Thirteen Million Dollar Pop fb-3

by David Levien

  Her loft was cavernous, with high ceilings and casement windows, and was stylishly decorated in a modernist yet comfortable design. The furniture wasn’t custom-she wasn’t rich-but it came from a higher-end chain store. The place was clean. He imagined she did outcall, and doubted she entertained clients much at home due to the personal-sanctuary feel here.

  “What’s it about?” she asked.

  It was clear Sunny hadn’t warned her about him. Good girl, he thought.

  “Well, it’s about a certain client of yours,” Behr said.

  “I figured. Do you want some juice?” she offered, crossing around a divider into her kitchen.

  “No thanks,” Behr said, following, and keeping a close eye on her. She poured herself a glass.

  “You know we don’t talk about our clients,” she said. “It’s an unwritten rule.”

  “Yeah, like doctors.”

  “Or priests,” she said, flashing a smile.

  “I’m not asking you to identify him. I already know this guy sees you. And I’m not looking for bedroom dirt.”

  “So it’s like anyone I’d know, an acquaintance as much as a client …” she said, getting comfortable with it. “All right.”

  “Shugie Saunders. When did you meet him?” Behr asked.

  “Oh, Shugie,” she said cryptically. “When did I meet him … let’s see … a little less than two years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Over at the lobby bar at the Conrad. I was drinking with some friends. He came out of a dinner at Capital Grille and swung through for a ’capper. He saw me and beelined it right over.”

  “How’d it start-regular attempt at courtship?”

  “Nah. He’s not stupid. He’d set it up with Lenny. After a minute, he asked quietly if I was the escort. I said yeah.”

  “You hook up that night?”

  “Uh-huh. We had a few rounds with my friends. He got loaded up. Acting all swag, putting an arm around me, calling me his ‘little cocksucking blonde.’ ”

  Behr eyed her to gauge whether that was a problem for her. But she just laughed.

  “He’s a pretty big deal in this town, you know? His political connections … But that bravado shit sure didn’t last long,” she said.

  “How’s that?”

  “We got a room and went upstairs and I rocked his world,” she said, with more than a little pride. “After that”-she snapped her fingers-“he was a regular. A regular regular. He pretty much paid for this place,” she said, and laughed again.

  “Okay,” Behr said, hoping to steer toward the topics that mattered to him, “so about six months after that, you’re all regular together, did you ever hear about his dealings with Bernie Kolodnik?”

  “Sure.”

  “On anything outside of politics? A big construction project. A casino.”

  “Come on, man, Bernie Cool and Indy Flats? I heard about it real time. Shug talked about it like it was his kid practically. It was his big plan for our future. What’d he call it? His thirteen-million-dollar play, something like that. Pop. His thirteen-million-dollar pop.”

  “So he had some kind of profit participation. Did Kolodnik give him a piece?”

  “I doubt it. I’m guessing it was under the table, because Shug was always telling me: you don’t talk about this.”

  “How’d it sound to you?” Behr wondered.

  “Pretty damn good, if he was gonna get that rich …” she started, but then just shook her head. “You hear a lot of apple-pie promises in my field. You learn to wait until they come true … Anyway, yeah, if he wasn’t telling me about the deal, he was talking about it on his cell.”

  “All right,” Behr said. “Jump ahead to more recently. He had need for a detective or an investigator at some point, and you-”

  “That’s right. And my manager-well I guess you know who I’m talking about, Lenny-knew someone, so I made the connect.”

  Behr felt his pulse race the way it did when he was hitting pay dirt. “You made the connect.”

  “Yeah. I told Shug I could help him out. We all met here-Shug, Lenny, and Pat.”

  “Pat,” Behr, said, the word barely getting out of his mouth.

  “Yeah, Pat the detective. He and Shug went out to Fogo de whatever-that Brazilian meat place. Lenny split. He didn’t go. He and Pat weren’t friendly. Pat was up his ass about something, so Len was throwing him the introduction as a favor.”

  “This Pat the detective,” Behr said, tapping his pen on his notebook like it was just an afterthought hardly worth asking about, “he that burly fella, last name Teague?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I guess. I think so. Something Irishy sounding.”

  Behr heard a ringing in his ears, and was distracted by the sun glare coming through the windows. He didn’t know if he was even speaking English for the rest of the interview. He just wanted to get out of there, and go face-to-face with Teague. He needed to hear how Shug would get rich off his piece with Kolodnik out of the way. And that was just for starters.

  “You gonna call the dogs off on Lenny?” the girl asked. “I did good for you, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I’ll call ’em off,” Behr said, heading for the door. “You did good.”

  55

  Ah, here he comes now …

  Waddy Dwyer saw the broad shoulders and buzz-cut head of Rickie Powell bouncing out of the Continental Airlines doorway of Indianapolis International Airport. He wore dark, gold-framed Elvis sunglasses, and an Affliction T-shirt that resembled a full torso tattoo, as he was an MMA freak, though he’d been banned from some UK feeder league after three straight disqualifications. The boy did love those head butts.

  Dwyer had switched cars to a smokestone metallic Mercury Grand Marquis. That Lincoln was a notch too flash for his liking. He’d reserved a full-size when he’d first arrived, but they’d upgraded him unasked to the luxury class ride. He hadn’t wanted to take the time and cause the notice that switching would have. But now the Lincoln may have been spotted, and besides, it stunk like petrol and ass sweat, takeaway food, and concentration-like all work vehicles did eventually. He flicked the lights and tapped the horn, and Rickie changed course toward him and then tossed his duffel bag in the backseat and slid into the front.

  “ ’Ello, fruit,” Dwyer said by way of greeting.

  “Waddy, you big queer, good to see ya.”

  “You steal them glasses from Kanye West?”

  “His little sister, actually,” Rickie said.

  “What I figured,” Dwyer said, pulling away from the curb.

  As Dwyer drove back to the city, he briefed Rickie on the particulars of the situation, from his original hire to the blown attempt, all the way through the fun and games of last night. He poured in every detail including all the private security involved. Rickie mostly looked out the window as he listened, but nodded like a metronome, clocking each fact, locking it all down in his mind.

  “On the bright side,” Dwyer said, “Banco’s dead. I called as a concerned citizen looking to donate blood in case ‘my poor neighbor who was hurt in the fire needed a transfusion,’ and some nice lady in the administrator’s office told me there’d be no need.”

  “You’ve always been clever with the incendiaries,” Rickie said.

  Dwyer finished with a rundown on Frank Behr, booted cop, private investigator, and general pain in the bollocks, whom he’d done a background on that morning, and the very man who’d pulled Banco from the fire.

  “This knob’s a regular National Peace Scout, ain’t he,” Rickie said. “You want to spike his computer with kiddie porn, fit him up?”

  “His reputation’s been buggered for years, don’t think it would slow him down much, and he might have enough sway with the cops to avoid any real hassles,” Dwyer said, pulling over. “No, I’m going to sink a deep choke on ’im and keep it locked for about three fucking minutes.” It was an amount of time that caused death.

  “You sure that’s a good idea, Waddy? You know what happe
ns when pros lock up: everyone gets hurt. And he sounds like a strapping fucker,” Rickie said, laughing.

  “They go down harder than anyone when they’re shot on and their legs is yanked out from under ’em,” Dwyer said through gritted teeth.

  “Just taking the piss, man,” Rickie said. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “Shit stirrer,” Dwyer said, turning off the car.

  “What are we doing here?” Rickie asked of the massive military surplus store they’d parked in front of.

  “Need to do a little shopping,” Dwyer said. “You got a cap you can wear? They’ve got cameras all over these places, and with them glasses they’ll probably think you’re some celebrity.”

  56

  Behr jerked the front door of the Caro Group open and strode across the office, hoping to see Pat Teague. There was no sign of him and Behr quickly discovered it was not business as usual that day at Caro. For him, anyway. His personal effects, which weren’t many-a mug, a pencil cup, a few framed photos, a phone charger, a flash drive, a jar of Tums, and a pack of Big Red-were in a cardboard box on his desk. The company computer had been removed and an envelope left in its place. He knew what was inside before he even opened it.

  Glancing over the tops of dividers Behr saw the heads of his colleagues ducked down toward their computers and papers. He’d never witnessed such hard work. Nothing like some spilled blood to refocus the troops. He opened the envelope, which contained two checks in the same amount. One was his pay for the last two weeks. The other had the word “severance” on the memo line. There was a Post-it note on that check that read: “Speak to Curt Lundquist.”

  Behr put the box of effects under his arm and marched across the office past Lundquist’s secretary to his closed door. He knocked too hard and didn’t wait to be invited in. Lundquist was seated behind his desk on the telephone when Behr entered.

  “Let me call you back. There’s something I need to deal with right now,” Lundquist said, rising. He hung up and gestured at his guest chair.

  “Have a seat, Behr,” he offered.

  “Why?” Behr said, “How long is this going to take?”

  “Not long,” Lundquist said. “I’m going to need your company-issue sidearm and BlackBerry.”

  Behr unclipped the holster from his waist and put the Glock on Lundquist’s desk, along with his BlackBerry.

  “Good riddance,” Behr said.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Lundquist said, then he slid a piece of paper across the desk. “Gonna ask you to sign that. It’s a nondisclosure of case information, protocols, everything to do with working here.”

  “Signed one when I started,” Behr said, taking a fancy pen out of Lundquist’s holder and scrawling his name.

  “We like to reinforce it,” Lundquist said, and advanced another piece of paper. “This one says you accept the terms of your dismissal and waive your right to future suit.”

  Behr took this piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball. He wouldn’t have talked to anyone about sensitive information in the first place, but he was fine signing the NDA. He wasn’t going to sue either, but he sure wasn’t in the mood to give them comfort over that fact. He tossed the wadded paper in the general direction of Lundquist’s recycling bin.

  “Why am I fired?” Behr asked.

  “Officially? Neglect of duties.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “You’ve repeatedly engaged in unsanctioned inquiries. And you’ve irritated the shit out of IPD,” Lundquist said. It wasn’t a shock to Behr-the moment he had seen the envelope on his desk he’d known Breslau had dimed him.

  “So, in my capacity as house counsel for the Indy office of the Caro Group, Worldwide, I’d like to-”

  Behr slammed the door behind him as he exited, cutting off Lundquist’s words. He headed for Potempa’s office. He understood the man was in a world of shit at the moment, but Behr had done plenty in the line for him and exercised copious discretion on his behalf. For that Behr was owed better. It was a simple matter of contract. He reached Ms. Swanton outside Potempa’s closed office door.

  “I need a minute with him,” Behr said.

  “He was unexpectedly called out of town, Mr. Behr,” she told him.

  “Is he in there? If he is, I need him,” Behr said.

  “He’s not in the office. Really,” she responded.

  Behr ground his teeth in frustration, but the truth was: whatever he got face-to-face from Potempa was bound to be no less frustrating.

  “That’s fine,” Behr said. “Look, I know this isn’t your deal, but tell him the following: I recommend surveillance, visual and telephone, on Olga Miroslav at Payroll Place. And put someone on her scumbag boyfriend, Salvatore Rueben. File’s not complete, but I’m thinking that might help close it.”

  She nodded as she scrawled the names on a steno pad, then she looked up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Behr,” she said.

  “May as well call me Frank,” he said, and walked away.

  He cut for the front door, feeling the eyes of his ex-coworkers on him, all except for that one set.

  He paused at the reception desk in front of the new girl. “Where’s Pat Teague?”

  “He called in.”

  “Sick or personal day?”

  “Didn’t say on the voice mail, just that he wouldn’t be in.”

  “Thanks,” Behr said. “You need my key?”

  “They changed the outer lock first thing this morning.”

  “Okay then.” Behr nodded. “See ya.” And he left.

  57

  Behr’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel as if to tear it off the stalk as he drove out to Thorntown. He parked in front of Teague’s ranch style and watched it for half an hour. There were no signs of movement inside, no cars in the driveway. He played out versions of the conversation he was going to have with Teague and couldn’t picture them going any way other than the man laughing in his face or at least blanking him completely. The thought filled Behr with rage. Finally he couldn’t sit still any longer, got out of his car, and passed the garage. Though it was closed, Behr looked in through one of its small square windows and was disappointed to see it empty of vehicles.

  He returned to his own car and sat there again, his fingers drumming on the wheel, and his insides tightening like a diver’s cylinder being filled with pressurized air. That’s when he saw Teague’s Traverse roll up and park in the driveway. Teague got out, dressed in suit pants, dress shirt, and sunglasses, and headed for his door carrying a paper bag and a newspaper.

  Behr was out of his car and at the door before Teague was inside his house.

  “Hey. Teague!” Behr called out.

  “What do you want?” he said, turning and pushing in.

  “You hiding from me?” Behr said. “That’s not gonna work.”

  “Fuck off,” Teague said, dropping the bag and newspaper as he made to close the door in Behr’s face. But Behr stepped forward and blasted it with both hands like he was hitting a blocking dummy. The door flew open and Behr followed it, stepping inside.

  “I want to know, Pat, and I’m not leaving until I do,” Behr said.

  “Get out of here or you’re a dead man,” Teague answered.

  “This is gonna happen,” Behr stated. Teague shook his head.

  “Lose the Maui Jims,” Behr yelled, and slapped the sunglasses from Teague’s face. What flashed in Teague’s eyes was not fear, it was anger, and Behr knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Teague threw a stiff-arm palm that caught Behr’s face, driving him back a few feet. He was softening a bit around the middle, but Teague was still a big, thick ex-Fed, and he came at Behr, snapping out a steel telescoping spring baton that he pulled from his pocket. Behr heard it and felt it whistle past his head as he leaped out of its path.

  He squared with Teague, who feinted high, then changed levels and swung the weapon again, this time low at Behr’s thigh. Behr tried to check it as he would a leg kick, by raising his shin a
nd turning it toward the blow, but took the shot across the outside of his kneecap. A white-hot bolt of pain lit through him, but he managed to deliver a looping overhand right that caught Teague high on the side of the head. Teague stumbled back, and Behr closed the distance, collared him behind the head in a sort of Muay Thai clinch and gained an over hook that took the baton out of play, before it eventually got knocked to the floor.

  Tied up as they were, they did the dance, and Behr felt in Teague the balance of an ex-lineman. They staggered into a piece of furniture that was coat and hat rack and mirror. Baseball caps scattered and the glass cracked. A potted plant was knocked on its side and dirt spilled across the foyer floor. After a minute, Behr found he couldn’t take the man down, and neither could Teague him, so the dirty boxing commenced. Fists, elbows, and shoulders flew across the tight span between the men. At that range more landed than missed. It became a question of chins and will.

  Behr heard Teague’s breathing begin to go ragged and labored. He knew the older man hadn’t put in the gym time and road-work he had, and he pressed the advantage, upping the speed and the output. Behr’s blows began landing more cleanly, thumping Teague’s head back. Teague threw a knee to the body, his desperation growing. But Behr leaned into it and stuffed it, and his abs held like a retaining wall, and then he felt Teague sag.

  Wrapping an arm behind Teague’s neck, Behr doubled him over, landing a standing guillotine choke that he closed but didn’t finish. Instead, Behr dropped his weight over the man, cranking Teague’s neck, and dished out a set of three knees to the body, the last of which found the liver and deposited Teague on his broad ass.

  He gasped and keeled for a moment before Behr grabbed him by his matted, curly hair and turned up his bile- and puke-streaked face.

  “What did you know?”

  “Nothing,” Teague began. Behr drew his fist back and blasted Teague in the ear, which burst red with blood.