by David Levien
Behr wrote it down.
“Car is an aqua blue metallic 2008 Impala. Entered at seven thirty.”
“Stolen?”
“Doesn’t seem so.”
“Plate reported stolen?”
“Nope. Registered to a Campos, Jose.”
“That’s gotta be bogus,” Behr said.
“Probably.”
“Here, write it down,” Decker said, and gave Behr a street address on Keller, in an untrendy, predominantly Latin part of town.
“Did you get this from the security footage?” Behr wondered. “Any image of the driver?”
“Nah, didn’t get a look at that. If footage exists, it’s under lock and key,” Decker said. “This was off a log.”
“So someone logged information from a security tape?” Behr pressed.
“Don’t know. The entry gate that dispenses tickets records the plates of the cars going in. Then there was a note in the file that said: ‘matches car leaving at time of incident.’ Pretty sure it’s your guy though,” Decker said, “unless he left on foot, which seems unlikely.”
“Yeah. Probably dumped or sold the car by now.”
“Yep, someone got himself a great deal on an aqua metallic Impala …” Decker said. “Anyway, I figured that Keller Street addy was a bogey too, so I did a utilities check.” Behr had a momentary surge of envy for the access the police had and how much more difficult it was for him to track down the same information. “There was a secondary account established-one of those triple-play deals of phone, cable, and Internet-and it had the Keller Street billing address on it too, but a service call was listed a month back to seventeen oh one Wilmette Ave. I’m guessing that if either of ’em even are, that’s gotta be the live one.”
“You’re damn good,” Behr said, writing it down. “Can I feed you the rest of my casework?”
“Hey, it serves ’em right for bringing me back on desk duty and not plunking me right back on the street. You should see the shit I’m working-cleaning up paperwork on DWIs and stolen Girl Scout cookies.”
“Try not to have too much fun.”
“Well, if there’s not anything else, I should probably get back to pretending I work for the city,” Decker said.
“Look, there’s one more thing,” Behr began, awash in gratitude and guilt all at once. “Something I did, I’d feel better if I just told you … I Googled you. And I’m sorry.”
There was silence on the line before Decker answered.
“I ran you too. So I’m also sorry,” he said.
Behr knew it meant Decker had learned about his time on the force, the arrests he’d made, the way he was sent off, and how his son had died by accidental gunshot.
“I might’ve done a little more than just Google,” Behr added.
“Yeah,” Decker said, “so did I.”
And that was the end of it.
42
This cunt’s becoming bloody difficult.
Dwyer had his hand around the CZ, thumb on the safety. He had followed the big pro back north on 421 toward Indianapolis until the road turned into the main interstate. It was an easy tail in medium traffic and, not knowing the city, Dwyer couldn’t be sure exactly where they were headed when the big pro exited the interstate and rolled into the run-down part of town, until all of a sudden-bang-he did know, and a sense of disbelief, concern, and disgust exploded inside him. The big pro slowed and parked in front of 1701 Wilmette. Banco’s building.
Dwyer stuck to his training, rolling slowly by and turning three consecutive rights in order to reach the head of the block on Wilmette again, behind the big pro, where he could observe him and the building but not be seen.
How the bloody hell had the man come to be here?
Dwyer racked his brain but couldn’t, for the love of god, put it together to any satisfactory degree.
The big pro crossed to the front door, traced a finger down the tenant list, and pressed a buzzer. He waited a long time, but there seemed to be no answer. Dwyer had been willing to leave Banco alive, for the time being, to find out more about what had happened, who else might know anything, and to make sure his little insurance policy was only fictional. If the man recovered, miraculously, Dwyer could use him to help with the cleanup job he was doing. He was at the very least content to let the man die on his own. But that was yesterday. Now one thing was for certain: if the big pro was buzzed in, the Saiga shotgun was coming out of the trunk and Dwyer would enter and erase both of them right-bloody-now.
The big pro stood there, ringing the buzzer repeatedly to no avail. Either Banco wasn’t there or was smart enough not to answer. Dwyer imagined the big pro would find his way around the back door before long, and wondered whether he should take him there, before things went any further. But then the big pro took out his mobile and put it to his ear-he was answering a call, as he hadn’t dialed one. He checked his watch and hurried to his car at a pace that was just short of a run.
Dwyer was tempted to go in and cauterize the bleeding vessel that was Banco, but he’d have to go in shooting to do that, and he preferred to be elsewhere when Banco expired, not standing over him with a hot gun. He was also more than a little curious as to who the big pro was and where he was headed next, so he put his car in gear and followed.
43
“I want to thank you for this bonding opportunity with everyone from your company but you,” Susan said quietly the minute he was within earshot, “and for getting to feel like a total dork. The fact that it’s about a million degrees and I can’t even drink is just a bonus.” She looked beautiful in a sundress despite the fact she was sweltering in the unseasonable spring humidity.
Behr had been buzzing the front door of the address Decker had given him, getting no answer and planning to come back with a bump key to make entry, when Susan had called. He was already forty minutes late for the company picnic, with a twenty-minute drive to get there. By the time he arrived, cars choked both sides of the street.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing around Potempa’s backyard at his coworkers, who were dressed in short-sleeve dress shirts and sunglasses, and eating cold shrimp and drinking beer in the afternoon sun. He saw Potempa, in a Panama hat, standing nearby next to a cooler. He drilled into Potempa with his eyes, but they were under the hat’s brim and behind sunglasses too, and they told him nothing.
“This whole thing is awesome. Really awesome,” Susan went on. “I have every bit of detail I need to re-create Betsy Malick’s salmon recipe.”
“Okay-”
“And Cheryl over there”-she pointed to a tall, gawky woman about her age-“she’s hoping to be Mrs. Reidy one of these days. They’ve been dating for three years but she’s pretty sure they’re ‘getting close.’ ”
“I get that you’re not pleased,” Behr said.
“I’m just a little low on humor. And patience,” she said.
“Never cross a pregnant woman,” Behr said. “Noted.”
“Glad you dressed for the occasion …” Potempa said, swinging to a stop next to them. Behr had had the good sense to shuck his jacket and tie in the car, but he had to acknowledge he wasn’t doing much of a job of fitting into the Caro corporate culture. Potempa jammed a frosty Michelob Ultra into his hand. “Drink that and grab another, you’re behind.” It was the kind of comment usually made in jest, but there wasn’t much mirth to the way Potempa said it.
“Thanks,” Behr said. “Have you met Susan? Suze, this is Karl Potempa-he runs the whole shooting match.”
“I said hi to Mr. Potempa earlier.” Susan smiled.
“And I told her to call me Karl then,” Potempa said smoothly, showing Behr how good he must be at the client-relations game when he had less on his mind.
“Listen,” he said to Behr quietly, but not quietly enough that Susan didn’t hear, “some clients may be stopping by, and John Lutz is one of ’em. If you see him, make yourself as scarce as your work product on his case.”
Behr could only nod, and Potempa mov
ed on.
“You’re pretty popular around here.”
“Oh yeah, the fair-haired boy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just office bullshit. Can I get you a plate?” Susan shrugged and Behr headed for the buffet.
He was standing over a massive platter of barbarically rare roast beef when Pat Teague’s laugh boomed across the backyard. Behr felt his head whip around at the sound. He hadn’t seen nor thought much of Teague since the night he’d asked Behr to fill in on the Kolodnik job, and the morning after. Teague stood next to a raw bar with Reidy and Malick, chortling into the rim of his beer bottle, and a chill spread over Behr despite the warm air.
Particularly dark notions can grow slowly. The mind turns away from the worst. It was human nature. Behr had trained himself to stare nasty thoughts down, but he wasn’t immune to the instinct to block out, to avoid; and it could take something random, seemingly unconnected, to break through and spark an idea. Another peal of laughter shot across the lawn, and he looked at Teague. It was just laughter, but it sounded malevolent to Behr. He was staring it in the face now.
It took Behr five minutes chatting around the party to learn that Teague had twin sons and two daughters. Another two minutes on his BlackBerry to get Teague’s address out in Thorntown. For the rest, the schools they attended, and which teams they played on, and whether those teams had games on the night in question, he’d need a computer, and had a feeling where he could find one. He dropped back to Susan’s spot with a fresh bottle of water for her and she said, “I could use a ladies’ room.”
“I’ll walk you inside,” Behr said.
The air-conditioning was kicking and the house felt like a crypt. No one was inside, not even Potempa’s wife, who was out back, playing the hostess. Behr helped Susan find the powder room, and after trying two more doors found himself in Potempa’s study.
Behr could hear the chatter of the party outside through the window mere feet away from where he stood, but his boss’s computer woke the second he touched the mouse. Unlike an office terminal that might’ve needed a log-in password, this one was already up and online. Looking around the study, Behr saw framed photos of Derek Schmidt and Ken Bigby, two Caro boys who had been killed on the job the year before. There was also an array of family photos similar to those in Potempa’s office, including one of his daughter, taken about five years back in her high school cap and gown. She was a lot more innocent then, or at least she looked it on her graduation day. Behr recognized the opportunity at his fingertips, and fought down the temptation to search Potempa’s computer and browsing history. Instead he went right to checking the school zone, and then, when he found that Teague’s children attended Western Boone Junior and Senior High, he went to those Web sites, specifically the athletics’ departments. Behr’s eyes kept traveling back to the door, expecting it to fly open with a red-faced Potempa wondering what the hell he was doing.
He heard a door open and close outside.
“Frank … Frank?” came Susan’s voice. If she kept calling out, it could attract attention to his whereabouts, but he found himself unable to abandon what he was doing and go to her. She gave up after a moment, going outside to look for him, he supposed. His luck held, and he got what he needed before deleting his searches and putting the computer back to sleep.
He dialed the school and found a woman still in the office despite it being so late in the afternoon, and he asked her about the outcome of the girls’ lacrosse game on the date in question.
“No game that night,” came the response. “Season just ended the week before.”
Cold knowing hit Behr in the belly as he gripped his BlackBerry. He asked a few more questions, just making sure there was no boys’ JV baseball game, and no girls’ varsity swim or track meet either. But he knew there wouldn’t be.
“Nope. No, and no, sports fan,” came the woman’s response.
Behr staggered back onto the patio, heading for Susan. He saw that Teague had shifted positions away from the raw bar to some chairs, where he sat with Potempa and Curt Lundquist, Caro’s house counsel, who wore a guayabera shirt that looked all wrong on his stalklike frame. Behr considered the information. There were countless other reasons why Teague could have needed the night and had begged out. He’d been moonlighting-pulling a security shift at a bar or club, driving for someone else off-the-books, or working some case independently. Maybe he’d been fighting with his wife and wanted to take her out to make it right. Or he was cheating on his wife and had plans with another woman. It was also likely Teague just didn’t feel like working-he didn’t strike Behr as the hardest charger in the office-and had wanted to stay home, watch The Simpsons, and fart into his La-Z-Boy. But nothing Behr could come up with could quell what he was thinking-that he was working in some kind of bullshit factory-or what he was really feeling about the shooting that night: Teague had known it was coming.
“Where were you?” Susan said as he reached her.
“I had to make a call,” Behr said vaguely.
“Would it be okay for me to go? I’m French fried.”
Behr nodded and saw a new arrival across the backyard. It was John Lutz. Behr put a hand on Susan’s arm.
“I’ll leave with you.”
“Should we say thanks or good-bye?”
“Nah, come on. Let’s blow this pop stand.”
44
Behr kept his eyes focused on the rear of Susan’s Jeep Liberty-she’d gotten it recently when the size of her belly and the coming need for a rear-facing child’s seat made continuing to drive her beloved Miata fairly difficult and pointless-but things were getting slippy in his head. He was taking in both too much information and not enough by a long shot at the same time, and he was having trouble processing where it all stood. He’d heard about professional golfers blowing up on the last hole of a major, turning a three-stroke lead into a two-stroke loss as they found the water, the trees, the gallery, and a bunker in succession after avoiding them successfully for the prior seventy-one holes. When they came off the course, they all commented how “things happened so fast.” Golf and fast didn’t go together-these guys took a good five minutes between shots-but still, Behr understood the sensation.
They were almost back home, where Behr was going to peel off and continue on his way, when he caught a flash of a silver Lincoln Town Car in his side view mirror and felt like he’d seen it before that day. It was way back there and not the most exotic car on the street but he noticed it, and that was almost never nothing. The thought was only half formed and went out of his head as the car dropped away out of sight, and before he could call Susan and tell her to drive somewhere else with a dead end where he’d know if it was a tail, they were turning onto their street and pulling up to their place. Susan had turned into the driveway and was already on the steps, and he had parked on the street since he was going out again but hadn’t moved from behind the wheel when the Lincoln came driving up the street. He froze behind the wheel as the car drove past without slowing, the driver’s eyes forward on the road. He waited a beat as it continued on, then swung his door open and leaned over, dropping his head below the edge to license plate level. He caught the first three letters, D-U-F, but couldn’t grab any numbers. He also saw that the car bore an Illinois plate. He straightened in his seat.
Halfway up the steps, Susan paused and looked to him. He gave her a wave, put his car in gear, and drove away. The Lincoln was long gone, but he had other places to go.
45
Waddy Dwyer was hungry and tired. He missed his wife and was, until five minutes ago, in great need of a piss. He knew one thing for certain, though: he was going to take it out on all of them. He had a gallon of petrol and a sleeve of Styrofoam cups, which he was tearing into strips and stirring into said petrol. He didn’t have the time or the wherewithal in his hotel room to make proper napalm by melting soap into the gasoline, but this would do quite nicely. The mixture, which was nearing the consistency of jel
ly, smelled comfortingly chemical and took him back to the defoliated jungles of his past. A two-liter soda bottle, a funnel, and a prepaid mobile phone-all the ingredients for a quality firebomb-most citizens had no idea these were sold at every gas station that had a well-stocked convenience mart. Whether they had need for a firebomb might’ve been another question altogether, but he unfortunately did.
Sitting around waiting for Banco to recover, or to fall weak enough for Dwyer to take his rifle away and finish him was one thing, but now that Banco was getting his doorbell rung by the big pro, the ultimate precaution needed to be exercised.
He’d followed the big pro and a pregnant blonde, his wife or girlfriend it seemed based on the solicitous hand placed on the small of her back, to an address that struck him as their home. He wasn’t sure but thought he might’ve been burned on the tail right there at the end. It disgusted him. With even one backup operative and an alternate vehicle it would’ve never happened. No matter. He’d take care of the car soon enough, and he’d be sterile once again. He ran the address but didn’t come up with anything by way of a name. The big pro was a pro after all and knew how to scrub personal information. There was another way to get the man’s identity, and it was somewhere he was going already. He still had lots to do. He kept on stirring.
46
Behr stood in the parking lot next to the gold Chevrolet Traverse that Teague drove, feeling conspicuous and hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long. He’d already been inside the office. More specifically the equipment room, where among the heavy-sided black plastic cases that housed sensitive and expensive surveillance equipment-bugs, voice stress analyzers, cell phone taps, GPS trackers, and the like, as well as the company’s large gun safe-he grabbed a simple low-tech set of gear: a ring of bump keys and hammer. One specially crafted bump key would open any pin tumbler lock of the same make, so he had 90 percent of the standard domestically produced locks covered with what he currently had jingling in his pocket. It was the simplest form of lock beating this side of a battering ram, and a lot more subtle.