“Before you do that,” she said, meaning put on his clothes, “find me the room service menu, would you?”
He did, then got a fresh sport shirt from his bag on the luggage rack, before slipping into the bathroom with the dry cleaning. He ran some water, brushed his teeth, washed under his arms, used deodorant, gargled, spit, turned off the water, and got into the clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed the remains of his hair. No time to shave, but...
Good to go, he thought.
He emerged a new man, with the sudden realization he was in a hotel at the Drake with a new woman. Her purse was on the made bed — he’d slept on top — and she was on her feet, reading the menu.
“You can’t go wrong with the Bookbinder soup,” she commented.
“You really can’t,” he said. The stuff was delicious — tomato soup with sherry and bits of red snapper. Karen had loved it.
“Would you share a salad with me?” she asked. “I like the chopped but I could be talked into the Caesar.”
“Chopped is fine. So we’re eating here in the room?”
“I think that’s best. I think talking murder in public, particularly if you’re a journalist, which is what I claim to be, is in bad taste. And some of what we might discuss about the late Ms. Lund... well, let’s just make it the two of us, okay?”
“Okay.”
“How do you feel about a burger?”
“Sure.”
“Anything to drink?”
He shrugged. “Does wine go with burgers?”
“If we say so. Merlot?”
“Sure.”
“Shall I make the call?”
“Please.”
She did.
An area opposite the bed had a coffee table and two modern but fairly comfy chairs. She took one and he took the other.
“It’ll be a while,” she said of the food. Then, as if little or no time had passed since their earlier meeting, she said, “So. Astrid Lund. You think this story she was working on, about sexual harassment, may have gotten her killed.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“I doubt it. Not at WLG. Where my ex is concerned, at least, she was the aggressor.”
“You said Astrid was working on another story? Something... ‘dangerous’?”
She crossed her legs, which seemed to go on forever. “We’re not exactly close, Astrid and myself. Sorry. I keep thinking present tense. The thing is, we were polite and professional at work, but icy anywhere else. I did have my spies out.”
“Why spies?”
“She had those washed-out pretty blue eyes on my anchor desk. By TV standards, I’m an old woman, you know. I’ve held on to my job because the ratings are good and I’ve gained some local celebrity. On the other hand, I’ve climbed as high as I’m ever going. You don’t get picked up by a network, not even cable, at my age.”
He frowned at her. “How old are you?”
“Forty-three. I don’t lie to police. But I do to reporters — thirty-seven, I’ve been giving them lately. Which is old enough.”
“Barbara Walters lasted a long time.”
Her smile dimpled one cheek. “You date yourself with that reference, Keith. Where were we?”
“A dangerous story.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know much. It was something to do with what we call the Mafia here in the Windy City, the Outfit, although nobody who lives here calls Chicago the Windy City.”
“Pretty windy today, though. What about the Outfit?”
“Astrid was looking into a construction guy out in Oak Brook named Daniel Rule and his supposed connections to the Salerno crime family. Rule wants to run for mayor. That’s pretty much all I know.”
That wasn’t much, but still was confirmation of what he’d suspected. He’d pass that on to Barney.
“Why hasn’t this connection been exposed before?”
She shrugged. “Well, a lot of that kind of thing happens in this town. If everybody in the business community who had dealings with those kind of people couldn’t run for office, then who’d be left?”
“Honest people?”
“Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that.”
That was when he realized she was already a little drunk. Not much. A bit.
“Problem, though,” she said. “My ex... I’ve mentioned my ex before, haven’t I? He’s a big booster of Rule, who I understand is a decent sort with some good ideas and good intentions and... well, I have a theory.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“That our late lamented diva wanted to work that story up and use it to get my anchor chair. Agree to drop it, if... sorta kinda blackmail. But president-slash-station-manager Carlson doesn’t want to alienate me, because I’m cooperating on the no-fault divorce. But I’m morning and noon. The five o’clock and six o’clock female anchor is almost as old as I am — Astrid might’ve been able to maneuver into that.”
“What do you know about the sexual misconduct story?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. I heard that’s what she’s unofficially working on. I also heard... well, this is vague.”
“Go on.”
“I heard that it’s the opposite of the Rule thing.”
“How so?”
“It’s not her angling for anything. She really cared about that story. I think maybe... I’m reaching here.”
“Reach away.”
“I think something bad happened to her once. And she wants to get even by taking on the topic. You know, the #MeToo thing.” Her own pretty blue eyes got bigger. “The stories I could tell!”
“Maybe Astrid had stories to tell about her high school days. Maybe that’s why she went to the reunion dressed to kill.”
“Dressed to be killed, you mean.” She frowned. Yes, a little drunk. “Sorry. Not the best of taste, that...”
“My daughter says Astrid’s ensemble was worth thousands. What kind of money was she making, anyway?”
She laughed. “Sweetie, Cinderella only has to look like a princess at the ball! That ensemble would’ve been rented or most likely loaned to her — she was celebrity enough around here to rate that.”
“She pulled up in a Jag.”
“Cinderella’s coachmen were mice, remember. A rental. One of Ms. Lund’s agendas was a pitifully obvious, very sad one — impress her old classmates.”
A knock at the door announced dinner, rolled in by a waiter in a white jacket and black bow tie. Keith and Karen had room service here a couple of times. He hadn’t known what to tip then and he didn’t know now. The smiling youngish man held out the bill for Keith to sign to the room, and Rebecca got up and said, “Let me see that.”
The waiter handed it to her, and she said, “Ah. Gratuity’s included, I see... But let me give you a little extra.” She went to her purse, and before Keith knew what was happening, she handed the waiter a hundred dollar bill and a twenty.
The waiter left, smiling even more, and Keith shut the door. Frowning a little, he said to her, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh, it’s such a thankless job. Maybe he’s working his way through college.”
“He’s thirty if he’s a day. I was going to sign it to my room.”
“I’m sure you were, but I said I’d treat, and I don’t go back on my word. Now be a good boy and sit down and shut up and eat.”
They didn’t shut up as they ate, though. She told him about growing up in Michigan and he did the same about Iowa. The experiences were not dissimilar. After Keith rolled the table of dirty dishes out into the hall, they sat in the comfy chairs and worked on finishing the bottle of wine.
She asked about his daughter, wondering how Krista wound up a police chief of all things. A few mentions of Karen were of course included, but he didn’t dwell on it.
She said, “I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but I would’ve liked to have a daughter. Or a son. Too late now. I put my career first, and I have no real regrets... at least not till I hear a proud papa like you brag.”