Steve frowned. “What kind of chaperone is that?”
Rod, frowning thoughtfully, said, “You mean bodyguard, don’t you?”
Keith shrugged. “Call it that. I’m licensed to carry. Not carrying at the moment, but I will be at the Music Fest. And I understand you have another preview gig coming up, here in town.”
Nodding, Brian said, “At Grape Minds. This Saturday. Invite only, again.”
Rod said, “We need to kick the tires on this four-piece version of the Pistons.”
Keith said, “I look forward to that, but, hey, you guys sound fantastic.”
Phil huffed a laugh. “Even if the herd is getting thinned some.”
“No getting around it,” Keith said. “Two of the original five Pistons have died under somewhat questionable circumstances. Rick’s heart attack was not medically confirmed and no investigation followed. And Dan’s supposed suicide raises more questions than answers.”
“Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine,” Steve said, then to the others, “Hanging with this guy’ll be one laugh after another.”
But Rod said, “I don’t mind having Keith around.”
“Me either,” Brian said.
The ex-cop said, wryly, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Rod flashed his trademark grin. “My pleasure, buddy.” He directed his next words to the other band members and Donna, too. “Keith was part of the band in the early days. It feels right to have him back among us. Even if I personally don’t think there’s any real threat—that these are just terrible, tragic coincidences . . .”
“Yeah,” Steve said, smirking humorlessly, “like all those JFK assassination witness deaths.”
Rod picked up: “No harm in Keith keeping an eye out for us . . . and, yes, armed.” He turned toward Donna, who’d been quiet through all this. “How about you, Donna? You’re the godmother of the group. What’s your take?”
She didn’t answer right away. But finally she said, “I don’t think it hurts to be careful.”
She seemed to have something specific on her mind. Keith would have to ask her about that.
The boys finished their break and their beers, and were back onstage going through “Twenty-Flight Rock” when Booker Jackson came in. The big detective, in a lightweight gray suit that somehow managed to look sharp and slept-in at the same time, stood smiling and watching the boys tear through it.
When they brought the song to an abrupt stop, he clapped and shouted praise, and they shouted hellos and thanks back at him. Then they started in on “Ooby Dooby” and Booker wandered back to the big round table where Keith still sat, nursing his beer.
Booker leaned in. “Heard you might be here. Care to step outside?”
“Why, was it something I said?”
Booker grunted a laugh. “I don’t beat up on old people. Come on.”
In front of the Elks Lodge, next door, was a wrought-iron bench. Booker gestured for Keith to sit, which he did. So did Booker.
“Got the autopsy results,” the big detective said. “Asphyxia.”
“Consistent with death by hanging.”
Booker nodded. “And the tox testing came up nada.”
“Hell.” Keith shook his head, scowled. “Do I have to tell you how some drugs almost immediately break down?”
“No. You don’t. But even so, elevated levels of those kinda chemicals are detectable, my friend.”
“Yes, if the medical examiner knows to look.”
“Even so,” Booker reminded him, “it’s tough as hell to prove murder without corroborating evidence.”
“No argument.”
Keith had once dealt with a homicide by potassium chloride, a drug that specifically treated patients with extremely low levels of potassium—and a drug that metabolized into its components, both of which are normally in the body. An overdose of injected potassium approximated a heart attack, with cardiac death arriving in minutes.
Still, an elevated level of potassium could be explained away by the large amount of it released in a person’s blood when muscle tissue is damaged. Like the muscle tissue comprising a human heart.
The suspected murderer in that case, despite Keith’s best efforts, got off.
Keith asked, “No signs of injection marks?”
“Not a one.”
Neither man said anything for a while.
“So,” Keith said, “we don’t know anything after the autopsy that we didn’t know before the autopsy.”
“Not a damn thing, you are correct. I do have something for you, but I don’t know if it means anything.”
“I’ll take it. Any table scrap.”
Booker sighed and looked out into the street, where cars rolled slowly by, on the prowl for parking places. “I did like you asked and checked with the sheriff about Steve Pike. Steve does not have any arrests or convictions on anything related to controlled substances. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“I sense a ‘but’ . . .”
Now Booker looked at Keith. “I talked to a deputy I know who says it’s general knowledge you can buy weed from the night man at the Tick Tock Motel. Mostly tourist trade customers, but also some of the high school and college kids around here.”
“And Steve is the night manager at the Tick Tock.”
“Steve is, yes.”
“You didn’t know about his sideline why?”
“Tick Tock is outside the city limits. Strictly the county sheriff’s bailiwick. It’s also possible people knew that I play in the house band at the Corner Bar with Steve and that either I was already wise to what he was up to, or . . . didn’t wanna be.”
Keith said nothing.
Booker said, “I only know I never saw him high. And drummers I worked with, like I said, just stayed away from the chronic when they need to be rock steady onstage. Why Steve showed up high at that rehearsal, same day Dan bought the farm, I have no idea.”
“Understood.”
Heaving a sigh, Booker gave Keith an earnest look and a hand on the shoulder. “Look, man. I will help you on this, best I can. But I got a full plate already. You know that. And as far as Steve is concerned, I don’t want to put the arm on a bandmate.”
“I’ll handle it,” Keith said.
TWELVE
The mayor’s office, just off the city council chamber and with a window on the cubicles of the City Hall staff, was anything but lavish.
Perhaps half the size of Krista’s office back at the Bench Street station, it provided just enough room for a metal, wood-topped desk, a matching bookcase at left, and a secondary work space by way of a credenza under the window, glowing with sun at the mayor’s back. The walls bore the typical diplomas and a few scenic shots of downtown Galena, and family photos were sprinkled around, including on either side of the MAYOR RHONDA RECTOR desk plate.
For such an inauspicious space, the mayor had a lot of responsibility. And for holding down a local government position, which should have only been a part-time job—she was the owner of the real estate agency where Krista’s boyfriend, Brian, worked—the mayor put in a lot of hours.
Krista knew that, and respected the woman for it. But she was about to make Mayor Rector’s life even more troublesome.
Before that, however, the chief of police had to report the status of preparations for the first Galena Rock and Country Music Fest. The mayor, of course, was well aware of the seemingly countless planning committee meetings Krista had attended over the past five months, going over such matters as vendors, street closures, and public works. Her Honor had even attended a good number of those herself.
The mayor—attractively middle-aged, ash blonde, and in a conservative light blue suit with a dark blue silk blouse with tasteful touches of jewelry—leaned on her elbows and smiled, apparently genuinely pleased to see Krista. The woman’s heart-shaped face, with its gray-blue eyes, again reminded Krista of Amy Poehler, although the actress didn’t wear her makeup quite so heavily.
“I don’t
know what we’d do without you, Krista. And by ‘we’ I mean me . . . I just can’t take the time to sit through all the emergency preparedness meetings with all the agencies involved, and anyway I wouldn’t have the expertise to add anything useful.”
These meetings, which had just started up a few weeks ago, were even more frequent than the planning ones. Galena’s chief of police had met with the sheriff’s office, the county emergency manager, the fire department, the Illinois State Police, the county health department, and on and on.
“I think we’re in good shape,” Krista told the mayor. “But there’s a lot more to do.”
The mayor nodded. “The Explorer Post with the Scouts called to see if they’d be needed again to assist with crowd and traffic control.”
Krista returned the nod. “They will be. I just haven’t got around to that yet. I still have the Galena ambulance service to call and we’ll need the haz-mat team to be on standby. And, of course, the Northwest Illinois Critical Incident Response Team.”
“Remind me what that is again?”
“That’s the snipers we had on the rooftops downtown for the Halloween parade, and the plainclothes team members walking the crowd.”
“The SWAT team.”
“That’s right. World keeps changing on us, and not in a good way. I don’t have to tell you that a big event in a small town takes a whole lot of prep. I’m still working on my IAP.”
“Your . . . ?”
“Incident Action Plan.”
“Ah.”
That included how traffic would be routed, making a map of events, a radio communications plan, communications list, medical plan, duty assignments. The responsibilities were dizzying.
“I do hate,” Krista began, “to hit you with anything else, Mayor—”
“Why don’t you call me Rhonda and I’ll call you Krista, in private, anyway. Somehow this ‘Mayor’ and ‘Chief’ thing seems a little silly, as long as we’ve known each other.”
The mayor and her late husband had gone to the same church as Krista and her late mother. Pop never had attended regularly, not at all since Mom passed.
Krista said, “Fine with me, Rhonda. But even considering everything we have to deal with—and in the coming days it’s only going to ramp up—I’m afraid I have to throw you another curveball.”
The mayor sighed, raised her eyebrows, and reached for the cup of coffee the City Hall’s receptionist-secretary had brought to her (she’d done the same for Krista as well). The two women sipped in tandem, as if the police chief’s remark had warranted a little caffeine boost.
Smiling a little, the mayor said, “All right. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Krista leaned in. “We both know that this reunion appearance by the Pistons is the centerpiece of what we’re mounting. And the real draw for crowds.”
The mayor nodded, but added a shrug. “Yes, but I think the idea of a music festival itself is a draw. And we have a top country artist for Saturday.”
“We do. But this apparent suicide of Dan Davies casts a nasty dark cloud over that reunion . . . and possibly our entire event.”
Rhonda frowned in confusion. “My understanding is the band’s rehearsing at the Corner Stop. That they are very much prepared to go on with the show. I hear nothing but good things.”
“Well, yes . . .”
“And as sad . . . as tragic . . . as Dan’s suicide is, if the group itself is prepared to perform, if they really want to perform? I don’t see why we should stop them. You aren’t seriously suggesting we cancel their appearance?”
Krista took a breath in, let it out. “I’m opening that possibility up for discussion, yes.”
The mayor leaned back and rocked a bit in her desk chair. “I don’t wish to sound callous, but the tragedy itself . . . considering the show-must-go-on attitude of the band . . . shouldn’t cost us any attendees, dark cloud or not. It might even . . . again, forgive me for appearing insensitive . . . it might well boost attendance.”
Krista had anticipated that response. “But you should know that there are questions about whether Dan’s suicide was really a suicide at all. That it may have been staged, and we might be looking at a homicide.”
Rhonda frowned. Sat forward, brow taut. “You’re certain of this?”
Krista held up a hand in a “stop” gesture. “Not at all certain. We’re endeavoring to look into it, but my time is limited, ironically, by the demands of the fest.”
The mayor rocked some more, slowly, her expression thoughtful. “What might make this a murder, not a suicide?”
Krista explained the peculiarity of Dan’s apartment having been turned inside out in a search.
“That’s odd,” Rhonda admitted, not rocking now, “but I don’t see how that makes a suicide necessarily a homicide. Rumor has it, and I realize it’s only a rumor, that Dan Davies had been depressed in recent days.”
“Not a rumor. That depression is undeniable. But it came out of a violent breakup with his partner of some years.”
“Partner in the business sense?”
“In every sense.”
A slow nod. “Violent how?”
“Broken ribs that sent Dan to the hospital.”
Rhonda’s eyes narrowed. “This was reported to you at the PD? The individual was charged . . . ?”
“No. We learned after the fact. But that breakup could just as easily be a murder motive as the reason for a suicide.”
Those gray-blue eyes in the mayor’s heart-shaped face tensed up. “So he’s a suspect? A good suspect, this ‘partner’?”
Krista gestured open-handedly. “He’s the natural suspect, but he seems to have an iron-clad alibi. Of course, he may have hired someone, or otherwise had an accomplice. There’s a lot to look into.”
Rhonda nodded, her expression sympathetic. “And you don’t have the time. Too bad, with your experience in those two major homicide cases. What about Detective Booker?”
“Tied up with other vital matters. And you know what his specialty is.”
The mayor sighed. “I do. I certainly am not in favor of pulling him off those terrible offenders he’s so good at putting away.” The eyes narrowed again. “Are you really proposing we cancel the Pistons’ performance?”
“It’s an option at least worth considering.” She sat forward. “But I’d also like to bring my father back on board as a consultant, as we did last year with the Lund murder.”
“Pro bono again?”
“Hadn’t got that far. He’s expressed a willingness to pitch in, and look into things that my officers and I don’t have time to. Hasn’t said anything about payment. I thought perhaps you might discuss this, informally anyway, with your city council members.”
“I see.”
Krista shrugged. “I think it would helpful for this situation, and in the future, to establish that Keith Larson, formerly of the Dubuque police, officially be deemed a consultant to our PD—to be called upon if or when needed. A rate of payment could be determined. Certainly he should have expenses.”
The mayor had started nodding toward the end of that. “I think that’s a fine idea, and doable. Let me get back with you.”
“Thank you.”
“And I will discuss the possibility of canceling the Pistons reunion concert. But I doubt anyone will view that as a viable option. It would be difficult to replace them at this late notice with a group of similar standing. And no band has the special meaning to this community, to this area, as Hot Rod and the Pistons.”
“No argument there.”
Suddenly the mayor beamed. “One thing we can do, and I don’t need the city council’s approval.”
“Oh?”
“We can dedicate Friday’s performance to the memories of Rick Jonsen and Dan Davies.”
“Yes, uh. Well, that would be nice.”
And not at all helpful if a murderer was in back of the deaths of Rick and Dan.
Krista stood. “I thought I had a responsibility to at
least put that on your desk. The idea of possibly canceling.”
Rhonda stood as well, and came around the desk. “You were right to do so. But if the band wants to perform, I can’t see pulling the plug on them.”
The mayor walked the police chief out, a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll try to have word for you on both of these matters before Saturday.”
“Before Saturday?”
“Yes. That’s the preview by the Pistons at Grape Minds. You’ll be there?”
“I’m on the invite list.”
Rhonda smiled. “Of course you are. You have to be on hand to support Brian, don’t you? Nice young man, Brian. Doing a great job at the agency. You’re a very lucky girl.”
Krista returned the smile. “You might tell my father that.”
They were in the small lobby now. The mayor was holding the door open for Krista.
Rhonda chuckled and tossed her hair a little as the almost warm air hit them. “No guy is ever good enough for a father’s daughter. But Keith’ll come around. Is he still seeing that newscaster from Chicago? At KWQC in Davenport now?”
“He is.”
“Do you think he might convince her to do a story about the Music Fest? She was here for the news conference, you know.”
“Yes, and I think Pop will make that happen. He’s great friends with the boys in the Pistons. Goes way back.”
“I remember.”
Krista didn’t mention to the mayor that the PD’s prospective consultant was already playing roadie and about to pack a pistol to protect the band from a murderer who might not exist.
Rhonda said, “I’m anxious to hear what this new lineup sounds like.”
“They’re going to be fine.”
The two women were in the parking lot now, and they could see Antiques A Go Go from where they stood.
“When you and the council are considering all this,” Krista said, “do keep in mind Dan’s death isn’t the first Piston fatality in the last year or so.”
This brought the mayor back to somber reality. “Rick Jonsen,” she said.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 12