interviewed there. In every instance, these were couples, though not every significant other was a classmate. For efficiency’s sake, and because this was after all preliminary, Krista had the couples interviewed jointly, instructing the officers to watch for inconsistencies as well as any stumbling or undue coaching from one to the other.

  Krista and all of her officers were using their cell phones with a mobile field interview app. She instructed her officers to inform the subjects they were being recorded. But as these were informal interviews, they did not need to read Miranda rights prior to questioning.

  She had her own notions about who were the best potential suspects among the sixty-two attendees, all of whom—excluding Alex Cannon, who Pop was off to track down in Chicagoland—were local. As a classmate and friend of Astrid’s, the chief of the Galena PD knew at once who she wanted to personally interview.

  The Galena attendees—forty-one of the fifty-six present (last night’s teacher’s table being truant)—were corralled in the banquet hall, but toward the back, down at the end where the band and portable dance floor had been. The out-of-towners were now in their rooms, which left a number of empty tables. Three of these were commandeered for Sergeant Jackson and her lieutenants, Lauren Cole and Dylan Mitchell. Krista took the table where she, Booker, and her father had eaten breakfast.

  Lauren, Dylan, and Booker had then gone around with clipboards gathering names, so they could summon interviewees. When they’d completed the task, Krista took their clipboards and circled the names of the handful she wanted to make sure she interviewed personally.

  She was just settling in when Jerry Ward came up. But for a white dress shirt, he was all in black—jacket, jeans, and running shoes. Not a good ensemble for somebody who hoped not to be singled out as the villain.

  He leaned in. “Do you mind taking me first?”

  “Well,” she said, pleasantly, “since we’re old friends, why not?”

  She had intended to start with him, anyway. She set the phone on the table and said she’d be recording.