He said, “My. . . first, too.”
“. . . How long has she been gone?”
“Six months.”
She held him. He allowed his arms to go around her.
“The pressure’s off now,” she said, smiling at him, close enough to kiss but not doing it. “Think of the fun we’ll have next time.”
And she slipped out of the room.
NINETEEN
Krista was at her computer in her office when she heard her father’s voice as he came in the front way, through the reception area. He paused to chat with dispatcher Maggie Edwards, whose good friend Krista’s mother had been. He made Maggie laugh, which was no surprise.
She watched through the window onto the bullpen as her dad paused to say hello to the officers at their desks in their collective U joined by Plexiglas. Pop was in his tan sport coat, brown slacks, and yellow-and-brown tie, all of which looked surprisingly fresh, considering that was what he’d been wearing Sunday, when he took off unexpectedly for Chicago.
As he approached, he waved at her through the window and she smiled and gestured for him to come on in.
He opened the door and shut it, came over and gave her a smile—a kiss, even between father and daughter, seemed inappropriate here—and pulled up a chair to the near side of her desk.
“You either made good time,” she said, “or you left pretty early.”
It was about eleven thirty.
“Little of both. I only grabbed juice and a Danish, though, so maybe I could treat you to lunch.”
“That’s a deal. But I fill in for Maggie, as dispatcher, while she takes lunch, at noon. We couldn’t do that till she gets back at one. You too hungry to wait?”
“I’ll survive. Maybe we can quickly bring each other up to speed.”
“Good idea.”
They did.
“So,” she said, “you had dinner with Rebecca Carlson. Sounds like a date!”
“No, just a regular interview.”
“Where did you eat?”
“At the hotel. I, uh, didn’t record any of that interview. It was just some off-the-record info about what Astrid was working on.”
Krista frowned, just a little. “Well, from what you said, this Carlson woman had her own grudge against Astrid. What was her alibi?”
“I, uh, didn’t exactly ask her.”
She just looked at him. “For either Saturday or the second week of August?”
He shrugged. “No, I don’t consider her a suspect.”
“Well, maybe you should. You mind following up with her?”
“Not at all.”
“Otherwise, that app I got you for your phone? To record field interviews? You used that?”
He nodded, sat forward. “Yes. Why don’t we trade phones, and I’ll duck into the conference room and listen to your interviews from Sunday night, and Monday at the school.”
They swapped.
He said, “Chris Hope’s partner, Tyler—we haven’t talked to him yet, have we?”
“No.”
“Want me to take that?”
“Please.” She gestured to the landline phone on her desk. “I spent the morning making calls, confirming various alibis of my favorite persons of interest. That teacher’s conference in Atlanta that Chris, Tyler, and Ken Stock attended? It’s legit, and all three were there, all right. And I have two officers checking alibis of less likely suspects.”
Her father nodded, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “Have you looked into that cabin of the Braggs’? All summer and occasional weekends, huh?”
“I’m sending Officer Cortez to Prairie du Chien to scope that out. And I have the name and contact info of a coach pal of Bragg’s who they say was staying with them the second week of August. He lives in Fargo. Probably just call him to confirm. Maybe talk to the Fargo police, too.”
Pop nodded. “You called Astrid’s parents with the death notification?”
“No. I considered it, since Astrid was a friend, and a classmate, and they know me. But procedure is to inform the family in person. Which in this case would be Naples, Florida. And obviously I couldn’t do that.”
He nodded again. “So you called the police down there to have them do it. That was the right thing.”
She sighed. “Glad you agree. I did speak to Astrid’s mom yesterday. Had a nice visit, considering, but of course they are devastated. She was their only child, you know.”
“And so much promise. So accomplished. Heartbreaking. When’s the service?”
“Saturday. Furlong Funeral Home. They’ll be coming up for it, her folks, of course. She’ll be buried here. It all seems so. . . I just don’t quite believe it.”
Her father was gazing past her. “Wouldn’t it be sweet to find the son of a bitch before then, and give those poor people some closure?”
“Yes. But I don’t have to tell you. . . closure doesn’t come so easy.”
“No,” he admitted, looking at her now. “It doesn’t.”
He summoned a smile and went off to listen to the interviews.
Just after one, her father returned and gave her back the phone, saying, “Interesting stuff. Didn’t get through it all—I’ll come back for more this afternoon. Has anybody talked to Jasmine Peterson?”
That was the young woman who’d accompanied Jerry Ward to the reunion.
“No,” Krista said. “But I called over to Vinny Vanucchi’s and she’s working today. How does Italian sound for lunch?”
“Molto bene,” her father said.
Soon the Larsons were walking down Main. The day was cold and Pop could have used a topcoat. She was in her thermal jacket with its chief of police patch. A Tuesday this time of year could be awfully dead, but a few hearty tourists were afoot. Most stores were open for the season now, a handful waiting for March.
Main Street in Galena was a crafty combination of old and new, the nearly one hundred storefronts of the redbrick buildings, often dating to the Civil War, housing modern boutiques, art galleries, antique shops, and restaurants. One of their favorites of the latter category was Vinny Vanucchi’s.
Up several outdoor flights of aged concrete stairs hugging the building, past a closed-off cobblestone street, then winding through a brick patio of tables with their umbrellas closed, Krista and her father went into the cozy restaurant, where music by Sinatra, Dino, Darin, and the like met you at a deli counter. This floor was mostly kitchen, with a second deli counter around the corner at right, a friendly greeter at his post to lead you through the racks of wines and shelves of salad dressings for sale.
The uppermost floor of Vinny’s was expansive, the lowest a sunken nook, past which a short flight of stairs took the Larsons to their preference, an intimate dining room of ten tables with traditional red-and-white tablecloths. All around were winery posters and framed pictures of old-time Italianos, the air nicely heavy with the tangy aroma of marinara.
As luck would have it, Jasmine waited on them, the pretty, slender brunette wearing the white blouse and black trousers of all the waitstaff—“all” being around three, as business wasn’t brisk on an off-season weekday.
Pop asked for Auntie Gracie’s Sausage Ragu, and Krista, Joey Z’s Shells—what they always had—with two iced teas.
Jasmine was smiling throughout, very efficient, but once the order had been made, she dropped the smile and said, “That was so terrible, Saturday night.”
It might have been a review of the reunion as entertainment, from a nonclassmate’s point of view; but she obviously meant Astrid’s murder.
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” the waitress said, “do let me know.”
Krista smiled pleasantly if not warmly. “Actually, there is. You’re one of the few attendees of the reunion who hasn’t been questioned.”
“Oh, I’m not a classmate. I was. . .” She obviously knew Jerry and Krista had a history, and had to work for the right words. “. . . you know, I was just along.”
That was suitably vague and e
ven tactful.
Pop said, “We’ll be kind of lingering over the lunch, Ms. Peterson. When things get slow, perhaps you could join us. You might tell your manager so he won’t think you’re slacking.”
He had done that in a low-key, nonthreatening way; but she was clearly a little thrown anyway, like most people who offer to help and are then, unexpectedly, asked to actually do so.
“Of course,” she said. “Anything.”
When Jasmine had gone off to put their order in, Krista said, “When she said ‘anything,’ I thought she might mean she’d do anything not to have to talk to us.”
“She’s understandably on edge,” her father said with a shrug. “Probably never had a police chief who used to go with her boyfriend want to question her in a murder case.”
She smirked at him.
Within a minute, Jasmine was back, delivering a basket of garlic bread. Both of the Larsons dug in, as they were equally convinced the butter-soaked, Parmesan cheese–topped stuff was the best garlic bread on the planet. Then a communal bowl of salad came, full of onions and peppers and cherry tomatoes and tart Italian dressing. It got similar treatment from father and daughter.
And once Jasmine had brought their dishes of pasta, neither detective bothered interrogating the other, all of their focus on the delicious food.
Fifteen minutes or so later, Pop—after making judicious use of a napkin, and pushing away an empty dish—said, “There are things to be said for a small town with a big list of restaurants.”
“Yes,” she said, “but nobody tops the chef I have at home. I mean, really—sixty-some restaurants and not a single Danish one?”
He grinned, pleased by her compliment, and said, “It is criminal.”
They were basking in the glow of a feast that had stopped just short of unpleasantly stuffing them when Jasmine reappeared, not with more food—just the bill. And of course herself.
The cozy dining room had almost emptied out—just one other couple over by the window, with its view of South Main. They were having coffee and tiramisu.
Jasmine stood by the table. “I’m free to talk for a while,” she said.
Krista hesitated, thrown a bit herself at dealing with Jerry’s latest, uh. . . Jerry’s latest.
But her father filled the gap.
With that friendly low-key way of his, Pop said, “Ms. Peterson. . . may I call you Jasmine?”
“Jasmine is fine.”
“I should introduce myself. I’m Keith Larson, Krista’s father.”
“I know,” she said, smiling but clearly nervous. “You’ve been in a few times, and people told me who you are. I know you had a loss not too terribly long ago. I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. Are you a local girl, Jasmine?”
“No. Well, yes.”
Krista asked, “Which is it?”
“I’m from Menominee.”
That was a village on the nearby Little Menominee River here in Jo Daviess County. Population around 250.
Pop said, “Are you living here in Galena now?”
“Yes. I share an apartment with some girls over Honest John’s. I’m saving to go to college. Over in Dubuque. You used to be a police detective there, didn’t you, sir?”
“Yes. Call me Keith, or if that doesn’t feel right to you, Mr. Larson is fine. I’m sure you’re aware that my daughter here is chief of police.”
“Yeah. Uh. . . I see the uniform.”
If that was a smart-ass remark, nothing in the young woman’s tone said so.
“Do you mind,” Krista said, “if I record this interview on my phone?”
Pretty eyes tightened. “Is that what this is? An interview?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was called an interrogation.”
Pop said, “First of all, we don’t use that term at all. Second, you’re not a suspect. You just attended the reunion with one of Astrid Lund’s classmates.”
Krista said, “Who used to date Astrid Lund. They have a history.”
“Jerry mentioned that,” she said, nodding. She shrugged. “You can record me. Don’t you have to inform me of my rights, though?”
Pop said, “No. This is just a short, informal interview.”
“Go ahead. I said you could record me.”
Krista got out her phone and engaged the app. “Could you give me your name and your contact information—address and cell number.”
The waitress did.
Krista went on: “You were at the Class of ’09 reunion on Saturday night.” She put the date on the record. “Jerry Ward was your date. Is that right, Jasmine?”
She nodded.
Krista said, “Out loud, please. This is just audio.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I went with Jerry. It was his class reunion.”
“Did he point Astrid Lund out to you?”
“He did. Said she used to be his girlfriend.”
“Did he say anything else about Astrid?”
“Yes, he said he decided she was too stuck-up and dumped her. Back then, I mean.”
A lie. Astrid had dumped him. Jerry had always been a would-be fiction writer.
“Did Jerry talk to Astrid at the reunion?”
“I think they said hello.”
“Didn’t talk otherwise?”
“No, not that I saw.”
“Were you separated from him at some point in the evening?”
“Well. . . I went to the restroom.”
“When did you leave the event?”
“I think it was pretty late. Two? It was last call, and I was glad.”
“Glad?”
“Yeah. It gets really boring hearing people talk about ‘old times,’ you know, when they aren’t your old times. Especially when you’re sober.”
Krista glanced at Pop, then said, “You were the designated driver?”
“Right. It was Jerry’s parents’ car.”
“So how did that work? He dropped you off at your apartment, and then drove himself home, risking a DUI?”
“He wasn’t very drunk.” Jasmine looked at Pop, frustrated. “Could I talk to him? Alone?”
Krista’s father said, “You don’t have to talk at all, Jasmine. . . but you’re going to have to at some point. Might as well get it out of the way. And you said you wanted to help.”
“I do.”
“Well, this is my daughter’s job. It isn’t personal.”
“Good. ’Cause he came up with me.”
Krista asked, “Up to your apartment?”
“Yes. My two roommates, they were out on their own dates. Their guys don’t. . .”
“Don’t what?”
Jasmine made a face. “Live at home with their parents, okay? Like Jerry does. Well, anyway, we had the apartment to ourselves.”
“So he stayed awhile.”
She nodded.
“How long?”
“Till dawn.” She shrugged. “In time for his parents to go to church.”
Her head lowered. She was embarrassed. Whether this was from making her admissions in front of an older man like Pop, or doing so in front of her boyfriend’s former girlfriend, Krista couldn’t guess. Maybe both.
Pop said, “Thank you for your help, and your frankness. Jasmine, do you know where you were the second week of August?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
She gestured around her. “Here. Working at Vinny’s. Living downtown in Galena. That’s a busy time. Lots of tourists. I wouldn’t miss that. Really nice tips.”
“What about Jerry?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t dating Jerry then.”
Pop nodded. “Okay. I think that’s all I have. Chief Larson?”
Krista said, “That’s all. Thank you very much, Ms. Peterson.”
“No problem,” she said, and was about to go when Pop said, “Just a moment.”
Jasmine looked at him, at least mildly alarmed.
But all Pop wanted to do was give her thi
rty dollars to take care of the bill and her tip. Then she scurried off.
“So,” Pop said, “we better check up on Jerry.”
“Not necessary.”
“Oh? He has an alibi for Thursday of the second week of August?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“What’s his alibi?”
“Who’s his alibi, you mean.”
“Okay. Who’s his alibi?”
“Me.”
TWENTY
Keith spent the afternoon at the station, at a laptop computer in the conference room, listening to the interviews taken by Krista, Booker, and the other officers on Sunday and Monday. He took notes, and had a few thoughts and questions to share with his daughter, but nothing really new and/or substantial emerged.
Krista, off at four, stuck her head in and asked if he was ready to head home.
“I want to stick with this till around five,” he said.
The station locked up to the public at four-thirty, but activity in the building continued. “I’m going to drop in on Tyler Dale around his gallery’s closing time. Catch him for a quick interview, unless you already have.”
“No, do that, would you?”
“Glad to.”
He asked if he could hold on to her Toyota, but she preferred to take it and got him the keys for the unmarked car.
“Use the Impala,” she said, “as long as you’re working this case with us. Fill it up when need be, keep track of your mileage, and we’ll reimburse.”
“Decent of you, considering I’m pro bono.”
“Anything for you, Pop. You want me to heat up the rest of that sailor’s stew?”
“Please. See you at home around six.”
They exchanged smiles and nods, and Keith got back to it. He took a few more notes but still didn’t feel he had much of anything new. Maybe talking to Chris Hope’s partner, Tyler, would be more productive.
The walk from the station to Galena’s Own Artworks on South Main took only five minutes, but the temperature had dropped even more and Keith was still without a topcoat. He walked quickly, chasing his own smoking breath, and got to the gallery just as Tyler was hanging the CLOSED sign in the door’s window.
Keith raised a forefinger and caught the shop owner’s attention. Tyler in his signature black—the usual Tom Waits porkpie hat and vintage music T-shirt (Elvis Costello and the Attractions this time)—frowned for a moment, then recognized Keith, worked up a smile, and unlocked the door.
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