“You are having a hell of a fine life, lady. Don’t knock it, or yourself.”
They finished the wine, and then somehow, later he would try to remember and fail, she was in his arms. They kissed. They kissed quite a few times. Then they lay on the bed, on top of the covers, fully dressed but for their shoes, and they necked and petted. Like those classmates of Krista’s once had, not so long ago, really.
He started unbuttoning her blouse, but he was clumsy and she did it for him. She unzipped her jeans. Then she unzipped him. Clothes got kicked to the floor.
She stayed the night, sort of — she was up before five, having to get to the station by six. He heard her in the shower, and he heard her running the water in the sink. Her purse was in there with her. He sat on the edge of the bed, as she had, when he’d been standing in his shorts and T-shirt and socks. He was crying when she emerged and he couldn’t hide it.
She sat next to him. She smelled good. Fresh. He glanced at her and she wore no makeup, probably in anticipation of applying it for the cameras.
“Don’t you worry,” she said. “You’re my first.”
Now he was laughing with tears on his face. “What?”
“Since the separation. So you didn’t catch anything. Just like an early menopausal babe like me can’t get pregnant. No harm, no foul.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek.
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.