Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  The man in a trench coat–style topcoat came in looking like a detective, a well-dressed one, which is what he was, and how he intended to look. Lt. Barney Davis of the Chicago Homicide Bureau—some years ago a detective with Keith in Dubuque—might have been Sam Spade in pursuit of a dame or maybe Eliot Ness after a keg to empty, one way or another.

  As if that weren’t enough, Barney looked a little like Jack Webb, in the fading days of Dragnet—a sixtyish, slightly puffy-faced guy who’d seen every awful thing men could do to each other and had traveled from the moral indignation of the young to the contemptuous boredom of the middle-aged.

  The homicide detective settled onto the stool. “You know what they charge for beers in this rarefied dive?”

  “I’m paying.”

  “That helps.” Then a smile blossomed on the lumpy face and Barney slipped an arm around Keith for half a hug. “You look skinny.”

  “You don’t.”

  “You’re a ways from Galena.”

  “Astrid Lund was a ways from Chicago. But maybe you can help me see if her murder started here.”

  Barney sighed. “About five hundred humans got murdered in this town last year. We have about four hundred less detectives on the CPD than we did ten years ago—less than a thousand now—and you think I need a Galena murder to give me something to do?. . . You’re supposed to be retired.”

  “We went over that on the phone.”

  “I’ll say again, you should let your daughter handle this. Be a proud papa. You delivered a bouncing baby police chief. Go about your business, which is no business. And certainly no business of mine.”

  “Finished?”

  “Yeah.”

  The bartender, waiting for a lull in the conversation, came over and Barney also ordered a beer—a Budweiser. No accounting for taste.

  Keith said, “Alex Cannon was a classmate of Astrid’s.”

  The seen-it-all eyes studied him. “Okay, now that’s interesting.”

  “He met yesterday, at his Naperville home, two clients—first, Daniel Rule, contractor of buildings. Second, Sonny Salerno, contractor of. . . contracts.”

  “Not together, I trust.”

  “Not together. Well, separate meetings anyway. My question is, are they together, in any way? Or was that just an attorney meeting at home with two separate clients who didn’t care to be seen at his office?”

  The Budweiser arrived. Barney made a motion to the bartender that meant he’d pour it himself.

  “Is Daniel Rule connected?”

  Barney asked, as he poured, “You do know this is Chicago we’re sitting in, don’t you? Not that the Outfit is what it was. You know what the Organized Crime Bureau mostly handles these days? Black and brown gang activity, as it pertains to drug trafficking and local gunrunning. These Outfit guys, drugs were never their thing, and gambling is all but over—who needs it illegal when the state is in the business? Some bookmaking goes on, sure, and of course loansharking.”

  Keith knew it was hard to do anything about the latter-day mob, because they had, over the years, wormed their way into unions and legit businesses, restaurants, pizzerias and bars, where they could hide money.

  “They still back crews pulling scores,” Barney was saying. “Home invasions and robberies and such. So the Outfit isn’t dead. But hardly thriving—only when their front businesses start accidentally being profitable. It’s like that movie, The Producers—where did we go right?”

  “So is that the case with Rule?”

  “I know the guy a little. From what I see, he’s just a very successful construction guy, who not surprisingly’s had to swim in some dirty waters now and then, to get the job done. Garbage collecting, real estate, and, yeah, construction are more than fronts—they’re going concerns.”

  “Maybe you see why I think it’s suggestive that Rule and Salerno both met with their attorney yesterday.”

  “Why is that suggestive? Why would those two want the Lund woman dead?”

  “You tell me.”

  Barney drank some beer. “Think maybe the Lund woman was investigating Rule and any mob ties he might have?”

  “Or her old classmate, Alex, and his mob ties.”

  Barney smiled and sipped. “Cannon’s a defense attorney. That’s not just legal, it’s the American way. Everybody gets their day in court, and hired guns like Alex Cannon give it to ’em, if they can afford it. Now, if Lund was getting too close to something. . .”

  “The story she was working on was about sexual misconduct.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Well, I don’t know. . . I assume sexual harassment in the workplace, on up to actual sexual assault, though I have no idea in what context. But it’s not exactly Family Secrets.”

  That was a notorious case, ten years ago or so, hurting the Outfit, tying major LCN figures to numerous professional killings.

  Barney was shaking his head. “This thing doesn’t sound like a contract killing. You have these two homicides. . .”

  Keith had filled Barney in on the phone.

  “. . . half a country apart. The tie-in, besides a near identical MO, is both young women bein’ in the Class of ’09 at Galena High. Both are literally hacked to death. That looks like a psychopath, not a hit.”

  “Maybe that’s what it was supposed to look like.”

  Barney sipped beer, mulled that. “Maybe. Maybe. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m not somebody who knows this city, not well anyway, and I’m not authorized to work here. Oh, I can flash my Galena badge around, and if it’s not laughed off, somebody might want to know what my official status is.”

  Barney smirked at him. “Which is consultant. To your daughter, who’s a small town police chief? Yeah. You got a problem.”

  “Solve it for me.”

  “How?”

  “We have a banquet hall full of potential suspects to sort out back in that small town. Astrid made a lot of enemies in high school, ten years ago—maybe not worth getting killed over, but tell that to who killed her. This Chicago lead could be important. But I’m not the ideal one to chase it down.”

  Barney nodded slowly. “So I talk to Rule. Talk to Sonny. Rattle cages some.”

  “Yes. You’ll know, just talking to them, if there’s anything to this.”

  “You mean if my Spidey sense starts to tingle?”

  “Something like that. Will you do it?”

  “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Go back to Galena. Give me a couple days.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll even pick up another round.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  They talked some more, mostly about Barney and his family—wife and two grown kids and half a dozen grandkids—and promised each other to go to some Cubs games together this summer. The third round was on Barney.

  Before Keith left the Coq D’or, he made a reservation for tonight with the bartender.

  Back in his room, Keith called down to see if he could have his coat and pants dry-cleaned, and get them within a couple of hours. That proved possible. With three beers in him, he decided to have a nap while his clothes were tended to. At his age, he was entitled.

  At a little after six o’clock, a knock awoke him, obviously his pressed clothes, and he went to answer it wearing the shorts, T-shirt, and socks he’d been sleeping in.

  He didn’t open the door wide, of course, but wide enough for Rebecca Carlson to get a good look and have a good laugh. She slipped in past him.

  “That’s a charming greeting,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “I’d hoped to catch you, so I asked the desk for your room number.”

  He just looked at her. She was tall, particularly in the heels, and still curvy but maybe working too hard at staying slender for the camera. A black wool coat over one arm, she wore skinny blue jeans and a white long-sleeved blouse with lacy touches. Her golden-brown hair bounced at her shoulders; her model-like loveliness would have been br
eathtaking even if he’d been wearing clothes.

  “I got to shopping, then met a girlfriend for a drink,” she said in a rush, “and didn’t have time to go back to my apartment and dress properly. . . although if we’re going to be this casual, I guess I’m overdressed.”

  She handed him her coat to hang up and went over and sat on the bottom edge of the double bed. “How do you feel about room service?”

  “In general?”

  A knock at the door proved to be a bellman with the dry-cleaned clothes. Keith traded him a five for them, and signed the bill.

  Now that they were alone again, he took a few steps deeper into the room, carrying the plastic-bagged clothes by their hanger. “You mind if I put these on?”

  “Up to you, Detective Larson.”

  “Why don’t you call me Keith? I’m starting to feel like we’re getting to know each other.”

  “Before you do that,” she said, meaning put on his clothes, “find me the room service menu, would you?”

  He did, then got a fresh sport shirt from his bag on the luggage rack, before slipping into the bathroom with the dry cleaning. He ran some water, brushed his teeth, washed under his arms, used deodorant, gargled, spit, turned off the water, and got into the clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed the remains of his hair. No time to shave, but. . .

  Good to go, he thought.

  He emerged a new man, with the sudden realization he was in a hotel at the Drake with a new woman. Her purse was on the made bed—he’d slept on top—and she was on her feet, reading the menu.

  “You can’t go wrong with the Bookbinder soup,” she commented.

  “You really can’t,” he said. The stuff was delicious—tomato soup with sherry and bits of red snapper. Karen had loved it.

  “Would you share a salad with me?” she asked. “I like the chopped but I could be talked into the Caesar.”

  “Chopped is fine. So we’re eating here in the room?”

  “I think that’s best. I think talking murder in public, particularly if you’re a journalist, which is what I claim to be, is in bad taste. And some of what we might discuss about the late Ms. Lund. . . well, let’s just make it the two of us, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “How do you feel about a burger?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  He shrugged. “Does wine go with burgers?”

  “If we say so. Merlot?”

  “Sure.”

  “Shall I make the call?”

  “Please.”

  She did.

  An area opposite the bed had a coffee table and two modern but fairly comfy chairs. She took one and he took the other.

  “It’ll be a while,” she said of the food. Then, as if little or no time had passed since their earlier meeting, she said, “So. Astrid Lund. You think this story she was working on, about sexual harassment, may have gotten her killed.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I doubt it. Not at WLG. Where my ex is concerned, at least, she was the aggressor.”

  “You said Astrid was working on another story? Something. . . ‘dangerous’?”

  She crossed her legs, which seemed to go on forever. “We’re not exactly close, Astrid and myself. Sorry. I keep thinking present tense. The thing is, we were polite and professional at work, but icy anywhere else. I did have my spies out.”

  “Why spies?”

  “She had those washed-out pretty blue eyes on my anchor desk. By TV standards, I’m an old woman, you know. I’ve held on to my job because the ratings are good and I’ve gained some local celebrity. On the other hand, I’ve climbed as high as I’m ever going. You don’t get picked up by a network, not even cable, at my age.”

  He frowned at her. “How old are you?”

  “Forty-three. I don’t lie to police. But I do to reporters—thirty-seven, I’ve been giving them lately. Which is old enough.”

  “Barbara Walters lasted a long time.”

  Her smile dimpled one cheek. “You date yourself with that reference, Keith. Where were we?”

  “A dangerous story.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know much. It was something to do with what we call the Mafia here in the Windy City, the Outfit, although nobody who lives here calls Chicago the Windy City.”

  “Pretty windy today, though. What about the Outfit?”

  “Astrid was looking into a construction guy out in Oak Brook named Daniel Rule and his supposed connections to the Salerno crime family. Rule wants to run for mayor. That’s pretty much all I know.”

  That wasn’t much, but still was confirmation of what he’d suspected. He’d pass that on to Barney.

  “Why hasn’t this connection been exposed before?”

  She shrugged. “Well, a lot of that kind of thing happens in this town. If everybody in the business community who had dealings with those kind of people couldn’t run for office, then who’d be left?”

  “Honest people?”

  “Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  That was when he realized she was already a little drunk. Not much. A bit.

  “Problem, though,” she said. “My ex. . . I’ve mentioned my ex before, haven’t I? He’s a big booster of Rule, who I understand is a decent sort with some good ideas and good intentions and. . . well, I have a theory.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “That our late lamented diva wanted to work that story up and use it to get my anchor chair. Agree to drop it, if. . . sorta kinda blackmail. But president-slash-station-manager Carlson doesn’t want to alienate me, because I’m cooperating on the no-fault divorce. But I’m morning and noon. The five o’clock and six o’clock female anchor is almost as old as I am—Astrid might’ve been able to maneuver into that.”

  “What do you know about the sexual misconduct story?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. I heard that’s what she’s unofficially working on. I also heard. . . well, this is vague.”

  “Go on.”

  “I heard that it’s the opposite of the Rule thing.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s not her angling for anything. She really cared about that story. I think maybe. . . I’m reaching here.”

  “Reach away.”

  “I think something bad happened to her once. And she wants to get even by taking on the topic. You know, the #MeToo thing.” Her own pretty blue eyes got bigger. “The stories I could tell!”

  “Maybe Astrid had stories to tell about her high school days. Maybe that’s why she went to the reunion dressed to kill.”

  “Dressed to be killed, you mean.” She frowned. Yes, a little drunk. “Sorry. Not the best of taste, that. . .”

  “My daughter says Astrid’s ensemble was worth thousands. What kind of money was she making, anyway?”

  She laughed. “Sweetie, Cinderella only has to look like a princess at the ball! That ensemble would’ve been rented or most likely loaned to her—she was celebrity enough around here to rate that.”

  “She pulled up in a Jag.”

  “Cinderella’s coachmen were mice, remember. A rental. One of Ms. Lund’s agendas was a pitifully obvious, very sad one—impress her old classmates.”

  A knock at the door announced dinner, rolled in by a waiter in a white jacket and black bow tie. Keith and Karen had room service here a couple of times. He hadn’t known what to tip then and he didn’t know now. The smiling youngish man held out the bill for Keith to sign to the room, and Rebecca got up and said, “Let me see that.”

  The waiter handed it to her, and she said, “Ah. Gratuity’s included, I see. . . But let me give you a little extra.” She went to her purse, and before Keith knew what was happening, she handed the waiter a hundred dollar bill and a twenty.

  The waiter left, smiling even more, and Keith shut the door. Frowning a little, he said to her, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, it’s such a thankless job. Maybe he’s working his wa
y through college.”

  “He’s thirty if he’s a day. I was going to sign it to my room.”

  “I’m sure you were, but I said I’d treat, and I don’t go back on my word. Now be a good boy and sit down and shut up and eat.”

  They didn’t shut up as they ate, though. She told him about growing up in Michigan and he did the same about Iowa. The experiences were not dissimilar. After Keith rolled the table of dirty dishes out into the hall, they sat in the comfy chairs and worked on finishing the bottle of wine.

  She asked about his daughter, wondering how Krista wound up a police chief of all things. A few mentions of Karen were of course included, but he didn’t dwell on it.

  She said, “I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but I would’ve liked to have a daughter. Or a son. Too late now. I put my career first, and I have no real regrets. . . at least not till I hear a proud papa like you brag.”

  “You are having a hell of a fine life, lady. Don’t knock it, or yourself.”

  They finished the wine, and then somehow, later he would try to remember and fail, she was in his arms. They kissed. They kissed quite a few times. Then they lay on the bed, on top of the covers, fully dressed but for their shoes, and they necked and petted. Like those classmates of Krista’s once had, not so long ago, really.

  He started unbuttoning her blouse, but he was clumsy and she did it for him. She unzipped her jeans. Then she unzipped him. Clothes got kicked to the floor.

  She stayed the night, sort of—she was up before five, having to get to the station by six. He heard her in the shower, and he heard her running the water in the sink. Her purse was in there with her. He sat on the edge of the bed, as she had, when he’d been standing in his shorts and T-shirt and socks. He was crying when she emerged and he couldn’t hide it.

  She sat next to him. She smelled good. Fresh. He glanced at her and she wore no makeup, probably in anticipation of applying it for the cameras.

  “Don’t you worry,” she said. “You’re my first.”

  Now he was laughing with tears on his face. “What?”

  “Since the separation. So you didn’t catch anything. Just like an early menopausal babe like me can’t get pregnant. No harm, no foul.”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek.