Girl Most Likely

by Max Allan Collins

  She was nodding again, quicker now. “People reminisce at class reunions. Who they talk to, and what memories they’re inclined to share, could matter.”

  “Could really matter here. And two. . . two women are dead. So whatever. . . whatever that bad thing is they. . . they share it.”

  She could see he was fading. Shouldn’t have allowed him to talk so much. This visit had gone on long enough.

  She asked him, “How much are you hurting?”

  “Right now not much. I’m on really good drugs. But I’m. . . I’m taped up like half a mummy.”

  “Well, get some sleep. . . Daddy.”

  He smiled at her. “That I can manage.”

  She glanced around. “Does it. . . bother you? Being here?”

  He knew what she meant. “No. When I think of your mom, in this setting? She’s smiling.”

  Krista nodded. “Know what you mean.”

  “Now, if they wheel me into the ICU, I just might get depressed.”

  She laughed gently, gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Goofball.”

  When she was at the door, he called out to her. “Honey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t go over to the sheriff’s office.”

  That was where the holding cells were. Across the street from the PD, in the massive, mostly old Courthouse and Public Safety complex.

  “Let Booker handle it,” he said. “You’ve had a long day. Go home and get some sleep. We have things to do tomorrow.”

  “Now you’re ordering the chief of police around?”

  “I’m telling little Krista Larson. Do as your daddy says.”

  She saluted and, in her best Charlie Chan’s number one daughter–style, said, “Okay, Pop.”

  Ten minutes later she was pulling her Toyota into the brick drive at home. She got out, locked the car with the fob, then walked over to the back door, the kitchen entrance, which both she and her dad almost always used.

  The front porch—with its view of the downtown, broken by church steeples, and the river beyond that—was for sitting and taking it all in. . . at a different time of year. But soon enough it would warm up and she and Pop would be sitting in rockers with iced tea or lemonade or more likely Carlsbergs.

  She was unlocking the door when the male voice startled her.

  “Krista!”

  He came walking up from the street, first in shadow from a tree, then distinct in the combined glow of moon and street light. His car was parked across the way.

  Josh Webster.

  Jessy’s Josh. Ambling toward her in a blue sweatshirt with red letters (ALL AMERICAN) over white ones (POPCORN STORE), tan khakis, and white sneakers. He came up to her and she knew at once he and his crew had made a batch of cheese corn today.

  “You got a few minutes?” he asked shyly.

  He had a nice half smile and even now, smelling of his business, borderline pudgy, this remained the handsome guy with dark blue eyes and blond hair who had made many a GHS girl’s heart flutter. Including a cheerleader named Jessica Dolan.

  “Sure,” Krista said. “What’s up?”

  He nodded toward the house, frowned just a little. “Is, uh. . . Mr. Larson home?”

  “Not right now,” she said, and for some reason didn’t go any further.

  “Good,” he said.

  “Good?”

  “This is private. Personal. I mean, you can tell him, if you like. That’s up to you. But I think it’d just about kill me to have to sit and tell you with him listening in.”

  “Starting to sound serious, Josh.”

  “It kind of is,” he said, and shrugged. He seemed embarrassed. Or was he. . . ashamed?

  Suddenly she was glad the Glock 21 was on her hip. Maybe that was stupid—this was Josh, for Pete’s sake!—but what her father had told her was fresh in her mind. That the killer probably visited his victims in a friendly way before calling back later with a butcher knife.

  She went to the door and unlocked it.

  “Go on in,” she said, gesturing for him to lead the way.

  Soon they were sitting at the same end of the table where she and her father took their meals.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “I have some Coors Light I’m trying to get rid of. And Carlsberg is the house favorite.”

  He smiled a little, her friendliness seeming to put him at ease some. “I’d take a Coors Light off your hands.”

  She got it for him, nothing for herself. Then she sat, resting her left hand on the table and keeping her right hand in her lap. Near the holstered Glock.

  He gulped a couple of swallows. He was looking straight ahead, not to his left where she sat. He rarely blinked. His mouth moved around, like he was trying to say something but his lips were glued shut. In the silly sweatshirt, he looked like a big kid.

  Finally he said, “There are some things you should know.”

  “I could stand to know a lot of things,” she said with a smile. It was a remark that would work if this were about nothing. But she already thought it was about something. . .

  He said, “Some of what you need to know?. . . I don’t want you to talk to Jessy about. If you can manage it. I mean, if you have to. . . if for some reason you think it’s necessary. . . okay. I understand. You got my go-ahead. But only then. Only then.”

  What the hell was he talking about?

  “I follow,” she said, as if she did.

  He sighed. Then blurted: “I went out with Astrid, end of junior year, and over the summer. Maybe you remember.”

  “I think so.” Keeping track of Astrid’s romantic activities was tough at the time, let alone reconstructing them ten years later.

  He swigged Coors Light. “Well, I, uh. . . it got serious.”

  “All right.”

  His eyes swung to hers. “I mean. . . real serious.”

  “Okay.”

  He looked away again. “Luckily I’d been saving up. I worked summers at a gas station. I wanted a car. I had a car, an old one, my dad bought me, but. . . I wanted something really cool. I mean, I was kind of riding high back then. Football team, basketball, too.”

  She was starting to understand, or anyway she thought she might. “Go on.”

  Another swig. “So, uh. . . hell. Damnit. This is harder than I thought. And I thought it was going to be hard!”

  “You got Astrid pregnant.”

  He looked right at her. His mouth dropped like a trapdoor. “How. . . how did you know?”

  “You two were real serious. Luckily you had money saved up. You gave her money to take care of it.”

  He gazed at her, astonished. “That’s right. Are you psychic?”

  She almost said, I’m a detective, but instead said, “No. It just makes sense.”

  “And do you know what it means?” He didn’t wait for her to answer that, though she could have. “I paid for an abortion. I took a child’s life! A child of mine!”

  “Let’s not go there,” she said. “Let’s go to the real problem.”

  He said nothing.

  She said it for him: “Jessy. She doesn’t know, does she?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He kept shaking it for a while. His eyes were downcast. When they came up, and swung to her, they were haunted. Not red from crying. Not tearing up. Haunted.

  “Senior year I started dating Jessy,” he said quietly. “We’d known each other for a long time. Since youth group at Saint Mary’s. We were friends who got to be more than friends, but it was based on that. Knowing each other forever, I mean.”

  “You got married right out of high school.”

  He nodded. “Jessy was pregnant. I think you knew that. I think everybody knew that. But there was no question that I wouldn’t marry her. I loved her then and I love her now. We have wonderful kids. I put my family first. Don’t I?”

  She knew two things about Josh: he put his business first; and he was apparently a fertile sucker.

  But she said, “Of course you do.
”

  “Even now,” he said, “it would break her heart to know what I did. That I paid for Astrid’s abortion.”

  If her right hand wasn’t below the table near her Glock, she’d have patted his hand. “Jessy would stand by you. You must know that, Josh. Anyway, it was a long time ago. She’d forgive you.”

  He was shaking his head again. “She is such a devout Catholic. I was always more just a half-ass of a one. She would say she forgives me. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave me. Because she can’t. God wouldn’t let her.”

  Now he was tearing up.

  Krista said, “I won’t pretend to tell you I know exactly how she would react. I know her, she’s my best friend, but I don’t know her like you do. But I think she’d be an adult about it. And I promise you, Josh. . . this won’t come out unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Krista. Bless you.”

  At least he didn’t add, “My child.”

  “You okay, Josh?”

  “There’s, uh. . .”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s more.”

  What was this, an infomercial?

  His shame gave way to embarrassment again. “We told you we were visiting Jessy’s sister and her husband. And we were.”

  “Okay.”

  “What we, uh, didn’t tell you. . . and should have, because you wouldn’t have to look very hard to find out. . . is Jessy’s sister and her husband have a time-share in Florida. And that’s where we were. With them. Not at the Timber Lake cabin, like I made it sound.”

  “. . . Where in Florida is the time-share?”

  “Saint Petersburg. That’s close to Clearwater, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Very.”

  He sat forward. “But my in-laws, they can vouch for us. We were with them every day, every evening that week. Just ask them.”

  “I will,” she said.

  Her phone vibrated in her pants pocket. She answered it: “Yeah.”

  Booker again. “We have another one.”

  “Another beating?”

  “No. Another one. A murder. That waitress. Jasmine Peterson.”

  Her stomach fell. “. . . Same MO?”

  “Pretty much. You know that little park off Main? She was killed and dragged there. She got off at nine and that’s close to her work. So it must’ve been around then. It’s, what. . . ten-something now.”

  “On my way.” She clicked off.

  Josh was just sitting there, apparently oblivious.

  She asked, “Were you waiting long for me, Josh? Out front?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe half an hour. That’s okay. I was collecting my thoughts.”

  So even if Josh was the killer, she didn’t figure she was in immediate danger—his presence here might mean he was establishing an alibi.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  Josh chugged the rest of his beer and went to the door, opened it for her.

  “After you,” she said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Keith was riding in the front seat—which was a good thing, since the back was caged in—of a Dodge Ram four-door pickup, white with GALENA POLICE markings. He was in clothes his daughter had sent over, a CUBS sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes, and lined jacket. Behind the wheel was Patrol Officer Cortez, a short, sturdily built attractive young woman in her midtwenties.

  This was Wednesday morning, cold and clear, and Keith had been picked up by Cortez (sent by Krista) at Midwest Medical Center, after a long wait for a doctor to look him over and a nurse to have him sign all the necessary release documents.

  He’d been required to be taken by wheelchair to the front door and out to the waiting vehicle. He thought about bitching, then decided to enjoy the ride. He was a little high from the pain meds and didn’t mind at all.

  “Officer Cortez,” Keith asked the pretty police officer, “what is your first name?”

  “Maria, Mr. Larson.”

  “Make it Keith. Maria is a nice name. Did you ever see West Side Story?”

  She nodded, her eyes on the road. They were in fast-food alley now. “Yes. It’s a little racist, don’t you think?”

  Keith winced inwardly. Political correctness would be the death of them all.

  He said, “It’s of its time. But ‘Maria’ is a lovely song.”

  She shrugged. “Your daughter. . . Chief Larson. . . wanted me to fill you in on some things.”

  He was glad she had identified Krista as both his daughter and the chief, otherwise he might have been really confused.

  “Please do,” he said.

  “I was in Prairie du Chien yesterday,” she said. “Checking out the Braggs. Their alibi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Something funny there. Not ha ha funny. Strange. Odd.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mr. Bragg has a cabin, all right. Or at least there’s a cabin at that address. A gentleman is living there, a Mr. Clauson, who is also a teacher, but not a coach. He teaches art at Prairie du Chien High. I spoke to him, after school. At the cabin. He was evasive at first.”

  Keith smiled. “But you persisted.”

  “I did. He invited me in after an unproductive session on the porch. He gave me coffee and, I think, the truth. The cabin belongs to Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson. Coach Bragg lives with Mr. Clauson during the summer months, school vacation. Did I mention the cabin is not in town, but a few miles outside?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it is. A few miles outside of town.”

  They were driving through a residential area now, nicely wooded, with bed and breakfasts popping up like friendly rustic mushrooms.

  “The coach joins Mr. Clauson,” she said, “on occasional weekends during the school year and during various vacations and breaks.”

  “I see. Where does Mrs. Bragg fit in?”

  “She lives elsewhere. With a woman in Dodgeville, which is nearby. The woman’s name is Melissa Adams. She’s a gym teacher, too. Girls’ gym, like Mrs. Bragg. When I say they live together, Mrs. Bragg and Ms. Adams, I mean in the summer months and weekends and such, like Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson? I believe what’s going on is clear.”

  He raised a hand. “So do I. Officer, please keep this information to yourself.”

  “I will, Mr. Larson.”

  “Keith.”

  “I will, Keith. The chief, who I informed of this, has already instructed me likewise. Your daughter?”

  “Right. I know.”

  With the bridge over the Galena River up ahead, Cortez took the left onto Main Street.

  “Also,” the officer said, “I should mention I’ve attempted to interview Dawn Landry, David Landry’s wife?”

  “‘Attempted’ sounds like you haven’t got it done.”

  “No I haven’t. I just was unable to connect with her on Monday and was in Prairie du Chien on Tuesday. I’ll be following up today. She’s the last of the first round of interviews.”

  Keith thought for a moment. “Hold off on that. I’ll handle that interview.”

  “I’ll have to get that okayed by the chief.”

  “Do that. She’s my daughter, you know.”

  When they rolled past the Jasmine Peterson crime scene, the area nearest the minipark (already bordered with a red “no parking” curb) was closed off and crime scene tape was posted from there to the edge of the grass. Several yellow evidence markers were in place. A chalk outline indicated where the young woman had fallen, and died. Three CSIs in blue jumpsuits were packing up their toolbox-like kits. Several of Krista’s officers were still on the scene.

  At the station, Cortez dropped Keith off and he went in the front way, through the reception area, buzzed through by clerk-dispatcher Maggie Edwards.

  From her chair at the reception window, Maggie looked over and pointed past him. “Your daughter’s in interview room A. She said to tell you to duck into the observation booth.”

  “Who is she interviewing?”

  The redheaded
dispatcher smiled. “That ex-beau of hers—Jerry. He’s such a nice boy.” The smile vanished. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

  “Hmmm. If they’re in there patching things up. . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think she’d want me watching.”

  Maggie looked startled for just a moment, then smiled big. “You are a bad man, Keith Larson.”

  “Not the first woman to make that observation, Maggie.”

  In the shallow, unlighted nook behind the one-way mirror, Keith stood and watched. The eight-foot-by-ten interview room was home to a rectangular pine-topped table with chairs for four, light green walls, a window with its blinds shut, a big-screen TV over some low-slung cabinets, a clock, and a wall locker for officers to stow weapons during the interview.

  Only two chairs were in use. Jerry—his unbrushed dark curly hair and extra-scruffy beard as if he’d been hauled out of bed and dragged here—wore a pale blue shirt and pale white expression. His hands were folded and he was leaning forward, his body posture suggesting he was begging police chief Krista for his life.

  He kind of was.

  “I was home last night,” he said, sounding pitiful. “I was watching a movie! My folks went out for dinner. They took the car! I don’t have a car right now—you know that.”

  Keith had apparently missed the part where Jerry was upset that his latest girlfriend had been murdered.

  Krista, businesslike, asked, “You were home all evening? By yourself?”

  He shook his head more than was necessary. “No. Mom and Dad came home shortly after eight. You can check with them.”

  “Your parents are your alibi.”

  Keith smiled to himself. Using the word “alibi” would rattle Jerry’s cage. Innocent or guilty, Jerry squirming a little was fine with him.

  “Yes,” Jerry said, exasperated. “My parents. Do I have to tell you they’re honest, upstanding people? A banker? A librarian?”

  “No. But you have an apartment downstairs at their house. An entrance of your own. After they got home, you could have borrowed their car without asking. Slipped out. Slipped back.”

  Jerry’s expression was so pained Keith almost felt sorry for him. “You can’t think this of me! That I would. . . Jasmine’s a sweet girl. . . I would never. . . she doesn’t deserve. . .”