So Krista’s former roommate had made the big time, a little.
Keith said, “I haven’t seen the coverage, but I imagine you know at least the basics, probably more. It was a brutal thing and we are committing all of our resources to the investigation.”
Smiles didn’t come fainter. “All of the resources of a twelve-person department, I understand.”
The station manager had access to Google, too.
“Yes,” Keith said, “but for a small town, Galena has an exceptional PD.”
“With all due respect,” Carlson said, with a smile that twitched at one corner of his mouth, “I would think calling in the state police would be advisable. And there are several other options for major crime support.”
“Yes, and we’re aware of that. I understand your concern, and your vested interest. Astrid Lund was something of a star at this station.”
Carlson’s head went back; he seemed to bristle at that. “She was a valuable contributor to our news team. We didn’t think of her as a ‘star,’ but as a journalist, and a very fine one.”
“My understanding,” Keith said pleasantly, “is that she was your top investigative reporter.”
“That’s true.”
“And, also with respect, sir, I am not here to seek your advice on how to conduct our investigation. I will assure you, if it puts your mind at ease, that if we feel we’re in over our heads, we will certainly call for help.”
“Good to hear.” Carlson adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “But what are you here for? Is there information about this crime that’s been withheld, that you might share with us?”
“No. I’m here because Ms. Lund was an obvious target of certain people, and certain elements in Chicago — because of the investigative journalism that’s made her a star.”
His chin came up, his gaze came down. “From what I understand, from the wire service story, this was a crime of extreme violence. With none of the earmarks of... a professional assassination.”
“Some assassinations pose as something else. A killing that appears to be the work of a psychopath might be that of a cold-blooded hired killer disguising what he’s up to.”
He nodded. “So what is it you want from me, Detective Larson?”
“I need to ask you a few questions that I’ll record on my phone, if you have no objection.”
“None.”
Keith got out the phone and placed it between them on the table. “Ms. Lund was working on a story about sexual misconduct, presumably in the workplace. Were you aware of that?”
An eyebrow rose above the black frames. With light sarcasm, he said, “Of sexual misconduct in the workplace? Certainly. But this station has a very clean record in that regard. We’ve had a zero tolerance policy for that kind of thing, long before doing so became fashionable.”
Keith raised a palm. “It may not be in this workplace. I don’t think she was necessarily looking into, say, sexual harassment at one workplace, rather that subject, that problem, in general. Possibly as involving various Chicago-area businesses.”
He nodded. “I can look into that. I didn’t work directly with Astrid, of course, but she did intersect with any number of others on our staff. She was, however, something of a self-contained... shall we say, force of nature. Tended to do her own research, pick her own subject matter, clear it with me only when she’d done some preliminary homework, at least.”
“Did you know about this story?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not surprised, in the wake of the #MeToo phenomenon, however, to find Astrid looking into that area. And we haven’t done a major investigative piece on it, so it makes sense.”
“Anything else she was working on?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Something political maybe? Possibly involving the current-day Outfit?”
Carlson seemed amused. “Gangsters, Detective? You are an old-school type. Galena may be frozen in time, but this city isn’t.”
“Understood. I do have to ask you where you were Saturday evening.”
“At a play with the woman I’m seeing now,” he said, adding, “my wife and I are separated.” He provided the specific information, then Keith asked about the second week in August.
“Out of the country. A vacation in the UK with the same individual.” He provided that information, too.
The station manager stood. Keith — knowing he was being dismissed — collected his phone and rose as well.
“I’ll make sure any calls to me from you go right through, Detective Larson. Any way I can support you in this endeavor, I will. I would hope you folks in so small a town will soon come to realize that this is bigger than you can handle. If you need me to pave the way for you, say the word.”
Carlson opened the door and revealed the PA waiting in the corridor to show Keith out. A huge framed poster of a beaming Astrid Lund was looking over her shoulder.
Soon Keith was following the PA down the narrow hall again, where from a dressing room — larger than most, but its door open just the same — a woman with her back to them called out, “Detective! Could we talk?”
The woman had seen him in the mirror, which was where he saw her now, framed by the traditional backstage lights as if this were Broadway and not a news station.
Rebecca Carlson.
The wife of the handsome Lincoln with whom he’d just spent an unproductive fifteen minutes — the real star of the station, whether her husband liked the word “star” or not.
She wore a dark blue satin robe, her light brown hair pinned up out of the way as she cleaned her face with cold cream. She was forty-something and at her worst, yet astonishingly beautiful.
Looking back at him in the mirror, as he stood in the hall frozen next to the PA who was also in pause mode, she said, “Come in, would you? And close the door.”
The PA shrugged at him, and he shrugged at her, then went in, closed the door, and pulled up a chair — not too close to his hostess, just a little to the left of her back to him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I always take the war paint off, after the noon broadcast. I do the morning show and leave it on for noon, and then it’s off for the day and so am I. Not a bad way to make a bundle, huh?”
“Not bad at all,” he said to her back. He couldn’t see much of her face.
“You’ve been talking to my ex?” she said.
He nodded. “I hadn’t been aware he was your ex.”
“Not final yet, but trust me. It’ll take. That’s not a divorce either one of us is questioning. No-fault divorce in Illinois kicks in after a two-year separation — ‘irretrievable breakdown.’”
He said, “Sorry to hear it.”
“I’m not. He’s a charmer, isn’t he? Funny how he knows more than anybody he meets, particularly about whatever it is they do.”
“I noticed that.”
“Told you how to run your investigation, right?”
“He started to.”
“Ah! And you cut him off! Good for you. I hate the son of a bitch. I don’t remember why I married him. Job security maybe? Thank God we have no kids. Thank God I’m past that. This is your investigation, isn’t it? You just have that look.”
“Actually I’m retired. Just consulting. My daughter is chief of police in Galena. I was a cop for a long time, detective in Dubuque.”
“Galena is charming. I love Galena. I didn’t do it, by the way.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Kill the bitch. Sorry. She wasn’t a bitch, not really. Just ambitious, which makes me a bitch and a half. It’s just... well, you’ll find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
“That she broke me up with that bastard. Her and my cold-fish husband, although she warmed him up, I’ll bet. They had an office affair, didn’t you know that? You’d find out soon enough.”