He and Karen had often spent getaway weekends here, the Drake their lodging of choice. They’d leave Friday, after she got home from teaching, or earlier during her summer vacation, if his work schedule allowed. They would check into the Drake, dine right there at the hotel, then have what married people sometimes refer to as “a romantic evening.” On Saturday she would shop the Miracle Mile while he and his cop pal Barney would take in a ball game at Wrigley Field or at the Cubby Bear bar, after which he and Karen would go to Second City on North Wells and eat somewhere in the neighborhood. On Sunday they would take in a matinee of a play or musical, and have deep dish pizza at Gino’s East before heading home.
They had done that so many times, it was now a sweet, pleasant blur.
But the Drake had not been a good idea. Oh, it was still a lovely old hotel, fairly recently restored. Only this was his first time there without Karen. Warm memories only went so far. Getting to sleep in a hotel room so like those the two of them had often shared, well, that hadn’t been easy.
Last night — this was Monday morning — he had checked in with Krista, calling her cell (no landline anymore at the old homestead), and found her just getting in.
“We’ve talked to everybody,” she said, “except the teachers. And I’ll be doing that tomorrow. They have an in-service day, I’ve been told, so I won’t have to pull anybody out of class, or look them up at home.”
“Small breaks,” he told her, “are still breaks.”
He was in his T-shirt and boxers, propped up on the bed with pillows behind him and a John Wayne western (one of the old Warner’s “B” ones, pre-Stagecoach) on the TV, muted. He listened to her fill him in on what she’d learned, which chiefly came from those who were already her favorite suspects.
“Everybody has the same alibi for Astrid,” she said, “and they all have something for Sue Logan, too, but I’ll be looking into those. Vacations and such.”
“What ‘same alibi’?”
“They were mostly in the bar, the lounge. Some were sitting around a lobby area, a few in suites where people were gathering to drink and talk, take selfies, and compare kid pics and travel photos.”
“What do you think of that as an alibi?”
“I’m thinking somebody could slip away for half an hour or even a little more and not raise suspicion. And leave the impression they never left.”
“Your mother and I raised a smart girl. And you figure a wife or husband who noticed that absence might cover for a husband or wife, in such a case.”
“Or be an accomplice.”
“Wouldn’t rule it out. Any special insights?”
He could hear her in the kitchen, getting in the fridge.
She said, “People were hiding things. The guys particularly.”
“What kind of things?”
“Not sure. Yet.”
Talking to his daughter, even about a murder investigation, was somehow comforting.
She asked, “Where are you staying?”
“The Drake.”
Long silence.
Then: “Was that a good idea, Pop?”
“No. Seemed like it, but no.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Think good thoughts.”
“I’m on it.”
“And come back soon as possible. I could use you here.”
“See what I can do.”
They had said goodbye and he got off the bed, leaving John Wayne silently shooting at bad guys, and went to his laptop, which he had set on the little table apparently provided for that purpose. He looked up the television station’s address and more, and wrote some information down.
Twelve hours later, Monday morning, a cab dropped him off at WLG-TV’s private entrance on West Washington. His breath was visible as he identified himself on an intercom as an investigator with the Galena, Illinois, PD; he got buzzed in. The lobby was small, warm, and cold-looking, all light gray faux marble. A dark-haired young woman in a business suit behind a slab desk looked up at him with red eyes behind brown-rimmed glasses. She had been crying. Word about Astrid had beaten him here, not surprisingly.
He held up the badge pinned in his wallet.
“This is about Ms. Lund?” she asked, confirming his assumption.
“Yes.”
“I’ll let Mr. Carlson know you’re here.”
William R. Carlson was president and general manager of the station, or so Google had informed Keith last night. Also the husband of Rebecca Carlson, the longtime anchor of the morning news and a local celebrity. No Chicago channels were available in Galena, but Keith nonetheless knew who she was, just from his occasional visits here with Karen.
A small bank of elevators was to the receptionist’s left, which — after he signed in — she gestured to.
“Twentieth floor,” she said.
He nodded and was moving toward the pair of elevators when behind him her voice, less businesslike than before, said, “Do you know who did it?”
He turned his head and gave her a tight smile. “No. But we will.”
She smiled a little and nodded. “Good.”
On the twentieth floor, he was met by a young female production assistant in a headset with mic, in jeans and a long-sleeve white T-shirt rolled to the elbows. She ushered him past a sprawling silver-and-blue news set in a studio setting. It looked like a million bucks. Then the PA led him down a narrow hallway — lined with small open-door offices, makeup areas, and dressing rooms — that looked like a buck-ninety-eight.
Scurrying PAs seemed to have split off like amoebas and appeared to be in a perpetual state of hurried distress. Some, he could tell, had been crying. But that didn’t stop them in their tasks.
Finally, rather than walk into a wall, the PA took a left and the world transformed into a standard modern business building, the narrow hall given over to a wide corridor. Light gray walls were all but blotted out by huge framed posters of newscasters with big smiles and bigger station logos, between glassed-in offices with receptionists and expensive furniture worthy of a top legal outfit or a plastic surgeon.
With a “wait right here” nod, the PA deposited Keith in a windowless conference room, where an endless narrow table could seat twenty but didn’t. Looming flat-screens were at either end of the room. The walls were cream, the tabletop maple, the leather chairs tan. All very high-end, and with no more personality than an empty glass.
What the hell. Keith sat at the head of the table. For five minutes, he checked his email on his phone, and then through a nearby door, a man came in who went very well with the room, though he was neither cream nor maple nor tan.
He shut the door behind him. Tall, maybe six three, in a charcoal suit with a light gray shirt and black-and-white tie, so well tailored that by comparison Keith might have shopped at Walmart, not Men’s Wearhouse. Lincolnesque, if Lincoln had been better looking, the black frames of his glasses so heavy they intimidated. So did the quietly judgmental eyes, which were a disturbingly light gray, like the corridor walls.
“Mr. Carlson,” Keith said, rising, recognizing the station’s president and general manager from the photo at the WLG-TV website. “My daughter is chief of Galena Police. I’m a retired police detective from Dubuque, helping her out on this.”
“Officially?”
“Yes.”
Accepting that, Carlson offered his hand to shake, and Keith took him up on it. The grip was bony and strong but didn’t show off. About what he might have expected from Lincoln.
“We’re devastated to hear about Astrid,” Carlson said, in a voice resonant enough for him to have been on-air talent. He took a seat next to Keith, allowing his guest to resume head-of-the-table positioning. “The AP had it this morning.”