“Hope this is not a problem,” he said, his smile in response to her stone face not anything near Franco level.
“No.”
“How’s your, uh, father doing?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Always liked your father. But I don’t think he ever liked me.”
Not asking would have been rude: “And your folks?”
“Fine. Fine. Getting used to having me around the house again, I guess.”
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “you have your own entrance, anyway. Basement cold this time of year?”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s a finished basement.”
“... So you had questions for me?”
“Yes! Yes. You’re all right with the recorder?”
She nodded.
“I mean,” he said, “it’s better than note-taking. This way I can be sure to quote you right.”
“Good.”
“You understand this is not for the Gazette. It’s for the Telegraph Herald.”
The Dubuque paper. He was a stringer for them.
She nodded.
“And with luck,” he said, “it’ll get picked up on the wire. There could be national interest.”
“Really.”
His turn to nod. “After all, you’re the youngest female police chief in the nation. Kind of a big deal. There’s a younger one in Maine, but... a guy. You began as a clerk-dispatcher?”
He already knew that, but she said, “I did. I liked the work, I liked the people. Finally thought I’d see what life was like on the other side of the glass.”
“It was a fast rise. Two years in your civilian role, then by twenty-five you’re an officer, twenty-six the department’s detective, and now... chief.”
“Right.”
“You cracked that big case, while you were a detective.”
“Yes.”
“Must have helped?”
“I guess so.”
He sighed, sat forward. “Even so, some of your fellow officers, who’ve been here longer, must have felt passed over when you were selected.”
“Most seem happy for me. Everyone’s cooperative.”
“Well, other than that one case... how did you land the position, over older, more experienced people?”
“I applied and the city council gave me the job.”
“That was... six months ago?”
“Yes.”
“You must have been at least a little surprised.”
“Yes.”
He sighed again. Shook his head. “Krista, meet me halfway here. Give me a little more to work with.”
“Ask me better questions.”
“Oh, is that the problem?”
“Give me something that isn’t a yes or no.”
He thought about that. Nodded, admitting she was right.
“So what’s your typical day like, Chief Larson?”
“One can vary greatly from another.”
“Uh... how so?”
She shrugged. “Today was pretty usual. Started with coffee and a doughnut.”
He laughed. “So cops really do eat doughnuts?”
“Good cops don’t allow themselves to be shamed out of one. This morning, before you got here, finally got here, I started in on my reports. After this interview, I’ll gather my officers and talk about what’s going on in town, for example whether the sheriff’s office has arrested anyone, in particular anyone who we might’ve been looking at on an ongoing case.”
“You work closely with the sheriff’s office?”
She nodded, and gestured toward Bench Street, across which were the sheriff’s office and courthouse. “We don’t have any holding cells, for one thing. I meet with the sheriff on an almost daily basis.”
“What else happens on an average day?”
“Sometimes I have a department-head meeting over at city hall. I return phone calls and take them. If an officer on duty needs help, I may lend a hand... nice to get out of the office.”
“What kind of help?”
She shrugged again. “Traffic control when an accident causes a lane blockage. Ambulance call. Domestic situation, a fight, missing child, someone wanting to file a report — maybe complain about a neighbor. I cover for the clerk-dispatcher over her lunch hour. We all pitch in here. We’re twelve in a town of three thousand with a million-plus visitors a year.”
He grinned. Actually grinned. “I just wrote that myself, for the next issue of the Galena Visitor.”
“Well, you got it right. After my lunch break, I usually meet with my lieutenant, to discuss upcoming events, scheduling, various things... personnel issues, departmental needs. I work on policies, read law updates, help with training. Nothing too exciting.”
“What if there’s a serious crime?”
“Well, again, we work with the sheriff’s office. We can pull in resources from surrounding communities and the state police. If it’s a crime that requires interviewing witnesses or suspects, I’ll handle my share of that.”
“Because you were a detective yourself.”
“Yes, but also because that’s one of the chief’s duties here. We’re not just any small town.”
“Of course, your father was a detective.”
“Until he retired he was.”
“Retired early — what, at fifty-something?”
“Yes. Is that part of the interview?”
He opened a hand. “I need background. It’ll interest readers to know your father was a detective, well known in the area. Chief of Detectives on the Dubuque PD — no small thing. Medals of valor and various other commendations.”
“I’m proud of my father.”
“So, in a way, you went into the family business.”
“In a way.”
“Kind of funny, though, that he never figured out you were living with somebody.”
She nodded toward the recorder. “Turn that off.”
He did. “Funny that he never detected you were living with me.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
He was smiling, but something a little nasty was in it now. “You really think he would have moved in with you, if he’d known you threw your live-in boyfriend out to make room?”
She didn’t look at him. “This is over, Jerry. Leave.”
“I’ve respected your wishes, haven’t I? You said, ‘Don’t call,’ and I haven’t called.”
Now her eyes found him. “Jerry...”
“But you said you would call me. I guess I didn’t get that what you were really saying was, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you’... in the time-honored ‘get lost’ manner.”
She pointed at the door. “Go. Now. Not appropriate here.”
“Appropriate where then?”
She stood. “We’re done.”
“Is that the chief of police talking or Krista?”
“It’s Krista. But I am armed.”
He stood, too. Flushed. “I’ll treat you right in the article. Don’t worry about that. But we need to talk when we’re not yelling at each other.”
“We aren’t yelling.”
“We did when you threw me out, remember?”
“I didn’t throw you out. I asked you to leave. Like I’m asking you now.”
“No, you yelled. You were human. You were real. You weren’t this, this law enforcement automaton you pretend to be at work.”
He left.
At least he had the courtesy not to slam the door.
This time.
Three
Karen had been gone six months now, but it felt like forever, and yesterday.
In a gray CUBS sweatshirt, jeans, and Reeboks, Keith Larson was in the kitchen of his daughter’s home, at the counter, preparing things for the evening meal he’d promised her. The fifty-eight-year-old retired police detective, who had only moved in with his daughter Krista yesterday, had already made a trip back across the river to Dubuque. To get the makings of frikadeller, he’d needed to go to Cremer’s Superette, because their fresh meat was the best in the area. Right now he was hand-grinding half a pound of veal and another of pork with an onion.