“Yes. You’re not a suspect, Mr. Jeffries. You’re just helping us put a picture together.”
Frustration bled through. “A picture of what? How could I be a suspect in a suicide?”
“Whether Dan’s death was a suicide, or a homicide made to look like one, is something we’re investigating.”
“You said he hanged himself!”
“He was found apparently having hanged himself. That’s why we’re investigating. There are circumstances that don’t entirely add up.”
“What circumstances?”
“The apartment over the shop was searched. Turned upside down. Hard to imagine Dan trashing his own apartment and then taking his life. If someone else killed him, what might they have been looking for? Drugs?”
“No! No, no, not at all. That wasn’t Danny. He wasn’t into anything like that. Hardly even drank. He was vegan, a borderline health nut.”
“What might he conceal in his apartment? Jewelry? Cash?”
“Why would he do that? I don’t know of any jewelry except the costume stuff we . . . he . . . sold. He had the normal cash a business like ours, like his, would have. Made regular bank runs, of course. Meaning no offense, Chief Larson, you’re not making sense.”
“What about the hiding place in the front closet?”
“What hiding place?”
“The little storage compartment in the wainscoting.”
“What where?”
She poured herself some water. Had a few sips.
“Mr. Jeffries, few people knew Dan as well as you.”
“I think that’s correct.”
“Do you believe him capable of suicide?”
“I think . . . I think almost everyone, under the right circumstances, is capable. Of suicide. Yes.”
“Was Dan a good candidate?”
“. . . Maybe.”
“Please explain.”
His shrug was elaborate. “I saw him depressed plenty of times. Although . . . I would call it ‘blue.’ He felt like he had peaked in college, when he was in that band, and never gone anywhere with his life of any import after that. He was estranged from his parents. They were very conservative, religious people, and his lifestyle wasn’t something they could accept. I think I was the longest-lasting relationship he ever had. He was having some money difficulties with the shop. I told him he was too hip for the room, that Galena was the wrong market for the pop culture material he specialized in. We argued about that.”
“But that wasn’t what sparked the violence.”
“No. What caused the rift was . . . personal. He called me possessive, and I thought he was a . . . you know, cruiser. Eyes for every man but me. It hurt.”
More than broken ribs? she wondered.
“Mr. Jeffries, did you have any contact with Dan Davies after the breakup?”
“No. Well.”
“Well?”
“I apologized on the phone.”
“You spoke?”
“No. It went to voice mail. He was in the hospital then. I, uh, tried to say something to him on the street a few times. He looked right past me. After all we’d been to each other!”
“Well, he did do you one good turn.”
“Really? What was that?”
“He didn’t report the assault. You’d be in jail, or prison.”
The blood left his face, its whiteness stark next to the black hair and beard.
She rose. “Mr. Jeffries, thank you for your time and cooperation. Do you have any plans to leave town in the immediate future?”
He looked up at her. “No.”
“Good. We have a few things to check on and may need to get back to you. Let me know here at the station if your plans change.”
“I’m free to go?”
“You always were.”
He rose, nodded, and she held the interview room door open for him, and he went quickly out.
Krista stepped into the observation booth where her father was waiting.
She asked, “What do you think?”
“If we have a murder and not a suicide,” he said evenly, “and he turns out to have opportunity, he certainly has motive. That’s a textbook tempestuous relationship he described there. Plus, he may be lying about that wainscoting hideaway—maybe something very valuable was nesting.”
“What if he doesn’t have opportunity?”
Her father shrugged. “He may have hired someone. Or he might have a new boyfriend, who he told about that valuable hidden whatever-it-is, and got rid of Dan in the bargain.”
“I don’t know, Pop. It’s pretty thin. Awfully far-fetched.”
“Maybe. But we need to look at him. We don’t know anything about him. And we should. He’s as close to a suspect as we have.”
“If we have a murder.”
“If we have a murder.”
They spent the next hour and a few minutes in Krista’s office, a small table and chairs at right, where her father sat and got a laptop going. A low-riding file cabinet was snugged below the three windows onto Main with their view on the Fritz and Frites restaurant, a vacant bakery, a dermatology office, and a private residence. She sat, at left, at her L-shaped desk with computer screen and keyboard, where she was reading law updates that had come in while she was out.
After a while, her father said, “Number one daughter?”
She smiled and looked over at him. “Yes, Pop?”
“Checking out Lee Jeffries’s Facebook page, he appears not to be seeing anyone at the moment—status: single. His parents live in Dubuque and seem very supportive. There are plenty of pics of him with his coworkers at Green Street Tavern. Some lively drunken photos from a gay bar in Chicago, none with Dan Davies in them. No photos of Davies at all. For what the info is worth.”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Not much. I’d suggest more digging.”
Her glassed-in office gave her a view of the four officer work cubicles, unpopulated right now, and she could see Booker making his way toward her office along the aisle bordering the bullpen. She got up and opened the door for him. The detective said his hellos, then joined her father at the round table, as did she.
Booker heaved a sigh that started at his toes, and said, “The rest of the Tavern waitstaff vouches for Jeffries. His bathroom break was maybe five minutes, smoke break maybe ten. No reason for them to lie.”
Krista said, “What reason would they have to keep track of him, though?”
“Place was busy enough that if they’d suddenly been shorthanded, or thought somebody was off doggin’ it on a ciggie break, they’d notice, all right. You ever work as a waitress, Chief? In college maybe?”
She had. And he was right.
“Meanwhile Wallace and his CSIs are finishing up over at Antiques A Go Go,” Booker said. “And Danny boy is on his way to Rockford for autopsy. As for me, I been led on a merry chase gettin’ any info on the late Mr. Richard Jonsen.”
Krista asked, “What was merry about it?”
Booker rolled his eyes. “Well, the Galena PD looks like the NYPD compared to Arnolds Park. They got five officers, including the chief, and no detective. When they need help, they can go to nearby Okoboji Police Department, who got four officers and a part-timer and also no detective.”
“Oh boy,” her dad said.
Booker went on: “In a pinch, though, they can go for support to Spirit Lake, who have a ten-officer department and no detective.”
“All together,” Pop said, “that’s damn near twenty cops.”
“And zero detectives,” Krista said.
Booker shrugged the big shoulders. “Well, Spirit Lake is where the coroner is. Dickinson County. Bottom line? Ruled death by coronary at the scene. No inquest. Nothing suspicious indicated. Would you like the name of the funeral home that did the cremation?”
Her father groaned.
Booker’s grin mocked them. “How about the cemetery in Des Moines where Rick’s ashes are in a vault? No? Anything else I can d
o for you fine folks?”
“Yeah,” Keith said, and got to his feet. “You can give me a ride home. Hell, I don’t even work here.”
Booker rose. “You bet. We serve and protect, y’know.”
Krista got up, too. “I have a date with Brian tonight, Pop. He’s going to feed me. You’re on your own.”
“I’ll manage,” he said with a smile. Seemed a little grudging to her, but a smile anyway.
The two men weren’t quite out of her office when her father paused and looked back to say to Krista, “When we broke the news to the band, about Dan . . . what did you make of Steve?”
“Make of him how?”
His eyebrows went up and came back down. “Well, I was sitting next to him and he smelled like a Grateful Dead concert. I just about got a contact high.”
“I picked up on that, too, and the red eyes.”
Her father turned to Booker. “You been playing with Steve in that house band for a while—is that typical?”
Booker already had a confused expression. “No! Not at all. Few drummers I ever played with indulge on a gig—can play hell with tempo, memory, dynamics. I never saw Steve high on the job, or after, either. And I know the signs.”
Krista said, “Which might be the point. You’re a cop so Steve didn’t use around you.”
Her father said, “Back in the day, weed was a part of the Pistons and how they rolled . . . so to speak. But I figured that was yesterday. But do me a favor, Booker, and check up on today, where your bandmate’s concerned. See what kind of history he has—if he ever got busted, either for using or dealing. And if he’s clean, ask around anyway. See what his reputation is.”
“Okay, man,” Booker said. “But you’re the one sounds high to me.”
ELEVEN
Otto’s Place—on the east side of the Galena River, across from downtown—inhabited a long, narrow, two-story, turn-of-the-nineteenth-century red-frame structure facing the old train depot across the street, which had been refurbished into a visitor’s center. Railroad tracks in front of the brick depot followed the line of the river past the comfy breakfast-and-lunch spot, leaving room between the tracks and the shore for Depot Park, site of the coming music festival. It all made for a quietly scenic setting worthy of Norman Rockwell and an old-time Saturday Evening Post cover.
The building Otto’s occupied had, over time, housed just about every small business you could think of—a basket shop and a bakery, a grocery and a furniture store, a pizza place and an antiques shop. But to Keith it had been the place where, in his teens and early twenties, he’d bought his LPs—David Bowie, Elvis Costello, Blondie, Devo, Joe Jackson. As a record store, the structure had been the site of the first signing session for the debut album of Hot Rod & the Pistons.
He still had that autographed artifact.
Somewhere.
On the Tuesday following the death of Daniel Davies, Keith met his daughter at Otto’s Place for lunch at just after 1:00 p.m. Though only open till 2:00 p.m., the funky yet classy little restaurant—with its ceiling fans, framed paintings by locals, and plank wood floor—was packed, its closely positioned tables and chairs mostly taken by locals, but also a few hip tourists.
Knowing he and his police chief daughter would be talking business, Keith had hoped for more privacy.
And he got it. Krista waved to him from atop the open stairs that hugged the left-hand wall up to the cozy second-floor dining room, where he soon sat with her at a table for two. The upstairs, not always open on a weekday, had a small but full bar and a living room feel, overstuffed furniture on the periphery sharing space with tables, only a few of which were taken.
Keith—casual in a dark blue CUBS T-shirt and jeans—quickly ordered the chicken cordon bleu sandwich. Krista—in a navy polo with badge insignia and dark slacks, Glock on her hip—ordered the half salad and a cup of the turkey and black bean chili. The father and daughter met here for lunch once a week, usually, and always ordered the same way.
He was having a Carlsberg Light and Krista was sipping her iced tea as they waited.
They often had little to say in such circumstances, and were fine with minor chitchat. Before his wife’s death, Keith and Krista sometimes found it difficult to come up with anything to converse about. Neither was terribly talkative, and that could make things feel awkward when they were together. But they had grown more comfortable with each other, since sharing the big old house on Quality Hill, and now could enjoy each other’s company in relative silence.
Today, however, was not an example of silence, relative or otherwise. They were already in the thick of it.
“So far at least,” he said, “we just don’t have anything that justifies a homicide investigation—certainly nothing worth calling in a major case assistance team.”
“No autopsy results yet?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Well, I’m up to my behind in alligators, getting ready for the Music Fest. And I have to tell you, Pop—I’m worried about Brian’s safety.”
His eyebrows went up, down. “With two members of the band dead under somewhat mysterious circumstances, you have every right to be. Beyond telling Brian to watch his behind—by which I mean ass—I don’t know what we can do at this juncture.”
She leaned forward. “You need to stay involved with the Pistons. Volunteer to help them out.”
He gave her half a smile. “World’s oldest roadie, you mean?”
She shrugged. “You’re younger than Mick Jagger, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but these days he doesn’t haul a hell of a lot of gear, dear. If he ever did.”
She sipped more tea. “He probably also doesn’t carry a Smith and Wesson nine millimeter automatic. Which you aren’t at the moment, I know . . . but you could.”
Their food came.
Halfway through his sandwich, Keith said, “I can do that. Volunteer as a one-man road crew. But the guys should know I’m also there on bodyguard duty. In case they notice, you know . . .”
She spooned soup. “That you’re packing heat?”
He nodded.
They opted out of dessert, but stayed and talked some more, as the place gradually emptied out. Keith held it at one Carlsberg. Krista was on her second iced tea.
She said, “I’m going to talk to the mayor about you. With your permission.”
He grinned. “What, about my bad attitude? How I don’t get out of my daughter’s way and let her do her job?”
“No. The opposite. I’m going to ask her to put you back on consultant status. Like last year with the class reunion thing.”
He shifted in his chair. “You seem to be managing your job just fine without your old man kibitzing all the time.”
“I am, thanks. But in the case of a homicide, or a possible homicide anyway, your expertise comes in awfully handy.”
He waved that off. “Booker Jackson is a good man. A very good man.”
“But Booker has his hands full with those child abuse cases and pending domestic abuse prosecutions. He’s in a lot of demand from other departments.”
“Shouldn’t your department come first?”
She sat forward and the light blue eyes staring into him were disturbingly like his own. “Pop, if you don’t want to do this . . . if you consider yourself well and truly retired, I’ll back off. But you’re not even sixty yet.”
He let out a single laugh. “I like the way you make that sound young.”
“Are you cool with me talking to the mayor? I’m thinking a permanent temporary status.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms.”
She flipped a hand. “Think of it as being a star player who’s sitting on the bench, waiting to be sent into the game, when he’s really needed.”
“I would fire a coach who left a star player on the bench.”
She leaned in. “Are you up for it, though? You don’t think Dan killed himself, do you?”
“Not sure. Hard to buy.”
“Wha
t’s the verdict?”
The bill came and he grabbed the check.
He said, “Put me in, coach.”
The band, in T-shirts and jeans as usual, was back on the little stage at the Corner Stop, sounding to Keith very tight, including drummer Steve Pike, whose playing this afternoon was crisp and steady, with Brian’s bass right in the pocket. The rockabilly with an edge that was the trademark of the Pistons was a clean, controlled sound, the opposite of the loose, jamming feel of early heavy metal or more recent alternative rock. Right now they were ripping through “Rip It Up,” and Rod’s Little Richard–like vocal was bouncing on top of the guitar and his own fat Hammond B-3–style fill.
They had spotted Keith when he came in, nods and grins all around, and came down to join him at the same round table. Brian ran a hand through his dark, curly, sweaty hair and plopped down, nodding to his girlfriend’s father, looking happy. As it happened, Steve fell into the chair next to Keith again and this time brought no telltale weed aroma along, his eyes free of red, too. Donna, without asking, brought beers around and included Keith, before sitting down with them.
Rod said, “You haven’t been around for a while, buddy.”
Keith half grinned. “I figured maybe you might view me as a perpetual harbinger of bad news.”
Phil, sweat beading his bald brow, asked, “Is there any? Bad news?”
He shrugged. “Not really. You may have heard Dan’s body was sent to Rockford for an autopsy. So if there’s anything that doesn’t add up to suicide, we should know soon.”
Brian asked, “Is that why there’s no word of a funeral?”
Keith shook his head. “You probably know Dan and his parents have been estranged since forever. His lawyer, locally, has a will that leaves Dan’s estate to the Elton John AIDS Foundation. He requested no funeral and specifies cremation.”
No one said anything for a while.
Then Rod said, “You always were the life of the party, Keith.”
That got everybody smiling, however uneasily.
Keith said, “Maybe you won’t want to take me up on my offer, then.”
Rod cocked his head. “What offer is that?”
“I want my old job back,” Keith said. “I want to roadie for you bums. I’m in at least as good a shape as any of you—except Brian, who only has youth for an excuse. You can use the help, and you can use a certain kind of chaperone.”
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 11