“And do you know what it means?” He didn’t wait for her to answer that, though she could have. “I paid for an abortion. I took a child’s life! A child of mine!”
“Let’s not go there,” she said. “Let’s go to the real problem.”
He said nothing.
She said it for him: “Jessy. She doesn’t know, does she?”
He shook his head. “No.” He kept shaking it for a while. His eyes were downcast. When they came up, and swung to her, they were haunted. Not red from crying. Not tearing up. Haunted.
“Senior year I started dating Jessy,” he said quietly. “We’d known each other for a long time. Since youth group at Saint Mary’s. We were friends who got to be more than friends, but it was based on that. Knowing each other forever, I mean.”
“You got married right out of high school.”
He nodded. “Jessy was pregnant. I think you knew that. I think everybody knew that. But there was no question that I wouldn’t marry her. I loved her then and I love her now. We have wonderful kids. I put my family first. Don’t I?”
She knew two things about Josh: he put his business first; and he was apparently a fertile sucker.
But she said, “Of course you do.”
“Even now,” he said, “it would break her heart to know what I did. That I paid for Astrid’s abortion.”
If her right hand wasn’t below the table near her Glock, she’d have patted his hand. “Jessy would stand by you. You must know that, Josh. Anyway, it was a long time ago. She’d forgive you.”
He was shaking his head again. “She is such a devout Catholic. I was always more just a half-ass of a one. She would say she forgives me. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave me. Because she can’t. God wouldn’t let her.”
Now he was tearing up.
Krista said, “I won’t pretend to tell you I know exactly how she would react. I know her, she’s my best friend, but I don’t know her like you do. But I think she’d be an adult about it. And I promise you, Josh... this won’t come out unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Krista. Bless you.”
At least he didn’t add, “My child.”
“You okay, Josh?”
“There’s, uh...”
“Yes?”
“There’s more.”
What was this, an infomercial?
His shame gave way to embarrassment again. “We told you we were visiting Jessy’s sister and her husband. And we were.”
“Okay.”
“What we, uh, didn’t tell you... and should have, because you wouldn’t have to look very hard to find out... is Jessy’s sister and her husband have a time-share in Florida. And that’s where we were. With them. Not at the Timber Lake cabin, like I made it sound.”
“... Where in Florida is the time-share?”
“Saint Petersburg. That’s close to Clearwater, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Very.”
He sat forward. “But my in-laws, they can vouch for us. We were with them every day, every evening that week. Just ask them.”
“I will,” she said.
Her phone vibrated in her pants pocket. She answered it: “Yeah.”
Booker again. “We have another one.”
“Another beating?”
“No. Another one. A murder. That waitress. Jasmine Peterson.”
Her stomach fell. “... Same MO?”
“Pretty much. You know that little park off Main? She was killed and dragged there. She got off at nine and that’s close to her work. So it must’ve been around then. It’s, what... ten-something now.”
“On my way.” She clicked off.
Josh was just sitting there, apparently oblivious.
She asked, “Were you waiting long for me, Josh? Out front?”
He shrugged. “Maybe half an hour. That’s okay. I was collecting my thoughts.”
So even if Josh was the killer, she didn’t figure she was in immediate danger — his presence here might mean he was establishing an alibi.
“I have to go,” she said.
Josh chugged the rest of his beer and went to the door, opened it for her.
“After you,” she said.
Twenty-Three
Keith was riding in the front seat — which was a good thing, since the back was caged in — of a Dodge Ram four-door pickup, white with GALENA POLICE markings. He was in clothes his daughter had sent over, a CUBS sweatshirt, jeans, running shoes, and lined jacket. Behind the wheel was Patrol Officer Cortez, a short, sturdily built attractive young woman in her midtwenties.
This was Wednesday morning, cold and clear, and Keith had been picked up by Cortez (sent by Krista) at Midwest Medical Center, after a long wait for a doctor to look him over and a nurse to have him sign all the necessary release documents.
He’d been required to be taken by wheelchair to the front door and out to the waiting vehicle. He thought about bitching, then decided to enjoy the ride. He was a little high from the pain meds and didn’t mind at all.
“Officer Cortez,” Keith asked the pretty police officer, “what is your first name?”
“Maria, Mr. Larson.”
“Make it Keith. Maria is a nice name. Did you ever see West Side Story?”
She nodded, her eyes on the road. They were in fast-food alley now. “Yes. It’s a little racist, don’t you think?”
Keith winced inwardly. Political correctness would be the death of them all.
He said, “It’s of its time. But ‘Maria’ is a lovely song.”
She shrugged. “Your daughter... Chief Larson... wanted me to fill you in on some things.”
He was glad she had identified Krista as both his daughter and the chief, otherwise he might have been really confused.
“Please do,” he said.
“I was in Prairie du Chien yesterday,” she said. “Checking out the Braggs. Their alibi?”
“Yes?”
“Something funny there. Not ha ha funny. Strange. Odd.”
“Which is?”
“Mr. Bragg has a cabin, all right. Or at least there’s a cabin at that address. A gentleman is living there, a Mr. Clauson, who is also a teacher, but not a coach. He teaches art at Prairie du Chien High. I spoke to him, after school. At the cabin. He was evasive at first.”
Keith smiled. “But you persisted.”
“I did. He invited me in after an unproductive session on the porch. He gave me coffee and, I think, the truth. The cabin belongs to Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson. Coach Bragg lives with Mr. Clauson during the summer months, school vacation. Did I mention the cabin is not in town, but a few miles outside?”
“No.”
“Well, it is. A few miles outside of town.”
They were driving through a residential area now, nicely wooded, with bed and breakfasts popping up like friendly rustic mushrooms.
“The coach joins Mr. Clauson,” she said, “on occasional weekends during the school year and during various vacations and breaks.”
“I see. Where does Mrs. Bragg fit in?”
“She lives elsewhere. With a woman in Dodgeville, which is nearby. The woman’s name is Melissa Adams. She’s a gym teacher, too. Girls’ gym, like Mrs. Bragg. When I say they live together, Mrs. Bragg and Ms. Adams, I mean in the summer months and weekends and such, like Coach Bragg and Mr. Clauson? I believe what’s going on is clear.”
He raised a hand. “So do I. Officer, please keep this information to yourself.”
“I will, Mr. Larson.”
“Keith.”
“I will, Keith. The chief, who I informed of this, has already instructed me likewise. Your daughter?”
“Right. I know.”
With the bridge over the Galena River up ahead, Cortez took the left onto Main Street.
“Also,” the officer said, “I should mention I’ve attempted to interview Dawn Landry, David Landry’s wife?”