“I do.”
“Well, this is my daughter’s job. It isn’t personal.”
“Good. ’Cause he came up with me.”
Krista asked, “Up to your apartment?”
“Yes. My two roommates, they were out on their own dates. Their guys don’t...”
“Don’t what?”
Jasmine made a face. “Live at home with their parents, okay? Like Jerry does. Well, anyway, we had the apartment to ourselves.”
“So he stayed awhile.”
She nodded.
“How long?”
“Till dawn.” She shrugged. “In time for his parents to go to church.”
Her head lowered. She was embarrassed. Whether this was from making her admissions in front of an older man like Pop, or doing so in front of her boyfriend’s former girlfriend, Krista couldn’t guess. Maybe both.
Pop said, “Thank you for your help, and your frankness. Jasmine, do you know where you were the second week of August?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
She gestured around her. “Here. Working at Vinny’s. Living downtown in Galena. That’s a busy time. Lots of tourists. I wouldn’t miss that. Really nice tips.”
“What about Jerry?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t dating Jerry then.”
Pop nodded. “Okay. I think that’s all I have. Chief Larson?”
Krista said, “That’s all. Thank you very much, Ms. Peterson.”
“No problem,” she said, and was about to go when Pop said, “Just a moment.”
Jasmine looked at him, at least mildly alarmed.
But all Pop wanted to do was give her thirty dollars to take care of the bill and her tip. Then she scurried off.
“So,” Pop said, “we better check up on Jerry.”
“Not necessary.”
“Oh? He has an alibi for Thursday of the second week of August?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“What’s his alibi?”
“Who’s his alibi, you mean.”
“Okay. Who’s his alibi?”
“Me.”
Twenty
Keith spent the afternoon at the station, at a laptop computer in the conference room, listening to the interviews taken by Krista, Booker, and the other officers on Sunday and Monday. He took notes, and had a few thoughts and questions to share with his daughter, but nothing really new and/or substantial emerged.
Krista, off at four, stuck her head in and asked if he was ready to head home.
“I want to stick with this till around five,” he said.
The station locked up to the public at four-thirty, but activity in the building continued. “I’m going to drop in on Tyler Dale around his gallery’s closing time. Catch him for a quick interview, unless you already have.”
“No, do that, would you?”
“Glad to.”
He asked if he could hold on to her Toyota, but she preferred to take it and got him the keys for the unmarked car.
“Use the Impala,” she said, “as long as you’re working this case with us. Fill it up when need be, keep track of your mileage, and we’ll reimburse.”
“Decent of you, considering I’m pro bono.”
“Anything for you, Pop. You want me to heat up the rest of that sailor’s stew?”
“Please. See you at home around six.”
They exchanged smiles and nods, and Keith got back to it. He took a few more notes but still didn’t feel he had much of anything new. Maybe talking to Chris Hope’s partner, Tyler, would be more productive.
The walk from the station to Galena’s Own Artworks on South Main took only five minutes, but the temperature had dropped even more and Keith was still without a topcoat. He walked quickly, chasing his own smoking breath, and got to the gallery just as Tyler was hanging the CLOSED sign in the door’s window.
Keith raised a forefinger and caught the shop owner’s attention. Tyler in his signature black — the usual Tom Waits porkpie hat and vintage music T-shirt (Elvis Costello and the Attractions this time) — frowned for a moment, then recognized Keith, worked up a smile, and unlocked the door.
“You’re our police chief’s daddy, right?” he said, waving Keith in. Tyler’s voice was deep and with a little gravel. Maybe the Tom Waits hat was catching.
“I am,” Keith said, as the shop owner locked them back in. “I’ve stopped in a few times, just to browse. But we haven’t met — you’re Tyler Dale, right?”
“Right. Christopher said somebody would be around to talk to me. You’re it, huh?”
“I’m it.”
“More I’m it, as in tag. Come along, would you, Mr. Larson? While I lock up in back?”
Like many of the stores on the west side of Main, where the buildings fell to North and South Commerce below, Galena’s Own Artworks took up a narrow space that seemed to go on forever. The bright, cheery gallery sported beautiful hardwood flooring, brick walls, and a vintage tin ceiling painted silver-gray. The central space was given over to spinner racks of hip greeting cards, the walls home to high-riding framed paintings and prints and low-riding white shelving of craft items. Near the front register was a long display case of funky jewelry, and here and there were bins of unframed, plastic-covered art. The overall effect was fun and eclectic, the wall art a mix of landscapes and more free-spirited styles.
Locking up the rear entrance, Tyler said, “Shall we talk in my office? Or I could treat you to a beer at the Log Cabin, if you don’t consider that a bribe. I don’t have much help working with me, this time of year, and I could use it... a beer, I mean.”
“Beer sounds fine,” Keith said. “But I’m buying.”
They walked back through the colorful shop, pausing at half a dozen paintings of various ’80s rock stars depicted with heavy black outlines and bright, unrealistic colors.
“What do you think of my latest mini-exhibit?” Tyler asked.
“Very good,” Keith said, not giving away that he’d noticed the artist’s signature was that of his host.
“They’re mine,” the flattered artist said. “The Galena landscapes sell better, though. We did sell quite a few of Bowie and Prince, right after they died. Then things slowed down.”
“For them especially,” Keith said.
Tyler smiled at the darkly comic remark. His mouth was somewhat Jagger-ish and he had pockmarked cheeks that lent him a rough-hewn charm.
They strolled one block south on Main to the Log Cabin, a steakhouse with the faux-rustic trappings its name implied and a Rat Pack feel like walking into 1960, including signed celebrity photos up front. The horseshoe bar, beyond which was a dining room, was a favorite of locals. About a third of the stools were taken as a dark-haired waiter of maybe thirty-five, clean-cut in a crisp white shirt with black-and-white-striped tie, was over tending to regulars with cheerful familiarity.
Keith and Tyler found a spot with no one immediately nearby, ordered their beers; this was a Greek steakhouse, so they both had the Hillas. The bartender poured for them as Keith set his phone on the counter.
“I’ll be recording the interview,” he said.
Tyler seemed to find that off-putting. “What am I, a suspect? I didn’t even know that Astrid what’s-her-face.”
“You’re not a suspect. You’re not even a person of interest.”
Tyler shrugged a shoulder. “Some people find me interesting.”
“I’m not surprised. But you were at the reunion Saturday night, and while Chris isn’t a suspect either, he did know Astrid. He took her under his wing, encouraged her, when she was a student of his.”
“From what I saw of her,” Tyler said with a smirk, “she didn’t look like she needed much encouragement. Not with those looks, and that poise.”
“Agreed. But it sounds like you did notice her well enough to make that observation.”